Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, By DANA AND COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. J. MASTERS AND CO., PRINTERS, ALDERSGATE STREET, LONDON. "But Summer on the steaming floods, That gather in the evening woods. "And every pulse of wind and wave TENNYSON. THE rich glow of sunset fading into the cold grey shade of twilight, left but a solitary lingering beam, pale and subdued, resting upon the projecting buttresses of one of the old Gothic churches of the picturesque Rhineland, and glanced down upon the uncovered head of a young man, who stood against the deep arch of the western door. His fair, golden hair, contrasted with the dark background of the time-worn stones, like the halo of a saint above the pale passionless face, that was so calm and statue-like, in its perfectly in-drawn abstraction. But there was a beauty beyond any regularity of outline, in the sad sweetness, softening the firm B lines of the short, curved lip, and resting on the noble spiritual brow, shadowing into a yet deeper mournfulness the earnest eyes,-which might well win for Ion Lester more than a passing glance. But the fairness of the Saxon race, was no proof in . him that he was a son of the land on which he stood:-Germany was not the "Fatherland" to him, it was but the chief resting-place of one long resident abroad, and only sent to his native shores for education, by a father, who had hated the sight of his English home from the day that his favourite child breathed her last within its walls. And when the father too was dead, Ion yet lingered, entranced by the famed mysticism of that land of wild legends, and as wild philosophy,lingered even still more fondly when his fellowstudent, the sunshine of his life, passed away to a place amidst the mansions of the Heavenly FATHER'S house. He was of a different temperament to his parent, he did not shun the scene of his loss each spot was but the more endeared to him, that there the footsteps of the loved had been. But from that hour all things were changed to him; an awed calmness fell upon his eager restlessness ; a spell was on his quick high spirit ;-the influence of the dead brother's love, ever potent for good, was sealed in power for ever. ; And thus it was that Ion Lester came often to the Friedhof of that old German town, because though his brother's grave was not there, but in the home of his new birth, he felt a sympathy with that "court of peace," the very atmosphere of which seemed hushed from the tumult of busy life, and the wandering wind of the fervid summer time, but gently stirred with an evening stillness, the leaves of the waving linden trees. But he seldom came alone; even now at Ion's side, partly leaning against him, with both hands clasped over his arm, was a fair pale boy, not more than eleven years old, whose eyes sought his companion's face, wistfully longing, and yet half unwilling to break in upon the reverie which he feared might be painful. upon But the fixed gaze of the elder brother never wandered from that faint streak of light in the broad west. There was still a deep shade of sadness that face, upturned to the clouding sky, yet it was calm, as of one, upon whom the master-trial of a life has fallen so heavily, that other storms sweep past, almost without a trace, and are hushed into resignation before an all-surpassing grief. His thoughts were busy even now with the past— thoughts of one, upon whose distant grave, scarcely twice had rested the summer brightness or the winter gloom, and who, when on earth, had loved with him to watch the hour after sunset, and the first faint glimmering of the earliest star. There was scarcely a sight or a sound in that land of their wanderings, that did not waken a thousand memories of the past, and remind the survivor from hour to hour of the greatness of his loss; ever as the days rolled on, leaving that deep sorrow fresh as though the severing stroke had but yesterday descended. Yet it was with an almost painless regret no murmuring brought its untold bitterness to such a grief; looking far onward to a future of faith and hope, though it might be with the teardimmed eyes and the saddened heart of our frail humanity, there was no "rude, invoking voice " from the mourner's lips that would seek to call back the spirit of the departed to that sweet companionship, so constantly, so thoroughly missed. Looking back with feelings which could find no earthly consolation, Ion ever turned to the contemplation of a communion he humbly hoped to renew in heaven; and as he had no voice for his grief, so, too, all unutterable was that unearthly joy. "There, are no evening shades,-no setting sun, No gloom, and no decay, no parting grief." The voice was so familiar to his ear, the words familiar too, so much in unison with his train of thought, that Ion neither started, nor even for the moment withdrew his steadfast glance, only was there a thrill of irrepressible joy that brightened his earnest eyes, and when he spoke it was merely to continue the quotation, "Isle of the evening skies, cloud vision'd land," ere he turned to greet the new comer. The latter, whose dress was that of an English priest, was a man in the prime of middle life, with a pale noble countenance, and an air of simple quiet dignity, stamping every look and gesture. Already bald, his high calm forehead was unshaded in all its intellectual purity, but the dark brown hair, here and there slightly threaded with silver, curled on the temples; and his bright hazel eyes were eloquent in their indications of dauntless energy and powerful penetration. That majestic brow seemed worthy indeed to bear a diadem, and yet, upon a second glance, there was mingled with all those traits which mark the qualities of a ruler, so much spiritual refinement, deep humility, and calm thoughtfulness that suggested the guerdon of no earthly crown. For it was not difficult, after examining the expressive countenance of the village priest to perceive that, "His war was true. No mimic warrior he To talk of Christian battle as a tale, An allegory borrowed from the world; His strife unfeigned! The pale and anxious brow, |