270 THE SMUGGLER. 



school ; though that on which he prided himself the most, was 

 an exquisite Correggio. 



It was in this room that he left his niece Edith when he 

 set out for Woodchurch ; and, as she sat, with her arm fallen 

 somewhat listlessly over the back of the low sofa, the light 

 coming in from the window strong upon her left cheek, and the 

 rest in shade, with her rich colouring and her fine features, 

 the high-toned expression of soul upon her brow, and the 

 wonderful grace of her whole form and attitude, she would 

 have made a fine study for any of those dead artists whose 

 works lived around her. 



She heard the wheels of the carriage roll away; but she 

 gave no thought to the question of whither her uncle had gone, 

 or why he took her not with him, as he usually did. She was 

 glad of it, in fact; and people seldom reason upon that with 

 which they are well pleased. Her whole mind was directed 

 to her own situation, and to the feelings which the few words 

 of conversation she had had with her sister had aroused. She 

 thought of him she loved, with the intense, eager longing to 

 behold him once more, but once, if so it must be, which perhaps 

 only a woman's heart can fully know. To be near him, to hear 

 him speak, to trace the features she had loved, to mark the traces 

 of Time's hand, and the lines that care and anxiety, and disap- 

 pointment and regret, she knew must be busily working, oh! 

 what a. boon it would be! Then her mind ran on, led by the 

 light hand of Hope, along the narrow bridge of association, to 

 ask herself, if it would be such delight to see him and to hear 

 him speak, what would it be to soothe, to comfort, to give him 

 back to joy and peace? 



The dream was too bright to last, and it soon faded. He 

 was near her, and yet he did not come ; he was in the same 

 land, in the same district; he had gazed up to the house 

 where she dwelt; if he had asked whose it was, the familiar 

 name, the name once so dear, must have sounded in his ear ; 

 and yet he did not come. A few minutes of time, a few steps 

 of his horse, would have brought him to where she was ; but 

 he had turned away, and Edith's eyes filled with tears. 



She rose and wiped them off, saying, " I will think of some- 

 thing else ;" and she went up and gazed at a picture. It was 

 a Salvator Rosa ; a fine painting, though not by one of the 

 finest masters. There was a rocky scene in front, with trees 



