of quiet perseverance, of humility; and though her home duties often recurred to her mind, she felt she could not desert her friend during the early days of her great bereavement. But our attention must now be turned towards other scenes. CHAPTER VI. "What sadder scene can angels view A woe for future years ?" CHRISTIAN YEAR. SILENCE reigned in the large halls of Moorfield Manor, and the last rays of July's glorious sun were pouring in through the stained windows of its well-filled library. The late storm had visited its shady precincts with no sparing hand; large branches of the surrounding trees had been unceremoniously hurled into the midst of fragile blooming flowers, and many a pane of the conservatory lay in shivers on the ground. "Come off pretty well, considering," said Arthur Graham, half aloud, as in travelling costume he entered his solitary library, and approached the window. "I expected to have seen at least half the trees up by the roots, and one whole side of my conservatory smashed to pieces, from the description my clever wife gave me! What fools women are in general, and my wife in particular!" and Mr. Graham threw himself listlessly into an arm-chair, and took up the "Morning Post." "Wreck of the Fenella' yacht.-Twelve lives lost!" The last part of the paragraph in the sad announcement seemed to rivet his attention, and absorb every faculty. It contained the account of Sir Harry Lisle's tragic end, and concluded with a strong eulogium upon his virtues. "Sir Harry Lisle lost!-lost!" he repeated to himself mechanically, as if endeavouring to stamp the fact upon his memory, which seemed incapable of taking in any idea so incomprehensible. The paper dropped from his hand, his sallow complexion changed to a livid paleness, and his muscular frame shook as with the inward working of some powerful machinery. A slow unearthly smile gradually overspread his features, which, though cast in a handsome and even classic mould, expressed but too plainly the habitual influence of strong and dark passions. His large, dark eyes gleamed out, as, with a stern, but otherwise unmeaning stare, he fixed them upon an opposite object; and, clenching his hands, as he threw himself back in his chair, he gave utterance to the thought that rose instantly to his mind"Lady Lisle !-Clara a widow!" A motionless reverie of some moments followed, when, repeating the last words, Graham again took up the newspaper. There seemed no mingling of pity in the fierce eagerness with which the all-absorbing paragraph was read and re-read, till the words had inscribed themselves as in fiery letters on his brain. Nay, an almost savage pleasure appeared to expand his whole frame, and at length to recall the blood into his closed lips and blanched cheeks. It was not pity for Clara Lisle that created the unwonted emotion in the stern visage of Arthur Graham; it was not grief for the loss of the dead, nor horror at the fearful destiny which had snatched away, in the vigour of life and happiness, one so esteemed and beloved as Sir Harry Lisle. Jealousy, revenge, despair, hate, fear, love, by turns ruled, by turns exercised their unsparing power, and made Graham their easy victim. Memory recalled the past, when Clara Wilmot, in lovely, blooming, innocent girlhood, had poured the sweet music of her voice into his impassioned ear, as in early youth he rode by her side in the shady lanes of Devonshire. Then came the avowal of his frantic love, and the words, "I cannot, I cannot! I love another-Inever can be yours!" sounded again in fancy, as if their echo from Clara's lips had yet scarce died away. Yes! he remembered the look of pity she had cast upon him, and the feeling of hatred for his rival which had mingled with his despair. Then his vivid imagination pictured that rival adorned as he was with all the gifts that |