Spring too glided by, and another messenger came. The migratory swallow, returned from foreign travel, sought the ancient gable, and rejoicing in safety, commenced building a home. At twilight's hour might she be seen, unscared by the truant's stone, repairing to the placid pool--skimming over its glassy surface, in rapid circle and with humid wing--and returning in triumph, bearing wherewithal to build her nest. Summer too went by; and as the leaves of Autumn rustled at his feet, Delmé started, as he felt that the sting and poignancy of his grief was gone. It was with something like reproach, that he did so. There is a dignity in grief--a pride in perpetuating it--and his had been no common affliction. It is a trite, but true remark, that time scatters our sorrows, as it scatters our joys. The heat of fever and the delirium of love, have their gradations; and so has grief. The impetuous throbbing of the pulse abates;--the influence of years makes us remember the extravagance of passion, with something approaching to a smile;--and Time--mysterious Time--wounding, but healing all, leads us to look at past bereavements, as through a darkened glass. We do not forget; but our memory is as a dream, which awoke us in terror, but over which we have slept. The outline is still present, but the fearful details, which in the darkness of the hour, and the freshness of conception, so scared and alarmed us,--these have vanished with the night. Emily's wedding day drew nigh, and the faces of the household once more looked bright and cheerful. Chapter XIV. A Wedding. "'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move, But though I may not be beloved, Still let me love!" "I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of orange blossoms Upon her beauteous brow." Spring of life! whither art thou flown? A few hot sighs--and scalding tears--fleeting raptures and still fading hopes--and then--thou art gone for ever. Lovelorn we look on beauty: no blush now answers to our glance; for cold is our gaze, as the deadened emotions of our heart. Fresh garlands bedeck the lap of Spring. Faded as the shrivelled flowers, that withering sink beneath her rosy feet: yet we exclaim:--Spring of life! how and whither art thou flown? Clarendon Gage was a happy man. He had entered upon the world with very bright prospects. The glorious visions of his youth were still unclouded, and his heart beat as high with hope as ever. Experience had not yet instilled that sober truth, that Time will darken the sunniest, as well as the least inviting anticipations; and that the visions of his youth were unclouded, because they were undimmed by the reflections of age.