same hand that wounds can heal. I will not sorrow, if I can refrain from grief, though it is hard to bear; yet often, when I look upon my daughters, I think how sad 'twill be when I no more can trace their change of form and feature. And this deep affliction comes upon me in my manhood's prime:--life in captivity--all around me grows darker each fair day I live. A bunch of violets was given me this morning; their fragrance was delicious, yet I could not discern the little yellow germ that I knew dwelt within their dark blue petals, and I put them from me because I could not see as well as smell:--'twas foolish, but 'twas natural. The moon at this very moment looks so sallow--pale--and you,' he bowed to us as he spoke, 'and you, even you, ladies, appear both dim and cold!' I thought he laid more emphasis on the word _cold_ than on the other words, perhaps in allusion to the political differences between Lady Claypole and himself: your sister thought so too.--'You do us wrong,' she observed warmly; 'never, never cold to John Milton! never, indeed never! This sad affliction, if it should continue, (which the Almighty in his mercy forbid!) will create for you new worlds; when all its treasures are destroyed, you will but close your eyes on earth that you may look through heaven.' What would I not have given for such a rewarding smile as played upon without disturbing his features! Your sister, surprised into an enthusiasm that was not in keeping with her usually subdued deportment, turned aside, and taking me by the hand, presented me to him, saying, 'Here, sir, is a little girl, who, though she has only numbered sixteen summers, has learned to value Milton!' What do you think I said, Frances? Nothing:--that might have passed--but what do you think I did? I fell on my knees, and kissed his hand! I am almost ashamed to repeat such frowardness, though done in all the purity of truth;--not that I think he was displeased." "Displeased!" interrupted the Lady Frances, who had kept silence marvellously long; "oh! no, it is not in man to be displeased with the devotedness, the love of woman----" "I prithee, peace," interrupted Constance in her turn: for the word 'love' had called the flush into her pale cheek; "thou art ever placing earth on a level with heaven." "And thou, my saintly friend, wouldst bring heaven down to earth. I remember my sister Claypole treating of this before, saying that Milton laid his fingers on thy forehead, and that thou didst clip off the particular ringlet pressed by them, and enshrine it in a jewelled cross." "I confess----" "To the folly of despoiling thy tresses?" "Dearest Frances, you are cruel in your gaiety. How I watched his retreating footsteps as he passed under the archway, after bidding us good night! His gait was measured, but, though his sight was so impaired, I observed that his head was thrown upward, and that he walked as one having no fear."