yew-trees, with the few edifices grouped near it, broke gratefully the deserted aspect of things, at the left. The spacious scene, so richly filled by nature, had in its loneliness and repose a singular sweetness. Rarely was any one abroad. Only when the Hessians or Loyalist dragoons patrolled the post-road, or when some British sloop-of-war showed its white sails far down the river, was there sign of human life and conflict. The deserted look of things was in harmony with the spirit of a book with which Harry sweetened the long hours of his recovery. It was a book that Elizabeth had sent up for his amusement, called "The Man of Feeling," and there was something in the opening picture of the venerable mansion, with its air of melancholy, its languid stillness, its "single crow, perched on an old tree by the side of the gate," and its young lady passing between the trees with a book in her hand, that harmonized with his own sequestered state. He liked the tale better than the same author's later novel, "The Man of the World," which he had read a few years before. Every day he inquired about his hostess's health, and sent his compliments and thanks. He was glad she did not visit him in person, for such a visit might involve an allusion to their last previous interview, and he did not know in what manner he should make or treat such allusion. He felt it would be an awkward matter to get out of the situation of pretended adorer, and he was for putting that awkward matter off till the last possible moment.