poverished fortune, continued to reside there; travellers approaching it beneath the shadow of mighty elms, often wondered why the domain was called "Golden Glen,”—for there appeared no glitter of gold or brilliance about its exterior, and in the interior, dark passages, black wainscoting, and heavy, ancient, cumbrous furniture, did not add the aspect of cheerfulness so much needed in a home. Nevertheless, there was a reason for the appellation; in a sudden dip of the surrounding hills, where they rise nearly from the margin of the water, and about a mile from the dwelling, a few broken columns and two or three arches marked the spot where it was supposed a Hermitage had formerly stood, no doubt an adjunct of the monastic building in former times. On these picturesque and still beautiful ruins the last rays of the setting sun always fell so vividly, illuminating them with a strange lingering love, as it were, that when all around was wrapt in shadow and obscurity, the Glen remained Golden, until the sombre veil of night was drawn over the scene.

The Lancasters had always known their ancestral property as "Golden Glen," and there was a legend attached to it in which they devoutly believed. A pellucid rill, breaking into sparkling eddies among mosscovered rocks, trickled through the Glen, and it was presumed that the Hermit who passed his days there in prayer and seclusion, drank of it and refreshed himself,-in times long before the hallowed walls of the adjacent Priory were riven by the spoilers, and incorporated with the secular buildings.

In those times, the thoughts and aspirations both of princes and nobles were fixed on the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem, and war with the Saracens commenced, as the Crusaders, animated with enthusiastic ardour, regarded not their own safety or interests, but trusted to the assistance of Heaven, hoping to gain fame and victory in this world, and a crown of Eternal Glory in the world to come. Amongst other devoted nobles who fought under the banner of King Richard the Lion-hearted there was one peculiarly distinguished for his warlike zeal and victorious prowess; this great baron was also nearly allied to royalty, through his marriage with a royal princess; but after a few years only of happy married life she died, leaving her disconsolate husband to mourn an irretrievable loss with three motherless boys. These youths, as they grew up, were evidently animated by the same chivalrous ardour as distinguished their sire; and when he joined the Crusaders, the two eldest expressed their firm determination to accom

pany their noble father; to this the baron readily consented, but when the youngest, the fair-haired, gentle Wilfred also yearned to go with his brothers, and to fight against the infidels, then the tenderness and anxiety of the father's heart overbalanced the zeal of the warrior, and for a long time he refused to yield consent. Unknown, perhaps, to himself, Wilfred was the darling of the baron's heart-his mother's image, and the inheritor of that sweet mother's lovely disposition; however, in the end, Wilfred pleaded not in vain, and to the Crusades he went with his noble sire and brave brothers. The two eldest were slain, and the youngest, in endeavouring to shield his beloved father, fell covered with wounds, and breathed his last a few hours after in that distracted father's arms. It was a singular and noticeable fact, that the warrior who never spared himself, and rushed amidst the thickest of the terrible onslaughts, escaped unhurt, after seeing three sons slaughtered.

The baron's heart was broken, and all his strength of arm and purpose departed; he returned to his native land and sought shelter in the cloister; there in the Hermitage on the banks of Clysson Lake, he led a Hermit's life of asceticism and prayer, and the legend says that Angels ministered to the mourner, and that amongst the blessed he recognised the forms of his three brave sons; and at length there came a day when the Hermit was found as if sleeping placidly beside the sparkling cascade, his weary head resting on a moss-covered rock; the last vermilion rays of a glorious sunset fell on his wan face, and so illuminated it with mysterious splendour, that the holy brethren from Clysson Priory gazed on the departed with awe and reverence. peaceful smile rested on the countenance of the dead, and henceforth the spot was consecrated to his memory, and the name of "Golden Glen" had adhered to it, and all the domain which afterwards fell into secular hands.

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The Lancasters, as has been said, had owned it for centuries, but they were a race that had not flourished; various causes having combined to reduce their fortunes, such causes being common in the annals of the improvident. The sweet evening bells of Clysson Church were ringing softly, and the chimes, like pathetic voices, floated across the lonely lake, now dying far away, then pealing louder; near the mullioned windows of an apartment overshadowed by ancient trees, sat a brother and sister, trying to decipher the small print of an old book by the waning light; the sister with one hand resting on her brother's

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shoulder, and with the other holding the volume in the best way to suit his eyes. The lady was middle-aged, and there was an expression on her face of habitual melancholy, but it was a good face, and the traces of great beauty still lingered on it; it was the inner loveliness of Christabel Lancaster's nature, its purity and pitiful tenderness, that made her still lovely; and the unconscious pathos of her expression, when her features were in repose, which rendered her countenance so interesting; she was two years her brother's junior, but he looked considerably the elder his hair was snowy white, and he wore it rather long, and, fine as floss silk, it fell in delicate waves on the collar of his coat behind; there was a strong family resemblance between the brother and sister, but Mr. Lancaster's eyes were darker and more searching than Christabel's, and the deep lines of his face evidenced that he had combated with ineffaceable sorrows. And the mute evidence was indeed true; for after but a few years of perfect wedded happiness, his wife had been summoned from this world, leaving her widowed husband with three young boys; Mr. Lancaster's only sister, Christabel—they were orphans at once left the home of a maternal aunt, who presided over a religious establishment in Bruges, to fly to her brother's side, and strive to administer the consolation, and give the help so much needed; she devoted herself to the motherless children with all the love and zeal of an affectionate nature. Suitors there were, and wealthy ones, who aspired to gain the hand of the beautiful Christabel Lancaster, but she declared a firm determination never to leave her brother whilst he needed her services; when he remonstrated, for selfishness had no part in his disposition, she always smiled cheerfully, and said

"All these matters were settled long ago for me; I shall never marry." An avowal which made her brother understand that Christabel also had known bereavement, though any allusion to the circumstances of her past life was carefully avoided; those few words were pathetic enough to rouse his loving sympathy for one so gentle and resigned.

The book they had been reading together by the waning light of the evening, was not an unmeet preparation for the Best Book, in whose inspired pages Mr. Lancaster found consolation and strength; little do those who neglect their Bibles think what refined delight they lose, by the turning away their eyes from the most sublime, glorious, and beautiful histories the universe affords; the sweet songs of Israel's Shepherd King were peculiarly comforting to a mind attuned like Mr.

Lancaster's-a mind that had almost been wrecked by an unusual weight of sorrow-not being strong enough to bear the burden.

"My case seems so similar to that of the Hermit in our legend," said Mr. Lancaster, with a sad flickering smile, "that if it were not for you, Christabel, I should be tempted to throw myself down on the green moss in Golden Glen,' and there draw

my last weary breath." Angels, it is said, ministered to the Hermit-and amongst them he recognised his three dear departed ones," whispered Miss Lancaster; "and may we not humbly hope that Blessed Angels will be near us— when our last hour comes—and that we too, perhaps, may see amongst them those we fondly loved on earth; it is a harmless belief—and, for my part, I always feel as if I was treading on hallowed ground in 'Golden Glen'-believing, as I do, that in former times the noiseless feet of these Shining Messengers passed over the green-sward, leaving no trace, and crushing not the most delicate flower."

Ah, Christie, dear-I am earthy-of the earth-earthy-" sighed Mr. Lancaster; " and it would be a comfort to me if I had but one grave to weep over-one Cross to mark the spot; there is bitterness in thinking that the fair and noble forms of my sons are mouldering in an unknown foreign land-"”

"But not in unknown or unhonoured graves, my dearest brother," interrupted Christabel; "they fell on the field of battle, covered with honour and glory-and the names of the heroes are immortalised; they died as Lancasters should die-cheering on their men to victory-"

"The two-the two eldest nobly born-nobly died," moaned Mr. Lancaster; "but what of the wretched Vere-what of his terrible fate?" Miss Lancaster covered her face with her hands, and murmured"We know not-we know not-he may be yet alive-the prodigal may yet return."

"And how could I look on his dishonoured face again? No, no, Christabel I believe that miserable young man has perished in his folly. O, to think that her son should sink so low-should be lostlost!" the unhappy father groaned in anguish of spirit-and it was, indeed, a tale of shame and woe.

Mr. Lancaster's two eldest sons, by their own express wish, had entered the army at an early age, and greatly distinguished themselves in the wars of that period, when the colonies were revolting; they had won fame and distinction, and fell fighting side by side, covered with glory, as the phrase goes.

But the youngest of the three, Vere, the darling of his father's heart, though Mr. Lancaster did not own even to himself that he was dearer than the others, had always been less robust than his brothers, and showed no disposition for an active career like theirs. A great princemerchant of the time, a relation of Mrs. Lancaster's, consented to receive the youth into his vast establishment, there to learn the routine of business. Vere willingly agreed to the arrangement, the more so, as he ardently desired to visit the metropolis; there, alas, ruin awaited the poor fellow; he was persuaded by foolish companions to incur expenses which he had no means of meeting; and in an evil hour, he forged the name of his employer-was detected—and fled. The great merchant was a kind-hearted man, and for the sake of Mr. Lancaster declined to prosecute, and the offence in time was forgotten; but Vere had disappeared—and in his shame and misery was supposed to have destroyed himself.

No wonder there was trouble and anguish at "Golden Glen," or that the father's hair was prematurely white, as sorrow alone whitens some bowed heads. The evening bells of Clysson still float in sweet, mournful peals across the lonely lake-but where are the actors in that drama of real life? their joys and sorrows only chronicled by one feeble pen, which falters in the effort of recording scenes long past.

A few years more, a few more prayers and supplicative sighs, a few more pains and warnings that the end was coming, a few more weary efforts to walk as far as the "Golden Glen,”—and Mr. Lancaster will be at rest; he did not feel contented unless he could reach the "Glen" every day, and with Miss Lancaster's aid, he managed to do so; but at length even that short walk was too much for his exhausted frame.

"I must endeavour to crawl to the Glen this one more evening,-to see this extraordinarily beautiful sunset once more, dearest Christabel,” he said, looking earnestly on his sister, as if beseeching her not to deny him." I know not what it is, but I am impelled to go there— and you know I am rather weak about presentiments."

“And so am I, dear love," replied Miss Lancaster, "and with the help of your stout staff and my arm, we shall try and reach the Glen; so let us go, for the sun won't wait for us." With a pleasant smile she tried to cheer him, and the brother and sister slowly went forward together.

Truly indeed did the Glen deserve its name of "Golden,”—it was illuminated with a glory that seemed not of earth, and on the sparkling