"The hours are viewless angels,
That still go gliding by,
And bear each minute's record up
To Him who sits on high."
The few weeks of Walter's vacation in the summer passed so quickly that Rosalind scarcely realized their flight until the time came for his departure. Every moment, was so occupied, and events of such interest and importance transpired, that it left very little of the impression of a holiday recreation to any of the parties. When the excitement was over and the house settled into its usual quiet, the active, restless spirit of Rosalind was far fix)m being contented and happy, even in anticipation of the pleasant prospects before her. Her visits to Mary Kingley were very frequent, and, excepting the time she spent with Ernest, they constituted the happiest part of her life through the ensuing autumn. The prominent part her brother had acted in effecting James Morgan's reformation, and the wide scope recently given to the genius of her own mind, were the kind of life she coveted, and having once tasted the enjoyment of it, nothing less could satisfy her. She was so original in character that it was impossible to fall into the common ways of the rest of the world and
