The merry voices of some little roisterers, who swung with frantic glee upon a paddock gate, soon died away in the distance; the wheel of the rustic mill had ceased to turn, and the water flowed unchafed along its narrow race; even the hum of the honey bee had died away, as it had gone laden to its home, and soft and almost holy thoughts would have stolen into Morley's heart, at such a time and place and sober sunset, but for the keen anxiety that made him hasten on--the anxiety that love and long absence had created, and verses that he had somewhere read occurred to him with painful truth:-- "Ah! not as once!--my spirit now Is shadowed by a dull cold fear, Nor Spring's soft breath that fans my brow Nor Spring's sweet flowers my breast can cheer. "Oh, Spring! sweet Spring! if Heaven decree My term of life to be so brief, That joy I would afar but see, But taste the bitter cup of grief." While proceeding, he looked frequently and eagerly around him; for now every old gnarled beech that overhung the path, and every meadow gate brought back some stirring thought or tender memory. The flush in the western sky was bright, so he shaded his eyes with his hand (though whilom accustomed to more cloudless skies and brighter suns than ours), as if looking for some expected person. At last an irrepressible exclamation of joy escaped him, as a hat and feather, and a female figure there was no mistaking, met his eye. He flourished his wide-awake hat, and then quickened his pace, as a little parasol was waved in reply. In a minute more his arms were around a young girl, who rushed forward, panting and breathless, to meet him, and his lips were pressed to hers in a long and silent kiss. "Ethel, my own, own Ethel, at last--at _last_!" he exclaimed, in a voice rendered tremulous by excess of emotion; but the young girl for some time was unable to reply. She could but sob upon his breast in the fulness of her joy. There was a long and tender pause, during which their lips, though silent, were busy enough, perhaps, for "Love," says some one, "is a sting of joy, but a heartache for ever!" "I knew, dear Ethel, that you would come to meet me," said Morley, "if my letter arrived in time to inform you of the train by which I would leave Liverpool." "Where you landed last night--only last night--and this evening you are here," she exclaimed. "Yes, Ethel; but poorer than when I left England," said the young man sadly; "poorer than when I left you," he replied, drawing her arm through his, but still retaining her hand, with both of his folded over it;--"and now tell me how are all at Laurel Lodge. Your papa----" "Is quite well." "And your sister Rose--merry little Rose?" "Well, blooming, and lively as ever."