h of spring;
And, in the April dew, or beam of May,
Its moss and lichen freshen and revive;
And thus the heart, most sear'd to human pleasure,
Melts at the tear, joys in the smile, of woman.--BEAUMONT

As the season advanced, the weather became more genial, and the Recluse
was more frequently found occupying the broad flat stone in the front of
his mansion. As he sate there one day, about the hour of noon, a party
of gentlemen and ladies, well mounted, and numerously attended, swept
across the heath at some distance from his dwelling. Dogs, hawks, and
led-horses swelled the retinue, and the air resounded at intervals
with the cheer of the hunters, and the sound of horns blown by the
attendants. The Recluse was about to retire into his mansion at
the sight of a train so joyous, when three young ladies, with their
attendants, who had made a circuit, and detached themselves from their
party, in order to gratify their curiosity by a sight of the Wise Wight
of Mucklestane-Moor, came suddenly up, ere he could effect his purpose.
The first shrieked, and put her hands before her eyes, at sight of an
object so unusually deformed. The second, with a hysterical giggle,
which she intended should disguise her terrors, asked the Recluse,
whether he could tell their fortune. The third, who was best mounted,
best dressed, and incomparably the best-looking of the three, advanced,
as if to cover the incivility of her companions.

"We have lost the right path that leads through these morasses, and our
party have gone forward without us," said the young lady. "Seeing you,
father, at the door of your house, we have turned this way to--"

"Hush!" interrupted the Dwarf; "so young, and already so artful? You
came--you know you came, to exult in the consciousness of your own
youth, wealth, and beauty, by contrasting them with age, poverty, and
deformity. It is a fit employment for the daughter of your father; but O
how unlike the child of your mother!"

"Did you, then, know my parents, and do you know me?"

"Yes; this is the first time you have crossed my waking eyes, but I have
seen you in my dreams."

"Your dreams?"

"Ay, Isabel Vere. What hast thou, or thine, to do with my waking
thoughts?"

"Your waking thoughts, sir," said the second of Miss Vere's companions,
with a sort of mock gravity, "are fixed, doubtless, upon wisdom; folly
can only intrude on your sleeping moments."

"Over thine," retorted the Dwarf,