and still, save, indeed, the carol of the birds, or
the tinkle of some restless bellwether. It was a rich autumnal morn. And
yet with all the excitement of his new views in life, and the blissful
consciousness of the happiness of those he loved, he could not but feel
that a great change had come over his spirit since the days he was wont
to ramble in this old haunt of his boyhood. His innocence was gone. Life
was no longer that deep unbroken trance of duty and of love from which
he had been roused to so much care; and if not remorse, at least to
so much compunction. He had no secrets then. Existence was not then a
subterfuge, but a calm and candid state of serene enjoyment. Feelings
then were not compromised for interests; and then it was the excellent
that was studied, not the expedient. 'Yet such I suppose is life,'
murmured Ferdinand; 'we moralise when it is too late; nor is there
anything more silly than to regret. One event makes another: what we
anticipate seldom occurs; what we least expected generally happens; and
time can only prove which is most for our advantage. And surely I am
the last person who should look grave. Our ancient house rises from
its ruins; the beings I love most in the world are not only happy, but
indebted to me for their happiness; and I, I myself, with every gift
of fortune suddenly thrown at my feet, what more can I desire? Am I
not satisfied? Why do I even ask the question? I am sure I know not. It
rises like a devil in my thoughts, and spoils everything. The girl is
young, noble, and fair, and loves me. And her? I love her, at least I
suppose I love her. I love her at any rate as much as I love, or ever
did love, woman. There is no great sacrifice, then, on my part; there
should be none; there is none; unless indeed it be that a man does
not like to give up without a struggle all his chance of romance and
rapture.

'I know not how it is, but there are moments I almost wish that I had no
father and no mother; ay! not a single friend or relative in the world,
and that Armine were sunk into the very centre of the earth. If I stood
alone in the world methinks I might find the place that suits me; now
everything seems ordained for me, as it were, beforehand. My spirit has
had no play. Something whispers me that, with all its flush prosperity,
this is neither wise nor well. God knows I am not heartless, and would
be grateful; and yet if life can afford me no deeper sympathy than I
have yet e