Leather strap and shining buckle, replace musty rope and ponderous knot! The carriage is easier than a Landgravine's,—the horses more sleek,— the driver as civil,-the road is like a bowling green, the axletree and under-spring, of Collinge's latest patent. But the heart! the heart! that may be sad still.

Delmé's voyage and journey were alike a blank. On the ocean, breeze followed calm ;-on the river, ship succeeded ship ;-on the road, house and tree were passed, and house and tree again presented themselves. He drew his

his arms continued folded.

cap over his eyes, and

His first moment of full consciousness, was as a sharp turn, followed by a sudden pause, brought him in front of the lodge at Delmé.

On the two moss-grown pillars, reposed the well known crest of his family. The porter's daughter, George's friend, issued from the lodge, and threw open the iron gates.

She was dressed in black. How this recalled his loss.

"My dear-dear-dear brother!"

Emily bounded to his embrace, and her cheek fell on his shoulder. He felt the warm tear trickle on his cheek. He clasped her waist,-gazed on her pallid brow, and held her lip to his.

How it trembled from her emotion!

"My own brother! how pale-how ill you look!"

"Emily! my sister! I have something yet left me on earth! and my worthy kind aunt, too!"

He kissed Mrs. Glenallan's forehead, and tried to soothe her. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and checked her tears; but continued to sob, with the deep measured sob of age,

How mournful, yet how consoling, is the first family meeting, after death has swept away one of its members! How the presence of each, calls up sorrow, and yet assists to repress it,-awakes remembrances full of grief, yet brings to life indefinable hopes, that rob that grief of its most poignant sting! The very garb of woe, whose mournful effect is felt to the full, only when each one sees it worn by the other-the very garb paralyses, and brings impressively before us, the

awful truth, that for our loss, in this world, there is no remedy. How holy, how chaste is the affection, which we feel disposed to lavish, on those who are left us.

Surely if there be a guardian spirit, which deigus to fit through this wayward world, to cheer the stricken breast, and purify feelings, whose every chord vibrates to the touch of woe; surely such presides, and throws a sunny halo, on the group, that blood has united-on which family love has shed its genial influence—and of which, each member, albeit bowed down by sympathetic grief, attempts to lift his drooping head, and to others open some source of comfort, which to the kind speaker, is inefficient and valueless indeed!

For many months, Sir Henry continued to reside with his family. Clarendon Gage was a constant visitor, and companion to the brother and sister in their daily walks and rides.

He had never met poor George, but loved Emily so well, that he could not but sympathise in their heavy loss; and as Delmé noted this quiet sympathy, he felt deeply thankful to Providence, for

the fair prospect of the happiness, that awaited his

sister.

Winter passed away. The fragile snowdrop, offspring of a night-the mute herald of a coming and welcome guest-might be seen peering beneath the gnarled oak, or enlivening the emerald circle beneath the wide-spreading elm.

Spring too glided by, and another messenger came. The migratory swallow, returned from foreign travel, sought the ancient gable, and rejoicing in safety, commenced building a home. At twilight's hour might she be seen, unscared by the truant's stone, repairing to the placid pool-skimming over its glassy surface, in rapid circle and with humid wing-and returning in triumph, bearing wherewithal to build her nest.

Summer too went by; and as the leaves of Autumn rustled at his feet, Delmé started, as he felt that the sting and poignancy of his grief was gone. It was with something like reproach, that he did so. There is a dignity in grief--a pride in perpetuating it—and his had been no common affliction.

It is a trite, but true remark, that time scatters

our sorrows, as it scatters our joys.

The heat of fever and the delirium of love, have their gradations; and so has grief. The impetuous throbbing of the pulse abates ;-the influence

of

years makes us remember the extravagance of passion, with something approaching to a smile ;and Time-mysterious Time-wounding, but healing all, leads us to look at past bereavements, as through a darkened glass.

We do not forget; but our memory is as a dream, which awoke us in terror, but over which we have slept. The outline is still present, but the fearful details, which in the darkness of the hour, and the freshness of conception, so scared and alarmed us,—these have vanished with the night.

Emily's wedding day drew nigh, and the faces of the household once more looked bright and cheerful.