powerful connexions, education, perhaps (or may I indeed say it?) reputation? of what avail all these if they have only left me where they found me, idle, unemployed, and useless? Have I even gained a friend, or have I not-" (and here he faltered almost to sighing),"have I not lost-" The sadness of his thought prevented him from finishing. He then began to question whether in reality he might not have been too fastidious, too unaccommodating to the weaknesses, or perhaps fair pursuits of men at least as worthy and estimable as himself? Whether they were doing more than obeying the impetus to action given by nature, in what he presumed to blame, and had chosen to avoid? Might he not have done as they did? And if so, might he not have kept his friends, and been in the high road to advancement with them, which might ultimately lead even to success in another object too tender almost to think of?

These were cruel thoughts at the moment; and, to say truth, ambition is not only so natural to man, but so properly pursued, when properly regulated, that he would be an ill teacher who should propose to eradicate it from the mind, and be a worse pupil who would suffer it to be eradicated. All this now struck the more forcibly on the thoughts of De Vere, from the solitude in which he made these reflections; a solitude to which, it might be, he was most prematurely about to reduce himself. "And yet," said he, hurrying on his steps, "to be like Clayton! or even Eustace! or Cleveland, worst of all!-No! a scene like this is heaven to it."

He was pursuing this train, when he was saluted by the note of the wood-pigeon, which sounded from the copse above. He recollected how often of an evening at this time of the year he had thrown down his spade and rake at Talbois, when tired of gardening, to listen to those lulling notes, till night came on, and he returned to a contented though homely supper, and afterward to a bed, in which, from the labours of the day, and his ignorance of the struggles of the world, his sleep was as instantaneous as it was sweet.

"And am I reduced to regret those days," said he, "when all was ignorance, and I even shrank under oppression?--almost to wish for them again!-I, who have known Constance, and been the friend of Wentworth!"

“And yet,” continued he, "what have I known in this world of ours, dazzling as are its scenes, comparable to what this little spot, this shut-up valley may afford ?"

Thus reasoned, and thus fluctuated in his reasoning, the honourable, natural, and enthusiastic De Vere; with no pleasure either from the satisfaction of his recollections or the certainty of his conclusions. In truth, he was tossed between disgust at many things he had seen, and his fear, that if he renounced the world, he might renounce his duty to society, and, above all, the secret hope of his heart, which, whatever resolve he might make against it, still dwelt there in the image of his

cousin.

He had now, however, approached to the end of the valley, where the river, rolling over a broad weir, turned itself into a mill-stream, working a considerable wheel, in the close neighbourhood of which rose a retired house of old red brick, but looking cool and enlivened, from being almost covered by a large vine. It belonged to the owner of the mill. Opposite to this, a little promontory or elbow, formed by a wood-clothed steep, pushed itself into the stream, so as completely to stop the path way on its bank. Here the glen opened another reach, resembling the last in form, only busy and peopled, with houses bordering one whole side of the river,—a little inn, a little church, and a pretty parsonage. To a man at ease with himself, and with mankind, this scene would have been (as in former days to De Vere it had been) a perfect paradise.

De Vere had now to cross the river, but there was no bridge, and he looked rather wistfully at a punt, moored close to the piles which contained the miller's garden. The miller himself was there, in the act of giving an evening's watering to a large bed of sprouts he had just planted, which had drooped, and hung their heads during a hot day, and now seemed to drink with eagerness the great buckets which the miller threw over them. They had already begun to revive, and looked greener and greener for it, as he continued his refreshing work. He himself seemed to take such delight in it, that though he saw De Vere's embarrassment to get across, and resolved to relieve it by punting him over in his own good time, yet he thought he would just finish his first

job; "the plants," he said, “seemed so much pleased with it."

At the same time, a sleek, good-humoured-looking dame came out of the house, to beg the miller, while his hand was in, not to forget her pinks and polyanthus, which, she said, were as sick for want of water as the cabbageplants themselves.

"I will," said the miller, "as soon as I have punted the gentleman over."

"Gentleman! what gentleman ?" cried his wife; when, perceiving a person of De Vere's appearance, "Why, Lord bless me, Thomas Gurney," said she, "how could you let such a gentleman wait upon them foolish plants, when, perhaps, he is in a hurry, and wants to get to his inn, or perhaps to Muster Archer's."

"Indeed," cried De Vere, "I am in no hurry, and could look on much longer at so pleasant a work; besides, I am the person to be obliged, and ought to wait your time."

"There! Thomas Gurney," cried his wife; "and such a civil-spoken gentleman, too; do lose no more time, but get into the punt."

The miller did as he was bid. "Our mistress," said he, as he pulled against the rope which stretched across the river, "is for no sooner said than done, when a goodnatured thing is in hand; and yet," added he, giving a significant toss with his head, "she would have combed my locks if I had neglected them cabbageplants, let alone her flowers she's so fond of, because Parson Archer gave them to her."

De Vere was amused, and it seemed a relief to his late train of thought to give a minute to this homely but obliging couple, who received him at his landing with a bow and a courtesy, and asked him to walk in. "Though I suppose," said the hostess, "you are going to Mr. Archer's, or at least to the Dog and Partridge, where there is always a genteel bed, though not, perhaps, for such a gentleman as you."

"I am not difficult," said De Vere; "and if I were, I should think I could find no difficulty in such a beautiful quiet place as this."

"Too quiet by half," said the dame; "for, except when the quality comes a pleasuring from the peak (which they don't always do neither), you may hear a pin fall in the street. To be sure, there is the river, and

them high woods," seeing De Vere looking at them with admiration; "but one can't always be looking at the same things, and if it was not for a chaise now and then coming to the Dog and Partridge, and perhaps when Mr. Archer is so good as to take a dish of tea with me, we should be moped to death."

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Speak for yourself, Betsy," said her husband, significantly; "you were always too high for your estate, you know; now I never did mope."

Perceiving De Vere very attentive, the dame replied,"Ah! the good man, our Thomas, he is never unkind; he has got his mill and his river."

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Ay, and a lovely river, too," said Gurney; "and our fathers thought so before us, without wanting to leave it. Perhaps the gentleman has not heard of the posy upon it, as old, for aught I know, as the river itself,'In April, Dove's flood Is worth a king's good.""

De Vere said he had read of it, and the miller went on addressing his wife.

"And you, Bess, might be as happy, if you would but mend stockings more and read them books less."

At this he pointed to at least half a dozen of wellthumbed volumes from the circulating library at Ashbourne; and then both parties appealed to De Vere on their little dispute.

De Vere here found himself a scholar in the shape of a master, for being called upon to decide between these discordant characters, who yet seemed to proceed lovingly enough together in their way, he found that he himself obtained a useful lesson. The happiness of honest Thomas was unambiguous; it spoke in his eyes, in his cheeks, and in his gestures. It was always within his reach; for he was always employed, and always at home. His mill lay just across his garden, and in the one or the other all his interests, save those he gave to Mrs. Gurney, were centred.

On her part the happiness was rather more equivocal. "Our Thomas," was too good to be despised by her; but, from having no family and much time, she took to reading novels, and these turned her head, and made her discontented. She thought what fine things there were to be enjoyed in the world, if it were not that she was buried alive, as she said, in Dovedale. Her great object

of curiosity, when they came in her way, was what she called the quality, such as she had read of, and such as her fancy had painted. But as she was very seldom gratified in this particular, she was very seldom happy; for her Thomas Gurney did not exactly come up to her notion of Mr. B. in Pamela, or Sir Charles Grandison, with whose histories she was intimately acquainted. De Vere found, therefore, that she was an ambitieuse, with all qualities for being one of the first class, if she had but been born in another station, instead of a miller's wife. She was, however, a little consoled by the attention she said she always received from Mr. Archer.

"And who is this Mr. Archer?" asked De Vere.

"Our worthy vicar,” replied the dame; “and a complete gentleman he is."

"A don't look so well as 'a did, though," said Gurney. "A used to be as spruce and nice as one of my quickset hedges, and shaved every day; and now he is as great a sloven almost as I be, God help me," added Gurney, stroking his sleek chin, on which there was at least a three days' beard. ·

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Archer, Archer!" exclaimed De Vere, "what aged man is he? or do you know what university he belonged to?" "A comed from Oxford, I think," replied Thomas," by all them almanacs as hangs about the house; and as for age-"

"La! bless me, sir," interrupted Mrs. Gurney, “he cannot be above your own age, only you be black, and he fair."

"I think I know him," said De Vere; and he thought of a gentleman a year or two older than himself, of no mean acquirements, and even genius, of whom his friends had conceived great hopes at college, and with whom he had maintained a sort of intimacy there, though it did not continue after their separation in the world.

"I think I'll call at the parsonage," said De Vere, "and see if I am right, if you will be so good as to let anybody show me the way."

"I will do it myself," said the miller.

"Put on your coat then, Thomas," said his wife: "one would really think you had no coat to your back, walking with such a gentleman without one."

The matter was soon arranged; the vicar's was but three stones' throw off, and De Vere, with his obliging guide, were soon at the parsonage.