a thing of life, blending the sounds of earth with the airs of heaven, in sweet and graceful harmony.

At the park-gates the venerable Sir Everard stood, or rather trembled, to meet his son-the pure and delicious enjoyment of a happiness which at that moment had no alloy. The old man folded him to his heart; the long gray hair, which we have before mentioned as according so well with his aged yet graceful figure, mingled with the flowing and silken curls that nature, and perhaps a little art, sent waving after the most approved fashion over Basil's shoulders.

At the mansion a more stately greeting awaited the young men. Lady Sydney, who thought, with the high and mighty of our own days, that every demonstration of feeling is a departure from necessary dignity, stood in her robe of crimson velvet looped with jewels, her stomacher of diamonds, and her richest farthingale, ready to receive her son in the entrance-hall. Behind her, and at the proper distance, the servants, male and female, were ranged in their holyday suits, according to their station; and as the evening had nearly closed, the interior of the castle-hall was one blaze of light! It had a bright and beautiful effect; and Basil Sydney was gratified that his friend should see their home to the best advantage.

Poor Cuthbert! the remembrance of what his own castle had been came forcibly upon his memory; and the knowledge that at that very moment he had no dwelling but his tent, no fortune but his sword, saddened and sobered the joy which he would otherwise have experienced in witnessing the happiness of his friend.

An ordinary observer would have said that Lady Sydney supported the meeting well; but more than once did her quiet waiting-maid (who knew her mistress better than any other human being had ever done) move towards her, though her head was erect and her eye tearless, lest her limbs should refuse their support in that hour of triumphant trial, when the youth, who had quitted her a tall and graceful stripling, flew to her embrace a noble and gallant officer, having won honour in a cause to which her entire soul was pledged. She bore it well-at first, holding her son firmly, almost at arm's length, and spelling his features with a delighted, a proud, a glorious exultation, which only a mother

can feel; then, having satisfied her soul with gazing, to the astonishment of all beholders she swooned on his bosom, and was carried to her chamber ere she recovered.

CHAPTER IV.

"A prison is a house of care,
A place where none can thrive."

"A PRISON is a house of care," saith our motto. What then is a convent? Alas! if a place of much innocent contentment, it is also a place of deep mental trouble—a place where many moods meet and do not mingle-where there is much of that quiet usefulness which pleases by gentleness rather than strength, and much also of sullen discontentthe discontent which is sullen from want of sympathy.

It never was our fortune to meet with a nun who did not declare her happiness--assure you that she was happy, quite happy, at the very moment when her memory wandered to the scenes she could never again behold.

To the heart-broken, such religious institutions certainly offer a calm and tranquil refuge. But merely passing the threshold of a nunnery will not recall the wandering thoughts, or shed the halo of contentment over a mind torn and distracted by worldly struggles. Time is the only cure for misfortune: we are loath to shut our eyes on earth, while hope remains to promise better days.

Nothing can be more at variance with nature than the expectation that a young and joyous spirit will dwell contentedly in a cloister. A free bird, loving the wilds and mountains, will not cage itself; and surely, of all creatures that ever danced with the dew, or chased the sunbeam, Rosalind Sydney was the least fitted for such restraints as are imposed by convent laws and regulations: she clung to Father Frank as if he were the only friend she possessed on earth; and, despite the dissimilarity of their religious creeds, the padré loved her as if she were (with reverence be it spoken) his own child.

St. Mary's priory, as it was called, was in truth a modern dwelling, compounded from a portion of Beaulieu Abbey which was originally built for the abbot's lodging, and converted into a family-seat after the dissolution. Lady Mary Powis, the prioress, had resided for some time in a Spanish convent; but when the religious opinions of James were so bruited abroad as to hold out hopes which the Romanists had not dared to indulge for many years, she returned to her beloved country, accompanied by a few nuns, anxious to establish a species of convent-school somewhere near the New Forest. Nothing could suit her purpose better than the vicinity of Beaulieu; all the legends relating to its great sanctity were eagerly revived; in less than six months the establishment had wonderfully increased; and had the Catholic dynasty continued, St. Mary's priory would have been pointed out to this day; but its walls now moulder amid the ancient and well-known ruins of Beaulieu !

The young ladies who were taken into the priory for the purpose of acquiring the accomplishments in which all foreign nuns excelled, were subject to considerable restrictions, and yet were lodged and boarded separately from those who had taken the veil, whether black or white, and who were consequently liable to the severest regimen. Father Frank expatiated warmly to the abbess on the talents of his young friend, and moreover desired that a bed should be provided for Alice Murrough in or near the sleeping cell of her young lady. This was a sad infringement on the convent rules; but Lady Sydney's purse was a charm--an "open sesame!" in all points upon which the friar deemed it prudent to negotiate. He left Rosalind the next morning, to return to Sydney Pleasance, a distance of only fifteen miles (which took his lady's favourite mules at least six hours to accomplish), with an opinion that she might be tolerably happy there for a time, but that she would never be a nun! "And how did ma colleen sleep?" inquired Alice of her nursling the next morning; "how did the air of the holy place agree with her? Sure it's myself that hasn't known such a night's rest for many a long day, in spite of the weakness that came over me in the beautiful carriage, which, I dare say, my lady thought it a great honour to let such a poor mortal as me ride in. Ah! poverty parts good company.' The blood in old Alice's veins is more ancient than that in her

own. I could count pedigree with her back to the Conqueror, as he's called; not that I've any thing very particular to say against him; he was civil enough to me, and good right had he, and I with him in the wars abroad and at home."

"You, Alice!"

“Yes, ma vourneen, me, or, what's all one, my ancestors —my great-grandfathers. It's my belief she's no oulder than Queen Elizabeth-the bitter heretic to me and mine! the dark-hearted, red-headed, murdering Jezebel !"

"For shame, Alice! you must not abuse our glorious queen in such a fashion. Here, help me to fasten on this quaint dress, which the pupils are doomed to wear. It is too bad that I must band back all my beautiful curls---my sunny curls, as my dear uncle used to call them; and yet, methinks, it well becomes that dark girl they named as Sister something, something---Raymond."

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Raymond!” interrupted Nurse Murrough; "Raymond again! Holy Mary! is this the convent where Margaret Raymond has been lodged ?"

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Margaret was the name, of a certainty. But, dear Alice, what is there in the sound of Raymond so appalling, that you change when it is mentioned?"

"It's all working," continued the nurse; "all, all working its own way; and God will bring it about in his own time-"

“You got into a little fit," observed Rosalind-" you got into a little fit yesterday, when we met those gallant gentlemen, who dear Father Frank was afraid would eat us up at a mouthful; and now you are going to get into another, methinks. And so, you tell me my aunt sent me from Sydney Pleasance because she would not have her son fall in love with his poor cousin! The lady might have known me better: even if her proud and Sydney-looking boy should consider me worthy his regard, I have, I hope, too much spirit to degrade myself by suffering the love-making of one who is taught to believe me his inferior. God--God help those whom the world calls base-born! How bitterly, how very bitterly do they suffer for their parents' sin! Behold, I am young, not foul to look upon; of a spirit, though I say it, generous and frank; and I am sure my heart has but one feeling, and that is kindness to the whole human race-I would

not harm a worm. I have gone about my uncle's mansion for twelve long years; I have marked the scorn upon my proud aunt's brow; I have watched late, and awoke early, to pleasure her whose eyes seemed frozen when they rested on me; and yet, Alice, in that great, great house, only my uncle, and the poor dumb things-the hound and the small birds, whom I fed daily-only those truly loved me.” Old Alice groaned deeply, and hid her face in her hands. "Do not weep, nurse; you could not help it. And you -you loved me, Alice. Did I forget to say you loved me? —then am I an ungrateful wench. And Father Frank, the padré, he too loves me. Well, then-there is my uncle, one; you, two; the padré, three; Branno loves me better than the padré-well, then, Branno, three; the padré, four ; and the small birds, countless as the stars in heaven! Then, after all, I am beloved by many; why should I repine? And those who love me, love me for my own sweet sake: do they not, nurse?"

Still Alice spoke not; and the affectionate girl looked on her with an expression half-playful, half-pouting.

"You are as fitful, nurse, as an April day. For shame! You came hither to prevent my being dull, and yet you help to make me miserable! Why is this?"

"You have spoken the truth now, Miss Rosalind, anyway," replied Alice, at last, withdrawing her hands from her prominent features; "you have spoken the truth now, as you have ever since you could spake at all. And now, tell me, if I turned out a traitor, and deceived you; if I was a bad, black, bitter woman-as bad, as worthless, as ungrate ful as that wicked queen, could you love me still ?"

Rosalind, whose excited feelings a few moments before almost required the aid of tears to save her heart from bursting, was, in the happy changefulness of youthful spirits, inclined to laugh at the pertinacity with which Nurse Murrough took occasion, or, more properly speaking, made occasion, to lug in Queen Elizabeth on all fitting or unfitting pretexts.

"You will never, I am sure, nurse," she replied, "be either bad, black, or bitter, nor a bit like your favourite queen in any way; so there is no danger of my loving you less, and I cannot easily love you more.