a wholesome weariness. He was aroused from his slumbers, by the deep sonorous accents as of a man reading Spanish. The light streamed from an adjacent room, through the chinks of a partition. He started up alike forgetful of Delmé, his ride, and his arrival in Australia; conceiving that he was again at the mercy of the waves, in his narrow comfortless cabin. That light, however, brought the stranger back to the wanderer, and his griefs. Beside a small table, strewn with his lately received English letters, knelt Sir Henry Delmé. The stranger had seen condemned criminals pray with becoming fervour; and devotees of many a creed lift up their hearts to heaven; but never had he witnessed a more contrite or a humbler spirit imprinted on the features of mortal man, than then shed its radiance on that sorrowful, but noble face. Strange as it may appear, he knew not whether the words themselves really caught his ear, or whether the motion of the lips expressed them but this he did know, that every syllable seemed to reach his heart, and impress him with a mystic thrill. "OR EVER THE SILVER CORD BE LOOSED, OR THE GOLDEN BOWL BE BROKEN, OR THE PITCHER BE BROKEN AT THE FOUNTAIN, OR THE WHEEL BROKEN AT THE CISTERN. THEN SHALL THE DUST RETURN TO THE EARTH AS IT WAS AND THE SPIRIT SHALL RETURN UNTO GOD WHO GAVE IT." CHAPTER XVII. THE WANDERER'S RETURN. "And he had learn'd to love-I know not why, Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow." WITHIN a period of two months, from the interview we have described, the stranger found that his arguments had not been thrown away; as he shook Sir Henry's hand on the deck of a vessel bound for Valparaiso. His love of travel and of excitement, had induced such an habitual restlessness, that Delmé was not prepared at once to embark for England. He crossed the Cordillera de los Andes-traversed the Pampas of Buenos Ayres-and finally embarked for his native land. It was the height of summer, when the carriage which bore the long absent owner to his ancestral home, neared the ancient moss-grown lodge. Fanny Porter, who was now married, and had a thriving babe at her breast, started with surprise; as, throwing open the gate, she recognised in the care-worn man with bronzed face and silver hair, her well known and beloved master. As the carriage neared the chapel, it struck Sir Henry, that it would be but prudent, to inform Clarendon of his near approach; in order that he might prepare Emily for the meeting. He ordered the postilion to pull up-tore a leaf from his memorandum book--and wrote a few lines to Clarendon, despatching Thompson in advance. He turned into the chapel, and as he approached its altar, the bridal scene, enacted there nearly seven years back, seemed to rise palpably before him. But the tomb of Sir Reginald Delmé, with its velvet dusty banner-the marble monument of his mother, with the bust above it, whose naked eye seemed turned towards him-his withered heart and hopes soon darkened his recollections of that bright hour. With agitated emotions, Sir Henry left the chapel; and in a spirit of impatience, strode towards the mansion, intending to meet the returning domestic. His feelings were strange, various, and not easily defined. He was awakened from his day-dream by the sound of children's voices, which sound he instinctively followed, until he reached the old orchard. It was such an orchard, as might be planted by an old Delmé, ere any Linnean or Loudonean horticulturist had decided that slopes are best for the sun, that terraces are an economical saving of ground, that valleys must be swamps, and that blights are vulgar errors. The orchard at Delmé was strikingly unscientific; but the old stock contrived to bear good fruit. The pippins, golden and russet-the pears, jargonelle and good-christian—the cherries, both black and white heart still thrived; while under their shade, grew hips, haws, crabs, sloes, aud blackberries, happy to be shaded from rain, dews, and |