In the mean time, Marlow and Mrs. Warmington and the high constable spoke upon it, consulting what was to be done with her. The prison system of England was at that time as bad as it could be, and those who condemned and abhorred her the most, were anxious to spare her as long as possible the horrors of the jail. At length, after many difficulties, and a good deal of hesitation, Mr. Atkinson agreed, at the suggestion of Mrs. Warmington, to leave her in the house where she then was, under the charge of a constable to be sent for from Hartwell. There was a high upper room from which there was no possibility of escape, with an antechamber in which the constable could watch, and there he was determined to confine her till she could be brought before the magistrate on the following day. "I must have her thoroughly searched in the first place," said Mr. Atkinson; "for she may have some more of the poison about her, and in her present state, after all she has confessed, she is just as likely to swallow it as not. However, Mr. Marlow, you had better, I think, ride on as fast as possible to see Sir Philip Hastings, and tell him what has occurred here. If I judge rightly, your presence will be very needful there." "It will indeed," said Marlow, a sudden vague apprehension of he knew not what, seizing upon him; "God grant I have not tarried too long already;" and quitting the room, he sprang upon his horse's back again. FOOTNOTES: [2] Continued from page 327. TWO SONNETS. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE. TRUTH. For constant truth my aching spirit yearns, And finds no comfort in a glorious cheat; On the firm rock I wish to set my feet, And look upon the star that changeless burns; Yon gorgeous clouds that in the sunset glow, With fire-wrought domes for angel-palace meet, Beneath my gaze their surface beauties fleet; With parting light how dull their splendors grow. I cannot worship vapors, and the hue That on the dove's neck flickers, as it veers, Bewilders, but not charms me; whilst the blue Of the clear sky gives comfort 'mid all fears, And but to think on that unshadowed white, The angels walk in, makes my dark path bright. THE FUTURE. Eternal sunshine withers; constant light Would make the beauty of the world look wan; The storm that sleeps with dark'ning terror on, Leaves verdant freshness where it seemed to blight; Most dreary is the land where comes no night, For there the sun is chill, and slowly drawn Round the horizon, spreads a sickly dawn, No promise of a day more warm and bright. Bless then the clouds and darkness, for we can Discern with awe through them what angel faces Watch and direct, and from their holy places Smile with sublime benignity on man; And dearly cherish sickness, pain, and sorrow, As gloomy heralds of a bright to-morrow. V.