the logs on as he might, and draw the curtains across his windows as closely as he would, he yet felt himself a homeless man for want of a face that should turn to his, Tom’s thoughts ran ever on what Miss Letitia did, what Miss Letitia thought, what Miss Letitia said. Since his boyhood, when he had loved his sister with an enthusiastic affection which a beautiful woman often inspires in a younger relative, he had never cared for any human being as he cared for Miss Letitia. It was months before he owned it to himself; before he felt something like disappointment when he watched her face, and saw no change in its expression when he came or went. A friendly greeting, frank confidence, ready sympathy; all these he found, but not love. Sometimes he tried to persuade himself that he ought to be happy in being able to see her as often as he did; that possibly she might never marry,—it was certain, he thought, that he never should; they would grow old in this monotonous life, half dream-like, half real; the ties that bound her to the objects which were to be all in all to him to the end of his days, would strengthen her friendship for him, and the end of all things would come. And then he would start up, feeling as if he could never live out the time till his heart should cease to be stirred at the sound of her voice. But there were moments of reaction when he deliberated, should he speak to her in such a way that she need not withdraw her friendship from him, even if she could give him nothing more; should he tell her that he had found out a void in his life which she only could fill up; that a thirst had come upon him for that sense of home which he could never realise without her. A clever writer has declared that there is an out-of-the-way corner in every man’s mind where Superstition, like a slovenly housemaid, sweeps up all sorts of bits and scraps; and there is, undoubtedly, a little green sward in every man’s heart, to the last day of his existence, sometimes parched up for lack of moisture, sometimes scorched by the breath of passion, but always ready to spring up in brightness and freshness, give it but some revivifying influence. Though we may not care to acknowledge the fact, romance is never wholly at an end.
One evening, in a bright spring sunset, Tom returned home after several hours’ absence, and seating himself at his trellised window, spread out his writing materials before him. But he must have found his task either a difficult or a painful one, for he sat for some time with his head in his hands before he applied himself to it. He requested the person he addressed to furnish him with information respecting George Nugent, son of the late Rev. George Nugent, rector of Beauchamp, who had sailed from England for Australia on the 17th of August, 1843, in the merchant vessel Ariadne, and who had written to his family on his arrival at Sydney, announcing his intention of going into the bush to seek employment. He had been heard of last in 1849, when a settler returning to England had stated that George Nugent had sometime previously been occupied as a shepherd in the interior of the country. The letter went on to state that the writer would send a cheque for whatever amount might be necessary for securing the information he required. The envelope was addressed to a late inspector of police, who had opened a Private Inquiry Office in London. When the letter was sent to the post, Tom began to think how and why he had written it. He had gone to Miss Letitia’s cottage on some small matter of parochial business. Something, he could not remember what, had brought the words to his lips that he had been hesitating over so long; he could not recall half he had said, or how she had replied. He only knew that she had told him that for fourteen years she had been George Nugent’s promised wife, and that though she never heard from him, could learn no tidings of him by any means, she lived on in faith and hope, waiting for the day when he should come back and claim her. Then he had said—and his voice was broken and his eyes were blinded as he spoke—could he help her? could he do anything for her that a brother might do? and he had promised—oh, poor Tom!—that if George Nugent were alive, no matter where he was, he would bring him back to Miss Letitia.
UNDER AN ELM.
Oh, under the boughs let’s glide,
All hush, and sly, and unseen,
The brown Elm-trunk beside,
’Neath its roofing high of green;
Where, below, sport flimsy flies,
In programmes vain to trace,
As they dart, poise, dip, and rise,
Club, scatter, and wheel, and chase.
There, standing mute as ghosts,
Let’s watch the song-birds gay,
How they chant and shift their posts
’Mid the leaf-verandah’d day;
Albeit the sun, dense-hid,
Oft down the depths lets drop
On your cheek and twinkling lid
Bright spangles from the top;
Chief when, as now, the flight,
That none forestalls or sees,
Is felt of that outlaw sprite,
The vague I AM of the breeze.
Sibylline, ev’n at best,
Are Nature’s sounds and sights;
Still something sours the zest
Of her bravest of delights.
What a sighing’s now o’erhead!
Lo, half the choir have flown!
And leaves, all adust and dead,
Are earthward whirl’d and strown!
O’er this bower of songs and balm
A symboling change hath swept;
And we feel a foreboding qualm
Of truths but now that slept.
Sad thought-waves, one by one,
Joy’s sparkling strand o’erwhelm:
Then let’s out, once more, in the sun,
Away from this corpse-wood Elm!
