climate for at least a year or two. This was a terrible blow to Mr. Walter Dixon, and a great grief to his devoted parents; instead of being able, as he hoped, to help them, it seemed as if he were destined to be a heavy burden on them for at least some months to come. He had reached the point he had striven to attain, and lo! the anticipated brightness had passed away before his coming-all was gloom, uncertainty, and sadness. It was a

trial of the young man's faith, a further proving of the good old couple's meek submission to a Father's will. They mourned, but kissed the rod, and their son, though all his path seemed shadowed and uncertain, yet could trust that out of present evil good would be derived. He believed that

"What looks the worst may work our weal,"

And he could wait and rest awhile, and see what God had got in store for him to do or suffer. He resigned the post he had engaged himself to fill in the famous London church, and resolved to go to Jersey, and there take a classical pupil or two, if such could be secured. And to Jersey straight he went, and staid there six long weeks, waiting for the pupils who never came. Then when his patience seemed tired to the utmost, he met with a French Protestant pastor, who told him that an English Nonconformist minister was wanted suddenly in Paris to take the temporary charge of a small church and congregation. The work was not beavy unless he chose to make it so, neither was the emolument heavy by any means, but quite sufficient to enable him to live in decent comfort, in a quiet way in Paris. Would he go? The French pastor felt quite certain he would be approved!

Go! Why not? Already his health was much improved. To return at once to England would be probably self-murder; to stay where he was-a burden on his parents' sadly straitened meanshe could not bear to think of. A year in Paris would quite remove the threatened pulmonary weakness; he would have to preach in a room of very moderate dimensions; there would be but small exertion for the voice; he would thoroughly acquire the language, and materially enlarge experiences; altogether it seemed that God's good providence had opened out this way, when every other failed. Certain correspondences ensued. Walter's letter and his testimonials were equally satisfactory, and within four weeks of the day when the proposal first was made, he found himself comfortably settled as the temporary pastor of the little exile church, and a resident with a kindly, pious English family. When first the Rev. Walter Dixon came to live in Paris, Lady Camersfield and her young ladies were in Switzerland, but she had no sooner returned, and heard from Mrs. Dixon of her son's immediate vicinity, than she plunged into the labyrinthine streets behind the Madeleine,

and found the pious English family au quatrieme, and with them, domiciled as comfortably as if he had lived there for ten years, the youthful pastor.

That he should be frequently at Lady Camersfield's was very natural; it was her own doing. She made him free of her establishment, and welcomed him most warmly when he came, and scolded him severely when he stayed away. And so it came to pass that he felt himself "at home" in that pleasant little house, in one of the quieter avenues of the Champs Elysées, and he was looked for there as often as his duties would permit; indeed, there were few days that winter on which he did not spend either a few minutes, an hour, or several hours, as the case might be, in the drawing-room of Lady Camersfield. Was Margaret, Lady Camersfield, quite wise, quite prudent, in permitting-more, promotingthis intimacy between the Rev. Walter Dixon and the beautiful young girls beneath her roof? "Nous verrons," as the people

round them would have said.

The Bois de Vincennes was beautiful that day. The Châtea they had seen before, and therefore did not trouble themselves to visit; they were content to wander in the shady forest glades, to eat their early dinner on the grass, to gather flowers and fresh young ferns, unfolding in delicate green fronds, from the long sleep of the winter and the early spring-to chat, to laugh, to talk in pairs, to praise the glory of the early summer-day; for May is summer-time in sunny, pleasant France. Yes, it was a happy day to nearly all the party-a day of beauty and of prime, to stand apart from all other days in the golden memories of a sweet, regretted Past. Ah! our Past is quite as much ideal as our Future. We think but of the warm, soft lights between the trees, the wild flowers at our feet, the long, blue, cloudless summer-day, the happy voices, the long, flashing ringlets, the brooding twilights, and the tender tones. The minor troubles-not so very minor at the time-the tiny frettings, and the stinging pains of petty worries, and the divers contretemps that will occur in the best regulated circles, and to the best regulated minds as well, we seldom think about, in calling back those fair reminiscences of a faded Past. The Past is lovely in the golden dream-light of sweet-cherished memories; the Future is more brilliant still in all its soft, aërial haze, just shining out upon the far horizon as we look and long; the Present only is so actual, so commonplace, so sombre in its quickly changing, ever-merging hues

"It taketh its birth

Too near to the dull and common earth;

It is worn with our wants, and steeped with our cares;

The dreariest aspect of life it wears.

Its griefs are so fresh, its wrongs are so near,

That its evils of giant-shape appear.

The Actual, it is as the day to the soul

The working-day portion of Life's wondrous whole !"

And yet out of this work-a-day Present-this uncompromising Actual-must the eternal life be wrought; it is all that we securely hold-it is all that we can count upon for toil of any kind. The fairy Future may never be attained, the Phantom never clasped― or clasped, prove far otherwise than that she seemed. The Past is but a ghost, beautiful and solemn, with a sad, sweet smile upon its spectral lips. We seek to bring it back, to fold it once, yet once more in our close embrace; but on it glides-on, on, into a shadowy world, where all is dim and unsubstantial. Mourn it not; it is gone but for awhile; thou shalt find it again in a Future thy weak human fancy cannot paint-a Future far unlike the one thou dreamest of in idle day-dreams or "rapt visions of the night." Therefore, take courage; address thyself to the stern and sober Actual of thy life's to-day; be patient-work out the destiny that now is thine-bear with fortitude the present ill, the passing evil, the burden of the hour that strikes but once. Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; rejoice in all thy Father's will concerning thee, and remember ever, and let it be thy joy and confidence till faith has lost itself in sight, that "GOD IS OVER ALL!" Then the Past shall linger with thee still, in all its tenderness and sacred beauty; the Present shall be thine, to strive, to wait, and to endure; and the Future shall not disappoint thee, though it wear far other shapes and other colours than thou hast divined.

But turn we now to the happy party in the forest of Vincennes. It was composed of Madame de Breteuil, her three nieces, two lady-friends from Languedoc, four young Frenchmen, an English gentleman, a German count, some gay young school-girls rejoicing in their pleasant holiday, some elder friends of Madame de Breteuil, Walter, Ethel, Gratia, and Lady Camersfield herself. They did not all set out from Paris; some came from one quarter, some from another; but they met altogether at one of the gates, where the carriages were left.

As the day wore on, Ethel became very tired; she longed to get away from the brilliant conversation that flashed around her, like the coruscations of a sparkling meteor. It was very clever, clear, and sound, yet racy and piquant beyond description-a mingling strange of English genius, French wit, and German learning and romance, with some blendings of the deep, impassioned eloquence of the fervid, sunny South. The day wry hot; but for th shade profound beneath the leafy trece, it will have been unle able. A languor stole upon the me party, and Ethel that she could steal away alone, a ted some cool, quie: where still in shadow she might red et feel something breeze that rustled faintly in tie s t boughs. She

little way down a winding, mossy path; she heard the voices of the talkers yet, but the underwood shut out the group from view. No one missed her. Several others had left the merry circle; one fair girl had dropped asleep beneath a spreading oak, and her friend was watching by her. Walter Dixon, too, had roamed away when the feast was scarcely over, and when the fire of brilliant bon-mots and repartee was at its height; and with him went Adele de Liancourt, from the Eastern Pyrenees; and they wandered down the broad green aisle that opened from the central glade where all had dined together, till they were lost sight of in the far and verdurous perspective. Ethel passed the sleeping beauty and her drowsy friend (there was Madame la mère not very far away), and pursued the winding of the path till it led her to a broad, grand avenue, that seemed to strike right through the forest's heart.

"I can go on," she thought; "there is no fear of my being lost. The little path ends at this great clump of oaks, and the avente runs on straight without a bend, as far as I can see, like some din minster-aisle. I can find my way back as soon as I like, and I can hear their voices yet. Ah! someone is singing. How can they, this hot, scorching afternoon? And yet it ought to be cooler now, for a cloud is come across the sun; but the sun is stifling-stifling! Oh, for a mountain-breeze sweeping up from Ulleswater!"

And then, lost in musings-painful musings, too, it seemed, from her bent head, sad, meditative gaze, and thoughtful mien she went on-on, along the shady alley, till, tired at last, and afraid of going farther by herself, she sank down on a mossy cushion, spread about the huge and swelling roots of a great treethe patriarch of all his kindred round. She took from her pocket Sir Julian's last letter, and read it quietly through. No conscious flush spread over her fair face, no happy light shone in the violet eyes, no shy, fond kiss was printed on the senseless sheet; but her cheek grew paler, and her brow more stern, as, with the air of one who cons a most perplexing document, she carefully perused each line.

"Ah! if I could but see my way!" she exclaimed at length. "Where is the clue that Flora told me of? Lost-lost, and broken; for I cannot find my way. Five months more, and then October; and then Sir Julian Armstrong claims his bride. What will my life be like? A lie-a living lie! I shall lie when I speak the irrevocable vow. Yet how can I tell the truth ?-how can I go to him and say 'I cannot be your wife, because I do not love you; I thank you for your goodness to me, for all the honours and the wealth you should have showered upon me, but it cannot be; I do not love you best of all the world?' Ah! if I had but courage thus to speak, I believe it would be better for us both. Will-it

could not be for his happiness that I wedded him, knowing that I loved him not, and that No, no; why speak of that? I will not own it to myself. But if I told him all, and he asked me once again, as he asked me on that sunny morning, three long years ago, 'Is there anyone you care for more,' I would say that I never mean to marry-that, in breaking my engagement with him, I do not seek to form another; I want to be free--yes, that is all-quite free. But oh! what black ingratitude it is, after all his love, his goodness, and his faith! Was it for this he condescended to raise me from the dust-for this he schemed and watched-for this he waited month by month, rejoicing as they passed away, and brought the time he wished for nearer? I cannot keep the secret longer, not much longer; it is killing me. Perhaps if it killed me in downright earnest, that would be the simplest way of ending it. Oh, I wish we had never come to Paris, or, at least, that

"All alone, Miss Erle ?" said a well-known voice, close by. Walter Dixon was standing by her side.

"Yes. I was so tired of being with the rest; it was so hot, my head ached, and I stole away to have just one hour's quiet. I must go back now, or Lady Camersfield will wonder where I am; I left her talking to that German count, and Gratia was with Madame Beauregard."

"Come this way! This walk leads round by another alley to the open space where our party is encamped. There are the most beautiful flowers growing on a little knoll; they look like English flowers. I want to know their names."

"Is it much further round? I am rather tired, and the way back, down this avenue, is so direct."

"I think it is nearer. You have strolled a longer distance than you think, for you will have a long way to retrace your steps before you reach the little path that winds round to the glade."

Ethel made no further resistance, only remarking-“I thought I saw you go away with Mademoiselle de Liancourt ?"

"I was going for a private ramble, when Mademoiselle joined After a while we met Monsieur Delambre, and she deserted me for him, for which I thanked her secretly."

me.

heard from Blackingham lately?"

"Have you "I heard no later than this morning. My father finds himself still weak; he has no real ailment, he avers, but he is getting old, and he has not the strength or energy he used to have. My mother, too, is not so well as heretofore, and our good doctor says both she and my dear father ought to rest and live more in the country. Stanover Street, they tell me, is entirely spoilt; smoky manufactories and choking vitriol works have invaded Mr. Muffin's 'rural precincts!' My home news always makes me anxious now. However, I thank God my own health is restored; two more months,