The evening--though he wooed its stay as if it were his last below--passed away with the rapidity happy hours do pass. He sat by her--talked to her; she played and sang to him, and he was at once happy and wretched. One song-- "When we two parted In silence and tears," the latest production of Lord Byron's muse then set to music, she sang with such pathos the tear sprang to his eyes. But afterwards she laughed, and his spirits sank again as she bade him good evening and good bye. "Good bye; I shall not see you again, Mr. Ravensworth; you will be gone early, I suppose. When we meet again you will be a captain perhaps. I hope you will have a nice voyage. Good bye, I sha'n't forget you." Poor Ravensworth could only press her hand as she was leaving the room, and offer a little packet, probably containing a costly keepsake, but Lady Florence fathomed his meaning, and said, "Thank you, but I could not accept it, it would not be right; I shall require no souvenir to cause you to be remembered! but if you want one, there is a flower for you." As she spoke she took a sprig of blue forget-me-not from the wreath that bound her hair, and playfully gave it. She then hurried away with a light step, but a heavy heart. Young Ravensworth stood mute, with the rejected gift in one hand and the flower in the other, gazing abstractedly on his retreating vision of beauty. He thought he heard her sigh. He then slowly retraced his steps, bade farewell to the Countess, and retired to his own room, heavy and discontented. He could not sleep, so fevered grew his head, and thinking the cool night air might do him good, he left the castle, crossed the span-bridge, and sought the Holly Walk. The night was extremely beautiful, the moon walking on high in brightness, the air warm and perfumed as it swept o'er the flower-gardens, and gently whirled the sere leaves from the beech-trees behind the hedge. What a different scene had been enacted there a few years ago! Awful as it was, to him it was brighter than now, and as he marked the leaves fall, silently but surely, before the touch of the waning year, so, he thought, fall my hopes one by one, till old age will leave me without a leaf to bless the bare branches. He sat down on a bench, and there taking the little rejected packet, he broke the seal, tore to fragments a few lines of poetry he had written and wrapped the little brooch in, and scattered the fragments amongst the dried holly-leaves at the root of the hedge. We are, however, able to state they ran thus:-- When morning is beaming, And dew-drops are gleaming, My heart is still dreaming Of Florence de Vere! No eye owns such splendour, No heart is so tender, All--all I'd surrender For Florence de Vere!