fe energies to the decoration of the other rooms; for "the
house" was Mrs. Fairfield's hobby and passion; and now that she worked
no more, save for her amusement, it was her main occupation. The hours
she contrived to spend daily in bustling about those little rooms, and
leaving every thing therein to all appearance precisely the same, were
among the marvels in life which the genius of Leonard had never
comprehended. But she was always so delighted when Mr. Norreys or some
rare visitor came, and said (Mr. Norreys never failed to do so,) "How
neatly all is kept here. What could Leonard do without you, Mrs.
Fairfield?"

And to Norrey's infinite amusement, Mrs. Fairfield always returned the
same answer. "'Deed, sir, and thank you kindly, but 'tis my belief that
the drawin'-room would be awful dusty."

Once more left alone, Leonard's mind returned to the state of reverie,
and his face assumed the expression that had now become to it habitual.
Thus seen, he was changed much since we last beheld him. His cheek was
more pale and thin, his lips more firmly compressed, his eye more fixed
and abstract. You could detect, if I may borrow a touching French
expression, that "sorrow had passed by there." But the melancholy on his
countenance was ineffably sweet and serene, and on his ample forehead
there was that power, so rarely seen in early youth--the power that has
conquered, and betrays its conquests but in calm. The period of doubt,
of struggle, of defiance, was gone for ever; genius and soul were
reconciled to human life. It was a face most loveable; so gentle and
peaceful in its character. No want of fire; on the contrary, the fire
was so clear and so steadfast, that it conveyed but the impression of
light. The candor of boyhood, the simplicity of the villager were still
there--refined by intelligence, but intelligence that seemed to have
traversed through knowledge--not with the footstep, but the
wing--unsullied by the mire--tending towards the star--seeking through
the various grades of being but the lovelier forms of truth and
goodness; at home as should be the Art that consummates the Beautiful--

"In den heitern Regionen
Wo die reinen Formen wohnen."[23]

From this reverie Leonard did not seek to rouse himself, till the bell
at the garden gate rang loud and shrill; and then starting up and
hurrying into the hall, his hand was grasped in Harley's.

CHAPTER XVI.

A full and happy hour passed away in Harley'