"Well," said Cecil, "since we are to have a euphuistic and poetical parting conversation, allow me to apostrophise you as the

Naiad-like lily of the vale,

Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale,

and inquire when your enchanted boat means to anchor?"

"O-I do not know-sometime-never; but is it not getting very cold?—very late?"

66

Why, yes; I believe the temperature of the air may be something more than seventy, and the hour about half-past seven; it is both very late and very cold. Julia, you surely are not vexed, are you? I am sure I did not mean to plague you, my pupil-friend, and at parting too. Ah, how often I used to wish that I had your facility of apprehension; what an absolute thirst for knowledge, mere knowledge, you had when I first knew you—let me see, that was about four years ago— how you are changed since then !-developed, I should say. I wish however, you were not so exclusively devoted to poetry as you are now; I wish you would not turn off our old authors of the head, and pay your vows so entirely to these new ones of the heart and imagination.”

"Have a care, preceptor mine!" said Julia,

laughingly, "or I shall suspect that you abuse my present dynasty of favourites, chiefly because you cannot be

Timotheus placed aloft

Amidst the tuneful quire.'"

"Nay, for by playing pedagogue, I take a much higher character-Olympian Alexander himself.”

"My good Cecil, I wish you would not cast such a grave, old-gentlemanly, discouraging glance upon my present tastes-you decry without knowing-"

"Reasoning, reasonable Julia, I know quite enough; I know that you are very kind-very agreeable,—but I wish you were not quite so—so—' "Not quite so what?"

“ Ah, never mind, am I not an impertinent? Let me go on and tell you what I know," and Cecil repeated, from the tender and elegant Drummond of Hawthornden, in a feeling, and yet somewhat monitory tone, the sonnet beginning—

"I know that all beneath the moon decays."

"Then," said Julia, as her companion ceased, "all your knowledge ends in nothingness ;-but to leave these heroics for a plain question, a home question - are you leaving behind you any old

pensioners who may miss you? Because I should be very glad—that is, grandmamma would be very glad to place them on her list."

"How very thoughtfully kind you are! (now Julia was, in general, about common affairs the most thoughtless person in the world) my father and mother have, however, made that request beforehand, and the boys insist on keeping Carlo, my four-footed friend. Ah! how many changes may transpire in the next few years! I dread to think of return even more than departure-I see all love now, and can scarcely realize that to-morrow, at this time, I shall see them not; my father, my dear, delicate nother, how shall I find them?-and you, Julia, what and where will you be a few years hence?"

"You will find me Julia Osborne, wherever I am."

It was at this moment that the Mortimers entered the garden, and a reunion of the scattered party was the natural consequence. Some time was spent in the kindly chat, incident to leave-takings among friends, followed by affectionate farewells.

Cecil would have accompanied Julia and her relative home, but the latter had the true old fashioned feeling about "the last night" being sacred to "one's own relations," and they returned as they

came, by themselves. "God bless you, my dear lad," said the old lady, lingering at the gate, and all but accompanying her benediction with a salute, "God bless you my dear lad-be sure you don't get above us all, amongst the fine folks in those grand cities; and send me word (this was in a whisper) whether French silks are really worth smuggling; and, whatever you do (here her voice resumed its natural pitch), mind and keep a clear conscience, it will be meat and drink when you come to die."

"Farewell, Cecil," said Julia, and without expressing a single good wish, she put down her veil and turned away. By the time she reached home she had a violent head-ache, and retired immediately to her apartment.

CHAPTER VIII.

Shortly within her inmost pith there bred
A little wicked worm, perceived of none,
That on her sap and vital moisture fed.

SPENSER'S WORLD'S VANITY.

The following memoranda of feelings and mental changes, unknown as yet to her nearest friend, are taken from Julia's desk; and embrace, altogether, a period of about eight months previous to the last conversation, and as many subsequent to it.

"How short time used to appear, and now how long! Ten years-how much may be seen in them, and yet, under some circumstances, what a blank they seem!

Why cannot I despise love as I did twelve months since? Fame and affection,—the desire of one and a presentiment of the other-have now a blent existence. I aspire as formerly, but a new motive is enkindled—there is a new light gathered over the old object; I am tired of the dry knowledge of facts, they have no lustre; formerly, I