is acquiescence in their scheme; and by Polydore, at
least, they were as warmly returned. Child-like, but not childish, was
the good chaplain in his affections. And if the sanguine ardour of
youth is a glorious thing, surely the tempered enthusiasm of mature
age is as admirable, and less uncertain.

The preparations for departure were commenced immediately. Mrs.
Griffith was saddened a little when Helen brought her the news; but
she recovered her spirits under the influence of her old pupil's
animation. And strange it would have been, if the anticipation of so
great a change had not produced considerable excitement in those upon
whom it was about to fall. They had never--as Mrs. Pendarrel
remarked--spent a night away from the castle; they had seen no town
larger than Penzance; they had been familiar with none save the
household around them. Wonderful it would have been, if with a calm
pulse they could contemplate abiding in mighty London, among a host of
strangers, and competing in the great race of life. Yet upon their
earnest tempers the prospect produced less effect than it would on
dispositions less serious; and they watched and superintended the
necessary arrangements with a foresight which delighted Polydore, and
was satisfactory even to the steward.

At length, these were completed, and the eve of the journey arrived.
The autumnal sun was setting in radiance over the opposite side of
Mount's Bay, when the orphans, moved by a sympathetic impulse, took
their way for a farewell visit to Merlin's Cave. A purple flush lay on
the uplands above Gulvall and Ludgvan; there was scarce a ripple on
the sea, and the fishermen of Newlyn were obliged to use their oars to
gain the offing. The tranquillity of the evening sank into the hearts
of the brother and sister, as they sat in silence, side by side, under
their little canopy of rock. But at last, Helen interrupted the
reverie. The sun had reached the crest of the hills; the tower of St.
Paul's Church stood out dark against the sky, with its edges fringed
by the level rays; the flush on the heather had grown deeper and
warmer; when she suddenly began to sing, to an old Jacobite air, a
ballad, composed by an ancestor who fled to Switzerland at the
Restoration, and known in the family as "Trevethlan's Farewell:"--

"Farewell to Trevethlan! A farewell for ever!
Farewell to the towers that stand by the sea!
Ah! hard is my fortune from home so to sever,