What Will He Do With It, Book 5.

re critical pausing- places. When the journey

r marvellous beauty so exquisitely subdued! She looked at home ther

me to the window, which, though mid-winter, was open, and the redbreast, with whom she had made friends, hopped boldly almost within reach, looking at her with bright eyes and head curiously aslant. By the wind

in revery as he entered, so deep that she started when his voice struck her ear and he stood before her. She recovered herself quickly, howe

tulations," answered the scholar in s

me all about it. You wrote me word you were cured,-at least sufficiently to re move your nob

oing to confide to you a secret,

st me: I have no

e at once of the lessons he ha

to you alone,-not a word to your guests. When you have once seen him, you will understand why an eccentric man, who has known better day

ing, half smiling. "But my curiosity shall not molest him,

e favour I am about to ask, which is that you would com

e him!

r, and because, too, he seems most anxious to remain in his present residence. The cottage, of course, belongs t

hich hung over them, that Lady Montfort became much moved by his narrative; and willingly promised to accompany him across the park to the basketmaker's cottage the first opportunity. But when one has sixty guests in one's house, one has to wait for an opportunity to escape from them unremarked. And the opportunity,

road gravel walks; gained the secluded shrubbery, the solitary deeps of park- land; skirted the wide sheet of water, and, passing through a

rthful laugh; it was long since the great lady had heard a laugh like that,-a happy child's natural laugh. Sh

ady Montfort noted with no unnatural surprise the purity of idiom and of accent with which this singular basketmaker was unconsciously displaying his perfect knowledge of a language which the best-educated English gentleman of that generation, nay, even of this, rarely speaks with accuracy and elegance. But her attention was diverted immediately from the teacher to the face of the sweet pupil. Women have a qui

ht), the church spire tapering away into the clear blue wintry sky. All has an air of repose, of safety. Close beside you is the Presence of HOME; that ineffable, sheltering, loving Presence, which amidst solitude murmurs "not solitary,"-a Presence unvouchsafed to the great lady in the palace she has left. And the lady herself? She is resting on the rude gnarled root-stump from which the vagrant had risen; she has drawn Sophy towards her; she has taken the child's hand; she is speaking now, now listening; and on her face kindness looks like happiness. Perhaps she is happy that moment. And Waife? he is turning aside his weatherbeaten mobile countenance with his hand anxiously trembling upon the young scholar's arm. The scholar whispers, "Are you satisfied with me?" and Waife answers in a voice as low but more broken, "God reward you! Oh, joy! if my pretty one has found at last a woman friend!" Poor vagabond, he has now a calm asylum, a fixed humble livelihood; more than that, he has just achieved an object fondly cherished. His past life,-alas! what has he done with it? His actual life, broken fragment though it be, is at rest now. But still the everlasting question,-mocking terrible question, with its phrasing of farce and its enigmas of tragical sense,-"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?" Do wit