I know not whether my native air did me good, or whether, had I even remained in the Grove, a crisis in my health would have taken place, but I know that to Kate's great joy I grew so strong and well, that she declared the change all but miraculous. I felt an altered being. My love of silence and repose vanished; I now rejoiced in motion and out-door exercise with all the unquiet delight of youth, and thirsted, with ever new longing, for air and liberty.

Scarce passed a day but I went down the path that led from our garden to the sands, and I wandered away along the rock-bound coast. This part of the country was both safe and retired; few met or noticed me in my solitary haunts, and I feared harm from none. It was often dusk when I returned to the white cottage, whose light burned like a solitary star on the heights above. I loved these lonely wanderings. I loved that barrier of steep and fantastic rock which ran along the coast, and fenced it in from the outer world; that long line of winding shore, fading in faint mists, until it rested, like a low cloud, on the distant horizon; that sea, whose waves broke at my feet, and yet seemed to extend beyond the power of mortal ken to follow, whilst the hollow sky, bent down from above and enclosing all, gave a sense of limit in the very midst of infinite.

Leigh does not by any means belong to the most romantic and picturesque part of the western coast; but on whatever shore the sea-waves break, there always is a great and dreary beauty. To sit on a lonely rock, to watch the fishing boats as they slowly sailed along the coast, or the ships on their distant track, to feel the solemn vastness of all around me, to note the rapid and almost infinite changes of light ever passing over rock, sea, and sky, to listen to the sounds which varied from the loudest roar of the swelling tide breaking at my feet, down to its lowest receding murmur, but that never ceased to echo, rise, and die away amongst those lonely cliffs, was to me a delight beyond all else.

There were pleasant walks about Leigh, but I soon wearied of them, and ever returned to my barren and much-loved coast. There I learned to know the sea under all her aspects. I saw her in sunshine, spreading peacefully beneath cloudless heavens, like them, an image of serenity and repose, and idly speeding on the light crafts that pursued their way with indolent and careless grace. I saw her in storm, darkness brooding over her heaving waters, her vast, white-crested billows rearing like angry serpents against the lowering sky, her hovering flocks of pale sea-birds rising and sinking to every motion of the waves like evil spirits rejoicing in the tempest, whilst some bold ship, with mainmast broken, with torn sails fluttering like banners on a battle day, sped past amidst the turmoil of wind and wave, riding the waters with a triumphant power that banished fear, and made you feel she would yet reach the port, and weather many another storm. I also found in the ocean other aspects less definite, but to me not less impressive,—the desolate and the bleak, when the wide waters of a dull green hue rolled sluggishly along or heavily beat the sandy beach, whilst fleecy clouds slowly passed over a misty sky where grey melted into paler grey, giving that sense of vague and melancholy infinite which can only be felt on the wild northern shores.

I delighted in this wild and lonely life, and seldom felt the utter solitude of my daily haunts. Sometimes indeed, when I chanced to meet in the sand the mark of my own footprints, which no other steps had crossed since I had passed there, which the wind alone would efface or the tide wash away, a sense of sudden sadness came over me. It seemed as if a friend, whom I never could meet or overtake, had made and left that track for me to see. I felt vaguely that she who had passed there was not quite the same who passed now. Only a few days perhaps had gone by: but of those few days, unseen and unfelt as they speed on, is made up not only the sum, but also the ceaseless change of this our earthly life.

Dearly as I have loved solitude, I hold it no unmixed good. Woe to the communion with nature that is only a brooding over self, and not a mingling of the soul with the Almighty Creator of all we behold; that seeks in her loveliness none save the images of voluptuous indulgence, and leaves by unread her purer teaching! Rightly even in innocent things have we been warned to guard our senses and our hearts. For this I hold ye dangerous, ye sheltered valleys, with quiet rivers gliding through, with green woods and lovely paths leading we know not where, with peaceful dwellings embosomed in the shade, and looking like so many abodes of love and happiness. What though we know that the golden age was all a fable and pastoral bliss the dream of poets, that innocence and peace dwell not here, though here passion and satiety can penetrate as surely as in the crowded city? Yet who, on beholding you, has not for a moment wished to live and die on your quiet bosom? Who has not felt that the thoughts you waken melt and subdue the heart, and haunt it vaguely for many a day, and enervate it with longing dreams and desires that savour too much of earth.

Not these the feelings which thou awakenest, thou austere sea,—austere in thy very beauty, in thy calmest and most unruffled moods. More true and honest are thy promises, which thou at least keepest faithfully,—the long, arduous strife against wind and storm, the tardy return of weatherbeaten mariners,—ay, and often too the wreck,—the wreck which may appal the weak, but never yet dismayed a brave heart;—these are the hopes thou holdest forth—these the promises which life, whom thou imagest, will fulfil, until her waves, calm or troubled, rough or smooth, lead us into that mysterious sea which man has named Eternity.

Our home existence was as quiet and secluded as my outward life. On settling at Leigh, Miss O'Reilly had come to a resolve which she thus imparted to me one evening:—"Daisy, you were too young when you left Leigh to know that because it is a small place it must have the inconvenience of all small places, in which life is a round of back- biting, quarrelling, envying, scandal, and gossip. Now we can't help being backbitten or talked about, but we can help doing it to others: the way, child, is to keep to ourselves and to see no one. We shall be hated, as a matter of course; thought proud, or still worse in England, poor. Never mind, child, those are not the things one cannot endure."

"Papa was thought proud," I said.

"And so he was, child; he had a mind above the paltriness of such a place as this,—of course he had: he never would have been a popular man anywhere, never. Well, as I was saying, child, we must bear with being thought proud and poor, for we shall make no acquaintances. A decent, civil intercourse we must certainly keep up with Miss Murray—she won't trouble us much, poor thing!—but beyond this we do not go. Now, you must not misunderstand me. I do not mean to keep you locked up, and if you can get acquainted with pleasant young people, I do not object. There is a dancing academy, it seems, and since your father wished you to learn how to dance, you must learn it, of course. If you meet there sensible girls whom you would like to see, see them here in liberty; but as to visiting their mammas, or being visited by them, I decline the honour."

Thus it was settled. We lived in our retired way; we were thought proud and poor; we saw Miss Murray every now and then in her own house, for to come near us was an exertion not to be thought of; I went to the academy, and learned how to dance, but I found all the young ladies so little to my taste, that with not one of them did I form an intimate acquaintance, and two years passed away in this quiet, monotonous life, varied by the letters of Cornelius.

Only a few were addressed to "his dear adopted child," but they were so kind, they breathed an affection so true, an interest so heartfelt, that to this day, and spite of all that has passed since then, I cannot look over them without emotion. In all his letters, Cornelius spoke of course of his art and his prospects. He was enchanted with Rome, and ardent with hope; but he did not think it worth while to send home anything before his return. He thought he might just as well wait until he was coming back, and take the public by storm. Miss O'Reilly thought so too, and we accordingly expected her brother in the spring of the second year following his departure. A somewhat enigmatic letter, in which he expressed his great wish of seeing us both again, confirmed this impression.

"Depend upon it, Daisy," said Miss O'Reilly to me, "he means to take us, like the public, by surprise."

The mere thought took away my breath.

"Oh, Kate!" I exclaimed, laying down my work, "if he were to enter the room now, what should I do?"

"I am sure I don't know," replied Kate, looking up from her letter, "you look wild enough for anything. Go and take a walk, child, and calm yourself down with the fresh seabreeze. We are in March, I don't expect him for a fortnight or three weeks yet. Go out, I say; he must find you fresh and healthy."

"You don't think he will come whilst I am out, Kate?"

"Bless the child! no; I tell you not to expect him for three weeks."

I sighed; three weeks seemed an age, and, spite of her assurances, I had a nervous apprehension that Cornelius would arrive precisely whilst I was away; yet I yielded to her behest of going out. I wanted to see William Murray, and tell him the happy tidings; so I just put on my bonnet and cloak, and hastened down to the sands. It was a mild afternoon; the sky was clear, earth was silent, the cliffs rose grey and lonely, the flat beach was yet wet with the retreating tide that had left many a wide shallow pool behind, the far sea lay calm and still, and over sky, earth, cliffs, beach and sea, the setting sun shed a pale, golden glow. I walked fast, looking out for William, whom I at length saw coming towards me. And this reminds me I have neglected to mention how my acquaintance with him was renewed, after so long an interruption.

We had not parted very good friends. He had called me "a sulky little monkey," and if I had not retaliated, I had nevertheless internally considered him a young bear then and ever since. When, shortly after our return to Leigh, I met him at his aunt's house, William, who was nearly two years my senior, was in all the charming roughness of his sex in the teens. He had not yet got over being left to petticoat government, as he termed the rule of his gentle aunt, and accordingly vented the indignation of his injured manliness on her female friends. On seeing us enter the room in which Miss Murray sat in her usual shady state, her amiable nephew thrust his hands into his pockets, and began whistling with all his might. Miss O'Reilly took no notice of this, but in the course of conversation she quietly observed to Miss Murray—

"What a fine boy your nephew is, Ma'am?"

"Ah! if he were only a good boy!" sighed Miss Murray.

William was then turned seventeen; but he looked about fourteen; the observation of Kate was therefore doubly insulting. I know not whether it was to show his resentment, that at tea he shuffled and kicked his feet under the table to such a degree, that his aunt, laying down her cup, solemnly inquired, "If he intended to break her heart, as he was ruining her furniture and endangering the shins of her guests?" To which delicate question, the only reply William deigned to give was a scowl over his tea-cup, and a sarcastic intimation at the close of the meal, that "tea was the greatest slop and most womanish stuff he had ever tasted."

"Milk and water is decidedly more wholesome for children," mischievously said Kate.

William turned scarlet, stabbed her with a look, rose and left the room, slamming the door after him. Miss Murray produced her handkerchief, and looked pitiful.

"I appeal to you, Ma'am, is not mine a dreadful, a lamentable case! That boy, Ma'am, is the misery of my life; twice he has run away, and has had to be pursued and caught; each time offering the most desperate resistance."

"He is but a boy," good-humouredly observed Kate, "he will grow out of all this."

Miss Murray however, for a reason very different from that of Rachel, would not be comforted, and lamented the length of the holidays. Kate herself changed her opinion when she discovered on the following morning the manner in which the shoes of William had used her light grey silk. She called him a little wretch; and, in her indignation, wondered what could tempt his aunt to have him pursued and brought back, when by absconding he had offered her so easy a method of getting rid of him altogether. I almost concurred in this opinion, and altogether looked upon William as a sort of young Christian savage.

So far as I could see, the gracious youth did not trouble his aunt much with his company. I seldom or ever went down to the sands without meeting him with his dog 'Dash,' a shaggy-coated creature, as rough-looking as his master, who went whistling past me with superb indifference. I had met them thus one day, the youth climbing the cliffs, and the dog bounding on before him, and now and then turning round to utter a short joyous bark at his master, when, on returning homewards, I saw them again under altered circumstances. William sat on a rock at the base of the cliff, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and at his feet Dash lay dead. He had fallen from above, and been killed at once; his young master looked at him silently, and, as I approached, dashed away a furtive tear. I stood, unwilling to go on without having expressed sympathy or attempted consolation, and not knowing how to do either, I knelt on the sands and, caressing the poor dead dog, I hesitatingly observed—

"He was a very good dog, was he not?"

"There never was a better," replied William in a subdued voice.

"He seemed very clever."

"I could make him do anything. He'd dash in the roughest sea at a look, and if I only said 'Dash!' he'd look into my face, prick his ears, and be ready to fly off. Poor old Dash! he'll never do the bidding of his master again."

And he stooped over him to hide his tears.

"Was he old?" I asked.

"Just turned five; the prime age, you know; at four they are too young, and at six they are aging: five is the age for a dog. That was why he was such a beauty; see what a coat he had, what a deep broad chest, and such a back! I'll take a bet with any one, you can hear that dog's bark for miles along the coast; that is to say, one could have heard it, for Dash's barking is all ended and over now."

Thus poor William sat lamenting over his lost favourite, recording his virtues and some of his many exploits, when I said—

"I suppose you will bury him in Miss Murray's garden?"

"No, that I shan't," he replied indignantly, "he shall be buried where he fell, as they bury soldiers after battle."

So saying, he drew forth his knife, and began digging a deep and narrow grave at the base of the sea-washed cliff; he lined it softly with his handkerchief, saying as he did so—

"Won't Abby have a precious hunt for it?"

Then he took Dash, gave him a last caress, gently laid him in his grave, covered him over with sand and earth, and marked the spot with a fragment of rock, on which he carved the day of the month and year.

"Won't you put his name?" I asked.

"No. Dash answered and obeyed no one but me; his name is nothing to any one else, and I don't want to know it."

We walked on. As a projecting rock was going to hide the spot from our view, William turned round to give it one last glance, then he looked at me wishfully, and said, "I had him from a pup, and I taught him all his tricks."

From that day William and I were friends. We met to talk of Dash at first, and afterwards of other things, for even the best of dogs must expect to be forgotten. William generously forgave me my sex, and confided to me his troubles. His aunt, it seems, kindly intended him as a present to the Church, but William vowed no mortal power should induce him to turn a parson, and boldly declared for the sea, in a midshipman's berth, against which his aunt, whose ideas of nautical life were summed up in grog and biscuit, entered a solemn protest.

As we very seldom visited Miss Murray, and as she never visited us, I only saw William when I met him out, and that was often, for we loved the same solitary haunts and wild scenes. In parting we told one another what places we were to visit on the morrow, and William no more knew he had asked me for a meeting, than I knew I had granted him one. We followed the retreating tide to gather shells and sea-weeds, or ran hand in hand along the sands, laughing, because the keen breeze took away our breath, and the waves came dashing to our feet, covering us with spray. We climbed together the steepest cliffs for the mere love of danger, and risked our necks, ten times for one, by running down the same perilous path. When we felt tired, we sat down on some rock to rest, and William, drawing forth from his pocket 'The Dangers of the Deep,' made me low- spirited with dismal stories of lost or shipwrecked mariners. Friendships grow rapidly in youth, and by the close of William's holidays we were as free and intimate as if we had been in familiar intercourse for years.

I had told Miss O'Reilly of Dash's death and burial, and was beginning to state that William Murray was not quite so bad as he had appeared on our first interview, when she interrupted me with—

"Nonsense, child, the boy may have liked his dog; but what about it?"

Later, when I imparted to her the grievances of my friend, she treated them in the same careless, slighting way.

"Pooh! pooh!" she said, "does the little fellow think he knows his own mind? A midshipman! why the first breeze would whip him off the deck. He'll do a great deal better in the pulpit, so far as physical strength goes, but what sort of a preacher he will make is more than I can tell."

I was too much mortified by her tone and manner to renew the subject; but at the same time, and with the spirit of opposition of my years, I liked William all the better for being rather persecuted. Indeed, the aversion Kate had taken to my friend proved somewhat unfortunate, for, without intending any mystery, I forbore to mention his name to her; consequently she knew little or nothing of an intimacy which I have reason to believe she would have opposed from many motives, and to which her opposition would in the beginning have been a sufficient bar.

In spite of the ridicule with which Miss O'Reilly treated his pretensions to the sea, William Murray conquered his aunt's opposition, and, in the course of the ensuing spring, went forth on his first voyage. He remained a year away, and came back about a week before we received the letter which led us to expect the return of Cornelius. Our joy on seeing one another again was great; absence had not cooled our friendship; not a day passed but we met on the sands, and took long walks down the coast. I thought nothing of this until Miss O'Reilly said to me—

"William Murray is come back."

"Yes, I know," I replied, feeling that I turned crimson.

"And how do you know?" she asked, giving me an attentive look.

"I met him on the sands."

She did not ask me why I had not mentioned it to her sooner, but said quietly—

"That boy has grown very much."

The word "boy" relieved me greatly. Since William was only a boy, there could be no sort of harm or indiscretion in being so much with him, nor was there either any absolute necessity to mention the matter to Miss O'Reilly. So when, to quiet my anticipations, she sent me out for a walk, I did not inform her that one of my motives for complying with her request was to impart the tidings to William Murray. As I saw him advancing towards me, I eagerly ran to meet him.

"Oh, William," I cried joyfully, "I am so glad, so happy."

"Then Mr. O'Reilly is come back?" he said, stopping short to look at me.

"No; but he is coming soon, quite soon. Is it not delightful?"

"Indeed it is," he replied cordially; "tell me all about it, Daisy."

We sat down on a ledge of rock facing the sea, and I told him all there was to tell. He heard me with a pleased smile on his kind, handsome face, which he kept turned towards mine, as he sat there in a listening attitude. William was then between eighteen and nineteen. He was slight in figure, but above the middle height, and of a spirited bearing. His complexion, once too fair, had become embrowned by constant exposure, and spite of his light hair and blue eyes he looked sufficiently manly; his midshipman's attire became him well, and the consciousness of having entered active life had freed his manner from much of its ungracious roughness. Of these changes I was conscious, but other change I saw not: William was to me what he had been since we had become friends—frank, ingenuous, and boyish in his kindness. I had often spoken to him of Cornelius, and I now closed my brief recital with the remark—

"Oh, William! I am so happy that I scarcely know what to do with myself."

He looked at me silently, began tracing figures in the sand with a slender wand which he held, then suddenly looked up again, and said, very earnestly—

"He is quite like a father to you, Daisy."

"More than a father," I replied, ardently, "for a father is bound to do for his child what, of his own free-will, Cornelius did for me. And then so kind! always giving me new playthings, or books, or things I liked."

"And you were quite like a daughter to him."

"I was, and am. Look, here is his last letter, beginning with 'my dear child,' and signed, 'your old friend, Cornelius;' but I have another at home, in which he actually calls me 'his dear, adopted daughter.' I am quite proud of it, for he is to be very celebrated, you know, and it is a great honour."

William again traced figures in the sand, but he did not speak.

"Well," I said, bending down to look at him, "what are you thinking of?"

"That I should like you to be proud of being my friend," he replied, with an earnest look.

"I am proud of it, so you have your wish."

"Yes, but I should like you to have cause, and also, Daisy, I should like to do something to please you. I wish I could."

"And so do I," 1 answered, laughing, "for you would bring him back at once."

"Indeed I would: in the first place, because your heart is set upon it; in the second, because I very much wish to know Mr. O'Reilly. I like him for your sake, and all he has done for you; and then, from what you tell me, I am sure he is a thoroughly good man."

I could not help laying my hand on the arm of William, and replying earnestly—

"Indeed, William, he is a good man, and when you see and know him, you will find that you were not mistaken, though good is not, I dare say, the word most people would apply to Cornelius O'Reilly."

William took this as a compliment to his penetration, and was rather gratified. The sun had set, grey evening was closing in; we rose, and walking together along the silent beach, we talked of Cornelius, and laid down plans of pleasant excursions up the coast, and far down the inland valleys, to be undertaken after his return. But, to our mutual mortification, William's leave of absence expired, nay the Academy opened, and Cornelius came not back to take us and the public by surprise. In her indignation, Miss O'Reilly declared that there could be but one interpretation given to such extraordinary conduct—"Cornelius has got entangled."

"How so, Kate?" I asked.

"Why, he is either married or going to be married to some Italian lady; that is it."

"Do you think so?" I asked quietly.

"Bless the child, how coolly she takes it!" exclaimed Kate, half angrily.

"I have no right to take it otherwise, Kate; besides, provided Cornelius comes back to us, what matter?"

"What matter! suppose he has been married all this time, and has a family about him!"

"I don't think Cornelius would marry as if he were ashamed of himself," I replied, rather indignantly; "then how can he have a family in two years? and even if he had—"

"Nonsense, child!" interrupted Kate, impatiently, "I don't speak of it as a fact, and there you go, coolly dissecting every hasty word I utter, as if I were giving evidence before judge and jury!"

"Well, Kate, all I mean to say is this—if Cornelius has a wife and children, where is the harm, provided he does not settle in Italy?"

Miss O'Reilly was of a very different opinion, and, as she seemed inclined to be vexed with me for disagreeing with her, I dropped the subject and proposed a walk. She shortly replied that with an Italian sister-in-law in prospect she did not feel disposed for walking; but that, as the matter did not touch me, I was quite right in not taking it to heart. I did not answer; I did not wish to add to her annoyance by letting her see how bitter was my disappointment at the prolonged absence of Cornelius, and the voluntary obscurity under which he lingered.

The thought kept me awake in bed beyond my usual hour; but at length I slept. I awoke with a sudden start, I myself knew not why; I thought I had heard something in my sleep, what I could not tell. I sat up and listened; yes, there was a sound of voices below in the parlour. I rose and opened my door softly. One of the voices was that of Kate: the other—unheard for two years, but not forgotten?-was that so well known and so dear, of her brother. I did not give myself time for joy; I dressed hurriedly and slipped down. The parlour door stood ajar; I looked in; he sat by Kate, bending over her and embracing her with a fondness which, as I felt, a little jealously, she had not called me down to share. He sat with his back turned to me, and saw me not; the floor was carpeted, my step was always light; I stood by his side ere he was conscious of my presence. I wished to speak, but the words died unuttered on my lips; I remained standing there, mute, motionless, and trembling from head to foot.

"Daisy!" he exclaimed, starting up. His arms were around me—I was gathered to his heart.

"Well!" he said, "what is the matter with you? You do not even give me a kiss. Have I grown strange?"

I did not answer; a singular feeling was coming over me; a mist fell on my eyes; the room seemed, with all it contained, to swim before my sight, then suddenly vanished in utter darkness. I had fainted for the first time in my life.

When I recovered I was lying on the sofa. Cornelius was bending over me, and helping his sister, armed with a formidable bottle, to rub my face and hands with vinegar.

"I am so glad," I cried, starting up.

"Why, there, she is all alive again!" exclaimed Miss O'Reilly.

"I am so glad," I continued, joyfully, "I thought I had dreamt it."

I sat up, and twining my arms around the neck of Cornelius, I kissed him, whilst my tears flowed fast. He sat down by me, and anxiously asked how I felt.

"Why, very well," I replied, laughing, in the gladness of my heart.

"Ay, ay," said Kate, smiling, "we may cork up the bottle, and lock it up, may we not, Daisy?"

"Are you sure you are quite well?" urged Cornelius; "you fainted, you know."

"Did I?" I had scarcely heeded the remark. Seated by him, with my arm locked in his, his hand clasping mine, I looked at him eagerly, delighting every sense with the consciousness of his dear presence. He asked me if the room did not feel too close, if I did not want air, and I could give him no answer, so charmed was I to listen to his voice again.

"Let her alone," said Kate, gaily; "she is well enough now; she fainted because she was glad to see you, and she got well at once for the same reason precisely. All she wants is to look at your face."

He turned it towards me; it was as kind and handsome as ever, not in the least altered. I could not take my eyes from it, and in the overflowing joy of my heart I exclaimed—

"Oh, Kate! Kate! I shall be too happy now, shall I not?"

"You see the poor child is as mad as ever," said Kate.

"I hope she has been a good girl in my absence," he observed, rather gravely.

"Of course she has."

"Learnt her lessons well?"

"Bless the boy!" exclaimed Kate, "does he think she is still a little girl? Don't you find her altered?"

"Oh yes, she has grown."

"Grown! grown!" impatiently said his sister, "of course she has! do you not think she has improved?"

"She seems much stronger."

Miss O'Reilly looked disappointed. Cornelius questioned me concerning my studies; I answered to his satisfaction; he stroked my hair and called me a good child.

"It is very odd you will persist in calling Daisy a child," drily said
Miss O'Reilly.

"Well, am I not his child?" I asked.

"Nonsense!" she replied, looking provoked.

"Indeed, I am his adopted daughter," I said eagerly.

"I never yet heard that a man of twenty-six or so had a daughter near seventeen," was her ironical reply.

Cornelius smiled; but I warmly vindicated our relationship.

"I am very glad he is so young," I observed. "Most girls have old fathers; mine is not old; he will live the longer."

Cornelius laughed; his sister said "Pish!" and Jane, by bringing in the supper-tray, closed the conversation. Indeed our discourse was of the most desultory kind. Although Cornelius protested that he was not in the least fatigued, having rested in London before coming to us, Kate would not hear of our sitting up. She made me leave him just as I was beginning to talk to him of his painting. To comfort me she confidently informed me as we went upstairs, that a large wooden case in the back parlour contained his pictures; to this intelligence she added, with a significant look—

"He has not got entangled after all."