bird became gradually soothing, and now in the prime of life he loved to listen to the shy visitor, and ceased to remember that it boded ill.  With an ardent love for the beautiful, in all its Protean phases, he enjoyed communion with nature as only an imaginative, aesthetical temperament can.  This keen appreciation of beauty had been fostered by travel and study.  Over the vast studio of nature he had eagerly roamed; midnight had seen him gazing enraptured on the loveliness of Italian scenery, and found him watching the march of constellations from the lonely heights of the Hartz; while the thunder tones of awful Niagara had often hushed the tumults of his passionate heart, and bowed his proud head in humble adoration.  He had searched the storehouses of art, and collected treasures that kindled divine aspirations in his soul, and wooed him for a time from the cemetery of memory.  With a nature so intensely aesthetical, and taste so thoroughly cultivated, he had, in a great measure, assimilated his home to the artistic beau ideal.  Now as he stood inhaling the perfumed air, he forgot the little sufferer a few yards off—­forgot that Azrail stood on the threshold, beckoning her to brave the dark floods; and, as his whole nature became permeated (so to speak) by the intoxicating beauty that surrounded him, he extended his arms, and exclaimed triumphantly: 

“Truly thou art my mother, dear old earth!  I feel that I am indeed nearly allied to thy divine beauty!  Starry nights, and whispering winds, and fragrant flowers! yea, and even the breath of the tempest! all, all are parts of my being.”

“Guy, there is a messenger waiting at the door to see you.  Some patient requires prompt attendance.”  Mrs. Chilton stood near the window, and the moonlight flashed over her handsome face.  Her brother frowned and motioned her away, but, smiling quietly, she put her beautifully molded hand on his shoulder, and said: 

“I am sorry I disturbed your meditations, but if you will practice—­ "

“Who sent for me?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Will you be good enough to inquire?”

“Certainly.”  She glided gracefully from the room.

The whip-poor-will flew from his marble perch, and, as the mournful tones died away, the master sighed, and returned to the bedside of his charge.  He renewed the ice on her brow, and soon after his sister re-entered.

“Mr. Vincent is very sick, and you are wanted immediately.”

“Very well.”  He crossed the room and rang the bell.

“Guy, are you sure that girl has not scarlet fever?”

“May, I have answered that question at least twice a day for nearly a week.”

“But you should sympathize with a mother’s anxiety.  I dread to expose Pauline to danger.”

“Then let her remain where she is.”

“But I prefer having her come home, if I could feel assured that girl has only brain fever.”