CHAPTER XIX.

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Truth, though it trouble some minds, Some wicked minds, that are both dark and dangerous, Preserves itself."-BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

In fact Lady Maria after all was a very silly woman. I, fourteen years old and a half, thought very contemptuously of her and though my guardian was so nice, I did not think very highly of him, as my bud of experience continued to unfold, and I thought what could be his share in Selina's unhappiness? I had never read any novels or romances, and so was not very capable of putting all the stories I heard together, and making one grand whole. I only saw that Lady Maria was very false, personally and mentally

my guardian very good and frank, but in quite a wrong position: he must certainly be twenty years younger than Lady Maria. Selina very unhappy, and these two the cause of it. Now on this morning, just as I was thinking my guardian was not so perfect as I had first thought him, Neale brought me a parcel from him, with

his love.

In it were six books-Longfellow's Poems ditto, Mrs. Barrett Browning's; Tennyson's "Princess ;" and three volumes of selections of "Beautiful Poetry," charmingly bound in green and gold.

"Well, to be sure, he is a grand giver is the Captain, I must say !" said Neale, "and all full of hymns, them things as my young lady is so fond of."

'Yes, Neale, for me to read aloud to her."

"That you shall this evening then, for she is a sight better, and wants a bit of 'musement."

"Of whom are you speaking?" said a voice behind us.

Neale, of course, gave a little surprised shriek.

I told Lady Maria that Selina was so much better, Neale said I might read aloud to her in the evening.

"Where is the parcel Captain Forest sent you ?"

"It contained these books."

"For whom were they sent ?"

"To me, with his love."

She examined them all at the first page, as if to see whether any name was written there.

Mine was in all six. Such nice handwriting, firm and clear, with a very gentlemanly look about the characters.

"Poetry is the last thing I should recommend for a young lady's studies, and so I shall inform Captain Forest."

I did not like to look at Neale after she was gone, because I knew if she was not expressing her feelings by words, she was very fond of acting them by signs. What picture ever was

so fair and fragile as my Selina, when Neale

brought me into her

reading little bits, here

room?

I had been

and there, of my new

books, ever since Miss Seymour had left me, preparatory to reading them aloud to Selina in the evening, so that I was quite poetically inclined, and ready to exclaim as I saw her—

“Who hath not proved how feebly words essay,
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel, until his fading sight,
Faints into dimness with its own delight,

His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess,
The might, the majesty of Loveliness?"

That is Byron's; but I think I like Shakespeare's description better. When he speaks of Portia-but I am forgetting Selina.

I was not allowed to let her speak much, and after perceiving she was really glad to see me, I sat down on a cushion, by the side of her couch. For an hour, I read little bits here and there; once or twice she corrected me; at the end of that time Neale bid me go.

The next day she was sitting up in a chair, and a soft light of pleasure came into her eyes, when she saw me with my green books.

"I had a pleasant night, Nellie, dreaming of your childish murmuring voice. It was so soothing."

So I stayed all the evening, and chattered as well as read.

When I wished her good night, Selina touched two marks on my forehead and cheek. "How came these marks, Nellie? the blood must have flowed."

"It was an accident," I answered, getting red.

Selina looked sorrowfully at her own delicate slender fingers.

"I know those marks," she murmured, "Neale has them sometimes."

And two large tears, like crystal drops out of a fountain in Eden, fell from her eyes.

No pilgrim at a shrine, no mother for her child, no lover to his mistress, ever vowed