now you are no longer what you have been. My only brother has been appointed to a command in the preventive service on this coast!" Frank started, and turned pale. "I expect him every instant," she continued- —“ Oh, I know you will like him! He is so open, and manly, and loyal-so beautiful, and brave!" At the instant, a tumultuous noise was heard in the hall, as of numerous persons carrying some weighty object; and soon after, a female servant entered the room, and exclaimed-" A man murdered at the Cove!" Jane did not shrink, nor start, nor move; but calmly fixed her eyes upon her lover, who sank, pale, faint and soul-stricken, into a chair. 'My heart foretold it!" said she, sitting down beside him, and taking his cold clammy hand within hers; "you would not promise not to do it! you could not--for all was ordained!" By the pressure of the crowd in the hall, the room-door was burst open, and Jane suddenly started up, and ran towards the fearful object in the midst. There appeared to be a disposition, on the part of the bystanders, to prevent her approach; and cries of shut the door!" echoed on all sides; but, with almost preternatural strength, she forced her way through the crowd, and obtained a full view of the body. She then turned round, without uttering a word, and beckoned to her lover, who still sate oppressed with horror and expectation upon the chair. He rushed towards her through 1 the vista of spectators; clasped her in his trembling arms ; and fixed upon her closing eyes a look of love, pity, and despair. He then laid her gently down by the lifeless body of her brother-the dead by the dead! In another moment Francis Hardy had left the house, and was never seen or heard of more. SONNET. ON LEAVING IN DEVONSHIRE. FAIR fields, rich hedgerows; the eternal sea, And its great bounds; broad hills of green increase ; Clasps with its graceful wreaths the goodly tree THE MOTHER AND CHILD. LINES, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.* BY T. K. HERVEY. THEY may not weep who gaze on thee!— It dries the source of tears, Like some remembered melody, That as a ghost-steals out again, O'er many a dark and wasted track, Back to the half-forgotten bowers, Where hope, in boyhood, gathered flowers! Young mother!-oh! how long they haunt The mother's low, yet happy chaunt, * See the frontispiece to this volume. The smile that, then when all things smiled,— -- Was, ever, like none other ; ་ The kiss-oh! kisses warm and wild, But not like thine, young mother! May burn the brain and waste the breast, Thine only lullabied to rest! And give the lip a poison-hue, Where thine fell down, like dew! And oh! how beautifully bright, Though fair thy virgin-years might be, How far more fair thou art! A mother's hopes have twined, for thee, That flings a glow more rich and warm Across thy fancy throng, As nightingales, where echo dwells, Breathe out their sweetest song! And thou-whose resting-place is, still, A gentle mother's breast,— Thine early home shall seem, to thee, A mother's love!-that gushing spring, |