"Jane, till to-morrow you are free

      From tedious task and rule;

     This afternoon I must not see

      That yet pale face in school.

    "Seek in the garden-shades a seat,

      Far from the play-ground din;

     The sun is warm, the air is sweet:

      Stay till I call you in."

     A long and pleasant afternoon

      I passed in those green bowers;

     All silent, tranquil, and alone

      With birds, and bees, and flowers.

     Yet, when my master's voice I heard

      Call, from the window, "Jane!"

     I entered, joyful, at the word,

      The busy house again.

     He, in the hall, paced up and down;

      He paused as I passed by;

     His forehead stern relaxed its frown:

      He raised his deep-set eye.

    "Not quite so pale," he murmured low.

      "Now Jane, go rest awhile."

     And as I smiled, his smoothened brow

      Returned as glad a smile.

     My perfect health restored, he took

      His mien austere again;

     And, as before, he would not brook

      The slightest fault from Jane.

     The longest task, the hardest theme

      Fell to my share as erst,

     And still I toiled to place my name

      In every study first.

     He yet begrudged and stinted praise,

      But I had learnt to read

     The secret meaning of his face,

      And that was my best meed.

     Even when his hasty temper spoke

      In tones that sorrow stirred,

     My grief was lulled as soon as woke

      By some relenting word.

     And when he lent some precious book,

      Or gave some fragrant flower,

     I did not quail to Envy's look,

      Upheld by Pleasure's power.

     At last our school ranks took their ground,

      The hard-fought field I won;

     The prize, a laurel-wreath, was bound

      My throbbing forehead on.

     Low at my master's knee I bent,

      The offered crown to meet;

     Its green leaves through my temples sent

      A thrill as wild as sweet.

     The strong pulse of Ambition struck

      In every vein I owned;

     At the same instant, bleeding broke

      A secret, inward wound.

     The hour of triumph was to me

      The hour of sorrow sore;

     A day hence I must cross the sea,

      Ne'er to recross it more.

     An hour hence, in my master's room

      I with him sat alone,

     And told him what a dreary gloom

      O'er joy had parting thrown.

     He little said; the time was brief,

      The ship was soon to sail,

     And while I sobbed in bitter grief,

      My master but looked pale.

     They called in haste; he bade me go,

      Then snatched me back again;

     He held me fast and murmured low,

     "Why will they part us, Jane?"

    "Were you not happy in my care?

      Did I not faithful prove?

     Will others to my darling bear

      As true, as deep a love?

    "O God, watch o'er my foster child!

      O guard her gentle head!

     When minds are high and tempests wild

      Protection round her spread!

    "They call again; leave then my breast;

      Quit thy true shelter, Jane;

     But when deceived, repulsed, opprest,

      Come home to me again!"

I read—then dreamily made marks on the margin with my pencil; thinking all the while of other things; thinking that "Jane" was now at my side; no child, but a girl of nineteen; and she might be mine, so my heart affirmed; Poverty's curse was taken off me; Envy and Jealousy were far away, and unapprized of this our quiet meeting; the frost of the Master's manner might melt; I felt the thaw coming fast, whether I would or not; no further need for the eye to practise a hard look, for the brow to compress its expense into a stern fold: it was now permitted to suffer the outward revelation of the inward glow—to seek, demand, elicit an answering ardour. While musing thus, I thought that the grass on Hermon never drank the fresh dews of sunset more gratefully than my feelings drank the bliss of this hour.

Frances rose, as if restless; she passed before me to stir the fire, which did not want stirring; she lifted and put down the little ornaments on the mantelpiece; her dress waved within a yard of me; slight, straight, and elegant, she stood erect on the hearth.

There are impulses we can control; but there are others which control us, because they attain us with a tiger-leap, and are our masters ere we have seen them. Perhaps, though, such impulses are seldom altogether bad; perhaps Reason, by a process as brief as quiet, a process that is finished ere felt, has ascertained the sanity of the deed Instinct meditates, and feels justified in remaining passive while it is performed. I know I did not reason, I did not plan or intend, yet, whereas one moment I was sitting solus on the chair near the table, the next, I held Frances on my knee, placed there with sharpness and decision, and retained with exceeding tenacity.

"Monsieur!" cried Frances, and was still: not another word escaped her lips; sorely confounded she seemed during the lapse of the first few moments; but the amazement soon subsided; terror did not succeed, nor fury: after all, she was only a little nearer than she had ever been before, to one she habitually respected and trusted; embarrassment might have impelled her to contend, but self-respect checked resistance where resistance was useless.

"Frances, how much regard have you for me?" was my demand. No answer; the situation was yet too new and surprising to permit speech. On this consideration, I compelled myself for some seconds to tolerate her silence, though impatient of it: presently, I repeated the same question—probably, not in the calmest of tones; she looked at me; my face, doubtless, was no model of composure, my eyes no still wells of tranquillity.

"Do speak," I urged; and a very low, hurried, yet still arch voice said—

"Monsieur, vous me faites mal; de grace lachez un peu ma main droite."

In truth I became aware that I was holding the said "main droite" in a somewhat ruthless grasp: I did as desired; and, for the third time, asked more gently—

"Frances, how much regard have you for me?"

"Mon maitre, j'en ai beaucoup," was the truthful rejoinder.

"Frances, have you enough to give yourself to me as my wife?—to accept me as your husband?"

I felt the agitation of the heart, I saw "the purple light of love" cast its glowing reflection on cheeks, temples, neck; I desired to consult the eye, but sheltering lash and lid forbade.

"Monsieur," said the soft voice at last,—"Monsieur desire savoir si je consens—si—enfin, si je veux me marier avec lui?"

"Justement."