the young people; and our Sabbaths, that some spent in sleep, others in doing nothing, or worse than nothing, now pass in a very different manner, for we have both Church and Sabbath school, and ’come up with those that keep holy day.’  What we shall do without her, I cannot imagine, though, to be sure, it would be dreadfully selfish in me to wish her to stay longer, for those to whom she belongs must be breaking their hearts after so lovely a creature.”

The above conversation, which was addressed particularly to the Captain, was delivered in an under-tone, and was therefore unheard by Agnes, who was an attentive listener to Mr. Clifford, as he called up all the varied powers of his fine intellect for the purpose of describing the scenes through which he had passed; and he was well rewarded for his efforts by the sweet smile, and breathless interest, with which Agnes heard the narration.

CHAPTER XII.

“What a lovely evening,” exclaimed Arthur Bernard, as rising from his seat, by the invalid’s couch, he drew aside the thick folds of the crimson damask curtains, allowing the glorious rays of the full-orbed moon to illuminate the apartment.

“My dear Sir,” he said kindly, turning to Mr. Denham, the uncle of Agnes, for he it was who reclined on the velvet lounge, propped up by pillows, “I am sure it would do you good, on a fine spring day such as this has been, to take a short drive through the suburbs of the city.  The fresh, balmy air of delightful May would prove, as your physician told you, yesterday, the best restorative; better, far better, than all his drugs; and, besides, it will divert your mind to mark the dawn of summer, to witness how quickly, almost instantaneously, the trees have put forth their leaves, and in the parks and fields, how thick and verdant Nature’s flowery carpet.  Can I not prevail upon you to accompany me to-morrow in a short drive?  I know, on your return, you will not regret having been persuaded to try the efficacy of my prescription.”

The invalid shook his head, sadly.

“You are very kind, Arthur,” he said, “in taking such interest in a querulous old man, like me, and I would gratify you; but, indeed, it is not the illness of the body of which I complain, for that only suffers in sympathy with the mind.  Fresh breezes may fan the brow, and verdant scenes charm the eye, but tell me,

    ’Can they minister to a mind diseased,
    Or pluck from mem’ry’s roots a barbed arrow?’

If you promise that they can accomplish such wonders as these, then shall I gladly try your prescription.”

“No, Sir,” was the reply; “admirer as I am of Nature, and powerful as I deem her ministrations, I dare not undertake in her name, to promise that she shall perform such a miracle as this.  From bitter, yet salutary experience, I know that the sick heart may turn even with loathing from her loveliest scenes, as being but reminders of by-gone happiness, awakening associations too painful for the spirit calmly to contemplate.”  He paused abruptly, and then in a lower tone repeated to himself, as he gazed on the beautiful, park-like grounds, that surrounded Mr. Denham’s residence, fair to view at all times, but never lovelier than when illumined, as now, by the soft rays of the full-orbed moon,—­