and present in a manner so confusing to both, that, after laughing for feeling's sake and crying for joy's, they all fell back in their chairs exhausted, and Edmund gaspingly asked if he might ring the bell for a glass of wine-and-water. What a lull! When the butler came in, he might have fancied it was to revive the dead rather than to refresh the living. "What do you please to want, ma'am?"" "Oh-a-wine and biscuits," said madam, "and-but stay; I'll go about the beds myself." Away she went. On returning, she found, as the result of the wine and biscuits, that a mildly cheerful serenity prevailed. "Miss Morgan," said she, "I hope Mr. Giac-Edmund and my daughter have taken care of Mr. Frank and yourself." The poor girl, who had never been called "Miss" before, blushed; and Mrs. Goldrich, affecting not to observe it, prevented her reply, adding: "But as you are now one of us, I may call you 'Mary;' and you must accompany Isabella over the house, to be made acquainted with your new home." The real object being such converse with her, and with the servants in respect to her, as might at once put her quite at ease. She was so touched by the unequivocal kindness of the two ladies, that the grand things about her were comparatively unregarded. Enough of her romantic story was now known in the servants' hall; nor was there man or maid who did not rejoice in the final good fortune accruing to the gentle niece of William Morgan and his sister Bessie; so that from that day they be-miss'd her as if to make her used to it in no time. Edmund was astonished at the quickness of his brother in comprehending him, and scarcely less so at his own facility of apprehension. The Mute's first signs were that Edmund should, in addition to his pantomime, slowly and clearly, speak the words expressing what he would say to a hearer. When the gong sounded for dinner, it was observed that Frank seemed to listen; but Mary explained, after questioning him, that he was only sensible of a vibratory motion in the air. That he might not be left without his interpreter, Mary and the ladies remained in the dining-room till they all adjourned to the library, where, joined by Dr. Lovell and the steward, full conclave was held, as Mr. Goldrich expressed it, "to consolidate the jointstock amount of their information," On the steward's reading aloud Sir Richard's letter, given in our last chapter, the hearers were deeply affected, and would have desired the writer's presence, had not his own wish for seclusion forbidden even the expression of it. All that Sir Richard desired to be known, with what more, by his permission, might be made common among the company assembled, was communicated; and at this moment an express messenger brought the following letter for Lovell: "DEAR SIR,-I write to you, supposing the last letter to my steward has been made known to all interested therein, and that Francis Ridotti Blackleigh and Mary Morgan are now received at Belmont, with the fullest belief in all my statements concerning them. My object in this communication is to improve upon the former one, by stating my intention to bequeath to my nephew, Sir Edmund Giacomo Ridotti Blackleigh, the estate of Blackleigh Hall, to be hereafter inseparable from the Blacklock baronetcy; only requiring, during my life, a certain annuity, and other arrangements in favour of my nephew, Francis R. Blackleigh, and the Morgan and Rawbold families; nor can I doubt the immediate concurrence of yourself and my heretofore wronged nephews. "The conditions solicited will be made known to you by my steward, to whom I have forwarded them; and he will confer with you before he replies to me. I am now actually on my way to Geneva, where I shall take up my future residence, for reasons you may readily surmise. It is possible my nephews and my friends may see me again; but it may be otherwise; and, in thought of the less favouring probability, I bid you all adieu! "RICHARD BLACKLEIGH." The women with tearful eyes, and the men with thoughtful expressions, sat silent, excepting only the merry merchant, who burst into laughter at what he called a "fit of sentimental extravagance in his old friend Blackleigh, whose sudden impulse of over-bountiful reparation for an intended wrong had upset his common sense." No argument could have so tended to restore the cheerfulness of the moment; and therefore we need not state the very sensible remarks he made, concluding with his reading aloud to his hearers the following "old song," that he said had "turned up in his writing-desk," on the subject of the trials that beset us in all the relations of life and love: Oh, what were our joys without griefs in our history; If all things went smoothly, the strong ones would sicken, The vexings, perplexings, that come forth to fright us, And the prize for the trusting is "All's well that ends well." What lady is won, if her lover but sigh for her? And who plunges the deepest for woman shall wive her. "Why, Edmund, you look abashed! If our friend Hotspur would dive into the fathomless deep to pluck up drowned honour by the locks,' would not you plunge-aye, into the Black Loch itself, to pluck up our Isabella by her nut-brown tresses?" "Oh, dearest papa," said Isabella, "never mention that horrible place-if only in thought of poor Mr. Wilton." a "Really," replied her father, "this dread of the mere name of locality (which is inseparable from the very title your intended husband is to bear), with the mysterious secrecy now connected with it, inclines me to fear there is a new tragic something, if not worse, among its associations." Edmund remained for several minutes in thought of the constant discomfort that must attend the secrecy suggesting Mr. Goldrich's suspicions, and he therefore solemnly thus addressed his hearers: "There may be more (though the reverse of guilt) than Mr. Goldrich and others here are desired to know of associated with the Black Loch; but this could not be made generally known, without danger of revealing to public curiosity an especial retreat in seclusion that Sir Richard and others have the most innocent reasons for keeping secret. Mr. Goldrich has recited some merry verses, bearing wholesomely on some here present, and I will venture on a brief parable that may indicate the nature of certain facts that are only withheld for the reasons alluded to: "Two brothers had been separated in their infancy. It was supposed they were both dead; but the elder was discovered to be living. He loved a lady; and suddenly hearing she was on the eve of being married to another, he rushed to a lonely lake with suicidal intent! In its waters he would have perished; but he was saved, though life had been apparently extinct. Resuscitated, he found himself in the tender care of a young man and woman, with assisting others, who informed him that she, for whom he would have died, was not married, and that she only lived for him! This was joy indeed; but more was at hand; for the young man, who had rescued him, proved to be his long-lost brother!" The sagacity of the hearers was equal to the occasion. There was no longer any secret reserved from them as to the cause of the further secrecy required; but so far as regarded all others outside the forest bounds, the secret was now safer than ever. Not a question was asked. Mr. Goldrich was now subdued into gravity. Dr. Lovell and Mary had to attend upon the overwhelmed Isa bella; the lawyer and steward departed together; and so let this chapter end. A word more. Neither Mrs. Goldrich nor her daughter had thought of looking at poor Tony's ears; being in their perfect satisfaction otherwise unmindful that a Barucci babe and a Ridotti babe might have been born on the same day, in the same locality, and with the same featural defect; but that the confessions of his foster-mother, corroborated by the statements of others ignorant of her existence, the family likeness, and all the indirect concurrent evidence to prove the family alliance-all this would not have counteracted the dis-proof of it, if Tony's ears had not been lobeless. LONDON OF TO-DAY. BY NICHOLAS MICHELL. WHAT is London in our day? Bright with good, and dark with ill; Mazy streets perplexing, winding, What is London in our day? Needy starvelings hoping still, By good chance, their purse to fill. Oh, the sight of that vast crowding, Minds, like bodies, ne'er at rest! Each his inner being shrouding, Some most sad, and some most blest. What is London in our day? Civilisation's opened flower; Mighty lens that draws each ray Of bright science, art, and power; Queen of commerce, at whose feet All the Nations bowing meet; Ships from every clime are riding In that river, dusky gliding. Tumult fills the City air, Smoke a dun pall spreading there. Pipe, ye birds, 'mid rural trees- What is London in our day? Home of fashion, throne of rank, Pleasure tripping ever gay, On life's sunny, flowery bank! To charmed thousands ceaseless call; |