When the scenes in some long diorama pass solemnly before us, there is sometimes one solitary object, contrasting, perhaps, the view of stately cities or the march of a mighty river, that halts on the eye for a moment, and then glides away, leaving on the mind a strange, comfortless, undefined impression.

Why was the object presented to us? In itself it seemed comparatively insignificant. It may have been but a broken column, a lonely pool with a star-beam on its quiet surface,—yet it awes us. We remember it when phantasmal pictures of bright Damascus, or of colossal pyramids, of bazaars in Stamboul, or lengthened caravans that defile slow amidst the sands of Araby, have sated the wondering gaze. Why were we detained in the shadowy procession by a thing that would have been so commonplace had it not been so lone? Some latent interest must attach to it. Was it there that a vision of woe had lifted the wild hair of a Prophet; there where some Hagar had stilled the wail of her child on her indignant breast? We would fain call back the pageantry procession, fain see again the solitary thing that seemed so little worth the hand of the artist, and ask, “Why art thou here, and wherefore dost thou haunt us?”

Rise up,—rise up once more, by the broad great thoroughfare that stretches onward and onward to the remorseless London! Rise up, rise up, O solitary tree with the green leaves on thy bough, and the deep rents in thy heart; and the ravens, dark birds of omen and sorrow, that build their nest amidst the leaves of the bough, and drop with noiseless plumes down through the hollow rents of the heart, or are heard, it may be in the growing shadows of twilight, calling out to their young.

Under the old pollard-tree, by the side of John Avenel’s house, there cowered, breathless and listening, John Avenel’s daughter Nora. Now, when that fatal newspaper paragraph, which lied so like truth, met her eyes, she obeyed the first impulse of her passionate heart,—she tore the wedding ring from her finger, she enclosed it, with the paragraph itself, in a letter to Audley,—a letter that she designed to convey scorn and pride—alas! it expressed only jealousy and love. She could not rest till she had put this letter into the post with her own hand, addressed to, Audley at Lord Lansmere’s. Scarce had it left her ere she repented. What had she done,—resigned the birth-right of the child she was so soon to bring into the world, resigned her last hope in her lover’s honour, given up her life of life—and from belief in what?—a report in a newspaper! No, no; she would go herself to Lansmere; to her father’s home,—she could contrive to see Audley before that letter reached his hand. The thought was scarcely conceived before obeyed. She found a vacant place in a coach that started from London some hours before the mail, and went within a few miles of Lansmere; those last miles she travelled on foot. Exhausted, fainting, she gained at last the sight of home, and there halted, for in the little garden in front she saw her parents seated. She heard the murmur of their voices, and suddenly she remembered her altered shape, her terrible secret. How answer the question,

“Daughter, where and who is thy husband?” Her heart failed her; she crept under the old pollard-tree, to gather up resolve, to watch, and to listen. She saw the rigid face of the thrifty, prudent mother, with the deep lines that told of the cares of an anxious life, and the chafe of excitable temper and warm affections against the restraint of decorous sanctimony and resolute pride. The dear stern face never seemed to her more dear and more stern. She saw the comely, easy, indolent, good-humoured father; not then the poor, paralytic sufferer, who could yet recognize Nora’s eyes under the lids of Leonard, but stalwart and jovial,—first bat in the Cricket Club, first voice in the Glee Society, the most popular canvasser of the Lansmere Constitutional True Blue Party, and the pride and idol of the Calvinistical prim wife; never from those pinched lips of hers had come forth even one pious rebuke to the careless, social man. As he sat, one hand in his vest, his profile turned to the road, the light smoke curling playfully up from the pipe, over which lips, accustomed to bland smile and hearty laughter, closed as if reluctant to be closed at all, he was the very model of the respectable retired trader in easy circumstances, and released from the toil of making money while life could yet enjoy the delight of spending it.

“Well, old woman,” said John Avenel, “I must be off presently to see to those three shaky voters in Fish Lane; they will have done their work soon, and I shall catch ‘em at home. They do say as how we may have an opposition; and I know that old Smikes has gone to Lonnon in search of a candidate. We can’t have the Lansmere Constitutional Blues beat by a Lonnoner! Ha, ha, ha!”

“But you will be home before Jane and her husband Mark come? How ever she could marry a common carpenter!”

“Yes,” said John, “he is a carpenter; but he has a vote, and that strengthens the family interest. If Dick was not gone to Amerikay, there would be three on us. But Mark is a real good Blue! A Lonnoner, indeed! a Yellow from Lonnon beat my Lord and the Blues! Ha, ha!”

“But, John, this Mr. Egerton is a Lonnoner!”

“You don’t understand things, talking such nonsense. Mr. Egerton is the Blue candidate, and the Blues are the Country Party; therefore how can he be a Lonnoner? An uncommon clever, well-grown, handsome young man, eh! and my young Lord’s particular friend.”

Mrs. Avenel sighed.

“What are you sighing and shaking your head for?”

“I was thinking of our poor, dear, dear Nora!”

“God bless her!” cried John, heartily.

There was a rustle under the boughs of the old hollow-hearted pollard-tree.

“Ha, ha! Hark! I said that so loud that I have startled the ravens!”

“How he did love her!” said Mrs. Avenel, thoughtfully. “I am sure he did; and no wonder, for she looks every inch a lady; and why should not she be my lady, after all?”

“He? Who? Oh, that foolish fancy of yours about my young Lord? A prudent woman like you!—stuff! I am glad my little beauty is gone to Lonnon, out of harm’s way.”

“John, John, John! No harm could ever come to my Nora. She ‘s too pure and too good, and has too proper a pride in her, to—”

“To listen to any young lords, I hope,” said John; “though,” he added, after a pause, “she might well be a lady too. My Lord, the young one, took me by the hand so kindly the other day, and said, ‘Have not you heard from her—I mean Miss Avenel—lately?’ and those bright eyes of his were as full of tears as—as—as yours are now.”

“Well, John, well; go on.”

“That is all. My Lady came up, and took me away to talk about the election; and just as I was going, she whispered, ‘Don’t let my wild boy talk to you about that sweet girl of yours. We must both see that she does not come to disgrace.’ ‘Disgrace!’ that word made me very angry for the moment. But my Lady has such a way with her that she soon put me right again. Yet, I do think Nora must have loved my young Lord, only she was too good to show it. What do you say?” And the father’s voice was thoughtful.

“I hope she’ll never love any man till she’s married to him; it is not proper, John,” said Mrs. Avenel, somewhat starchly, though very mildly.

“Ha, ha!” laughed John, chucking his prim wife under the chin, “you did not say that to me when I stole your first kiss under that very pollard-tree—no house near it then!”

“Hush, John, hush!” and the prim wife blushed like a girl.

“Pooh,” continued John, merrily, “I don’t see why we plain folk should pretend to be more saintly and prudish-like than our betters. There’s that handsome Miss Leslie, who is to marry Mr. Egerton—easy enough to see how much she is in love with him,—could not keep her eyes off from him even in church, old girl! Ha, ha! What the deuce is the matter with the ravens?”

“They’ll be a comely couple, John. And I hear tell she has a power of money. When is the marriage to be?”

“Oh, they say as soon as the election is over. A fine wedding we shall have of it! I dare say my young Lord will be bridesman. We’ll send for our little Nora to see the gay doings!”

Out from the boughs of the old tree came the shriek of a lost spirit,—one of those strange, appalling sounds of human agony which, once heard, are never forgotten. It is as the wail of Hope, when SHE, too, rushes forth from the Coffer of Woes, and vanishes into viewless space; it is the dread cry of Reason parting from clay, and of Soul, that would wrench itself from life! For a moment all was still—and then a dull, dumb, heavy fall!

The parents gazed on each other, speechless: they stole close to the pales, and looked over. Under the boughs, at the gnarled roots of the oak, they saw—gray and indistinct—a prostrate form. John opened the gate, and went round; the mother crept to the road-side, and there stood still.

“Oh, wife, wife!” cried John Avenel, from under the green boughs, “it is our child Nora! Our child! our child!”

And, as he spoke, out from the green boughs started the dark ravens, wheeling round and round, and calling to their young!

And when they had laid her on the bed, Mrs. Avenel whispered John to withdraw for a moment; and with set lips but trembling hands began to unlace the dress, under the pressure of which Nora’s heart heaved convulsively. And John went out of the room bewildered, and sat himself down on the landing-place, and wondered whether he was awake or sleeping; and a cold numbness crept over one side of him, and his head felt very heavy, with a loud, booming noise in his ears. Suddenly his wife stood by his side, and said, in a very low voice,

“John, run for Mr. Morgan,—make haste. But mind—don’t speak to any one on the way. Quick, quick!”

“Is she dying?”

“I don’t know. Why not die before?” said Mrs. Avenel, between her teeth; “but Mr. Morgan is a discreet, friendly man.”

“A true Blue!” muttered poor John, as if his mind wandered; and rising with difficulty, he stared at his wife a moment, shook his head, and was gone.

An hour or two later, a little, covered, taxed cart stopped at Mr. Avenel’s cottage, out of which stepped a young man with pale face and spare form, dressed in the Sunday suit of a rustic craftsman; then a homely, but pleasant, honest face bent down to him, smilingly; and two arms emerging from under covert of a red cloak extended an infant, which the young man took tenderly. The baby was cross and very sickly; it began to cry. The father hushed, and rocked, and tossed it, with the air of one to whom such a charge was familiar.

“He’ll be good when we get in, Mark,” said the young woman, as she extracted from the depths of the cart a large basket containing poultry and home-made bread.

“Don’t forget the flowers that the squire’s gardener gave us,” said Mark the Poet.

Without aid from her husband, the wife took down basket and nosegay, settled her cloak, smoothed her gown, and said, “Very odd! they don’t seem to expect us, Mark. How still the house is! Go and knock; they can’t ha’ gone to bed yet.”

Mark knocked at the door—no answer. A light passed rapidly across the windows on the upper floor, but still no one came to his summons. Mark knocked again. A gentleman dressed in clerical costume, now coming from Lansinere Park, on the opposite side of the road, paused at the sound of Mark’s second and more impatient knock, and said civilly,

“Are you not the young folks my friend John Avenel told me this morning he expected to visit him?”

“Yes, please, Mr. Dale,” said Mrs. Fairfield, dropping her courtesy. “You remember me! and this is my dear good man!”

“What! Mark the Poet?” said the curate of Lansmere, with a smile. “Come to write squibs for the election?”

“Squibs, sir!” cried Mark, indignantly.

“Burns wrote squibs,” said the curate, mildly.

Mark made no answer, but again knocked at the door.

This time, a man, whose face, even seen by the starlight, was much flushed, presented himself at the threshold.

“Mr. Morgan!” exclaimed the curate, in benevolent alarm; “no illness here, I hope?”

“Cott! it is you, Mr. Dale!—Come in, come in; I want a word with you. But who the teuce are these people?”

“Sir,” said Mark, pushing through the doorway, “my name is Fairfield, and my wife is Mr. Avenel’s daughter!”

“Oh, Jane—and her baby too!—Cood! cood! Come in; but be quiet, can’t you? Still, still—still as death!”

The party entered, the door closed; the moon rose, and shone calmly on the pale silent house, on the sleeping flowers of the little garden, on the old pollard with its hollow core. The horse in the taxed cart dozed unheeded; the light still at times flitted across the upper windows. These were the only signs of life, except when a bat, now and then attracted by the light that passed across the windows, brushed against the panes, and then, dipping downwards, struck up against the nose of the slumbering horse, and darted merrily after the moth that fluttered round the raven’s nest in the old pollard.