"‘ It was 9. sight to do your eyes good, my dear,†said Hugh, stroking the horse’s nose, “ to see him break away from me and gallop all round the miller’s close, as if he’d never be caught 01' tamed again, nutJ then trotting up to Major Humphrey as if 'd been a dog, and neighing for joy, ‘xd rubbing his head against his master, and the Major looked a‘most as pleased as the horse. They’ve more sense and more affec- tion too than many human beings,†added Hugh, impressively ; “ and now you needn’t to be told, my dear. why 1 gave him this bit of a turnto keep his pipes clear in case of accidents. He might be wanted to-morrow, or he might not ; but if so be that he were, it shall never be sald that he came out of this stable and wasn’t ï¬t to save aman’s life. They're like the female sex, my dear, in many particulars, but in none so much as this, It’s ruling them well and working of them hard that makes them better.†With this philosophical axiom, the result, doubtless, of much attentive observation, Dymocke clothed up the sorrel. and led him into the stable, whilst Faith, with an exâ€" pression of deeper anxiety than often trou- bled her pretty face, tripped away to her mistress’s room. and to the best of our belief never visited the laundry after all. Grace had to dress for supper. In those simple days people supped by daylight in the summer, and revised their toilets carefully for the meal. much as they dress for dinner now; and in those aays, as in the present, a lady’s “back hair†was a source of much manual labor to her maid, and much mental anxiety to herself. Though Faith worked away at the ebon masses with an unmerciful number of jems and twichee and an unusually herd brush, she did not succeed in exciting the attention of the sufferer, who eat patient and motion- less in her handsâ€"not even leoking at her- self in the glass. Faith heaved one or two surprisingly deep sighs, and even ventured upon a catching of thebreath, such as with ladies of her profession is the usual precursor to a. ?d of tears, but without the slighteste ect. Grace never lifted her eyes from the point of her foot, which peeped out beneath her robe. “ What’s the matter, Faith ?†said her mis- tress, turning round, with a wondering ab~ stracted gaze, which brightened into one of curiosity, as she marked the excited expres- sion of her attendant’s countenance. At length the waiting-maid pressed her hand against her side, with an audible ex- presgjgn of pein. “.Nothing, ma’am," replied Faith, with another catching of the breath, real enough this time ; " leastaways nothing’s the matter at present, though what’s to come of it, good- ness only knows. Oh, Mistress Grace ! Mis- tress Grace 1†she added, letting all the “ back hair†down en masse, and clasping her two hands upon her bosom, “ who d’ye thiflk’s come back again ? who d’ye think’s within a. mile of this house at this blessed minute ? who d’ye think’s been isguised and ï¬shing by Brampton mill this very day ? and the sorrel knew him though nobody else didn’t, and‘ all the troubles that have come over us since then.†And Faith, in her way, related to her mistress all the news that Dymoeke had told her in the stable yard. HOLMBY HOUSE. After Faith had retired Grace sat and dreamed of the days gone by when Bosville was lying ill in her father‘s house, and how she wished,‘ till her heart ached, that she could live those few days ’over again ! As month after month passed on without further tidings, she seemed to feel her loss more and more. Self-reproach, curiosity, and pique combined to make her think and ponder on the absent one, whose merits, both of mind and body, seemed to come out so vividly now that it was possible they belonged to her no longer. Mary was no dull observer of human nature, and she knew well that if she really cared to retain his affections, she had been playing a somewhat dangerous game. Had he been employed in the alarms and excite- ment of warfare, subjected day by day to the ennobling influence of danger, his higher and better feelings kept awake by the inspiring stimulus of military glOry, and the deepest, truest aflections of his heart. enhanced as ‘ they always are by the daily habit of looking death in the face. she felt she would have reigned in that heart more imperiously than ever; but the case was quite diï¬erent now. He was living in the atmosphere of a pleasure- loving and profligate court. He was sub. jected to just so much excitement and dissi- pation as would serve to distract his thoughts, just so much interesting employment as would forbid his mind from dwelling continu- ously upon any single topic. From his posi- tion he was sure to be courted by the great. and with his person to be wel- comed by the fair. To do him justice, he had ever shown himself sufï¬ciently callous to the latter temptation. and yet Mary re- membered the wit and the attractions of those French ladies amongst whom she had spent her youth ; she even caught herself re- calling his admiration of one or two of her own accomplishments derived from that source. He might ï¬nd others foii'wr than she was now_kinder than she had our been ; some gentle heart would be sure to love him dearly, and the very intensity of its affection would win his in turn ; and then indeed he would be lost to her altogether ; she would ether he was lying dead and buried yonder it? aseby ï¬eld ! And yet. no ! no lâ€"any- g were Better than that. Mary was startled at the bitterness and the strength of her ownpassions. It was frightful! it was humiliating! it was unwomanly! to feel like this. Was she weaker as she grew older, that she could thus confess to herself so deep an interest in one who might perhaps already have forgotten her? She had not loved Falkland soâ€"that was a pure, lofty, and ennobling sentimentâ€"there was much more of the earthly element in this strange, wild fascination. Perhaps it was none the less dear, none the less dangerous on that account. So she resolved that whatever cause had brought him back at last (for too surely she felt the disguised ï¬sherman was no other than Bosville) she at least would ap- pear to be ignorant and careless of his move- ments. Till his long silence was explained‘ of course he could be nothing to her; and even then, if people could forget for two whole years, other people could forget altogether. Yes, it would be far better so. He must be changed indeed not to have spoken to her that very day by the water side. Then she remembered what Grace had said about the knot of pink ribbon : and womanlike, after judging him so harshly, her heart smote her for her unkindness. and she wept. The sun was sinking below the horizon} when Grace stepped out upon the terrace at Boughton, and wrapping a scarf around her‘ shoulders, paced slowly away for a stroll in the cool atmosphere and refreshing breezes of the park. It was delicious to get into the pure evening air after the hot drive and the crowded court. and Sir Giles’s interminable supper; to be alone once more under God’s heaven, and able to think undisturbed. The deer were already couching for the night amongst the fern, the rocks had gone home hours ago, but a solitary and belated heron, high up in the calm sky, was winging his soft. silent way towards the flush of sunset which crimsoned all the west. It was the hour of peace and repose, when nature subsides to a. dreamy stillness ere she sinks to her majestic sleep, when the ox lies down in his pasture, and the wild bird is hushed on the bough, when all it at rest on earth save only the restless human he t, which will never know peace but in the 'Eve. Grace threaded the stems of the tall trees, her foot falling lightly upon the mossy award, her white ï¬gure glancing ghostlike in and out the dusky avenues, her fair brow. from which she put back the masses of hair with both hands, cooling in the evening breeze. What did she here? She scarce knew herself why she had sought this woodland solitudeuwhy she had been so restless, so impatient, so dissatisï¬ed with everything and everybody, so longing to be alone. Deeply she pondered on Faith’s narrative, though indeed she had guessed the truth long before her hand-maiden’s conï¬dences. Much she wondered what he was doing hereâ€"whence had he come ?â€"when was he going away ?â€"â€"what was this political mys- tery in which foolish Faith believed so implicitly ‘1’ Why was he in Northampton- shire at all ? Was there a chance of his Wandering here to-night to visit his old haunts ?â€"and if he should, what was that to her ? The girl‘s cheek flushed, though she was alonewith mingled pain and pride as she reflected that she had given her heart unasked. No! not quite given it, but suf- fered it to wander sadly out of her own con- trol ; and that though she was better now, there had been a time when she cared for him agreat deal more than was good for her. Well, it was over ,and yet she should like to see him once again she confessed, if it were only to wish him good-bye. Were there fairies still on earth ? Could it be possible her wish was to be granted ? There he was 1 George’s Whole countenance had deepened into the marked lines and grave expression of middle age. The hair and heard, once so raven black, were now grizzled ; and although the tall strong form was square and erect as ever, its gestures had lost the buoyant elastic- ity of youth, and hadacqun-ed the slow and somewhat listless air of those who have out- lived their pn'me. ,He seemed to have got something to com- municate, yet he walked by her side Without uttering another syllable. Grace looked down at the ground, and could not mark the side- long gaze of deep, melancholy tenderness with which be regarded her beautiful proï¬le and shapely form. The silence became very embarrassing ; after the second tum she be- gan to get quite frightened. Grace’s heart beat violently, and her breath came and went very quick as the dark ï¬gure of a man emerged from the shade of an old oak under which he had been standing, not ten paces from her. She almost repented of her wish, that seemed to have been accorded so readily. Poor Grace l there was no oc- casion for penitence ; ere he had made three strides towards her she had recognized him ; and it was a. voice in which disappointment struggled with unfeigned surprise, that she exclaimed, “Captain Efï¬ngham !†He dofled his hat, and begged her, with the old manly courtesy she remembered so well. not to be alarmed. “His duty,†he said, â€had brought him into the neighborhood, and he could not resist the temptation of visiting the haunts of those who had once been so kind to him before these unhappy troubles, had turned his best friends to strangers, if not to enemies.†His voice shook as he spoke, and Grace could not Iorbear extending her hand to him ; as she touched his it was like ice, and he trembled, that iron soldier, as if he was cold. Darkness was coming on apace, yet even in the fading light Grace could not but. see how hardly Time had dealt with her old admirer â€"â€"-an admirer of whom, allhough undeclared, lier womanly instinct had been long con- scious as a. very devoted and a. very worthy one. 'v He sioke‘ at last Es it seemed with amighty eï¬ort. and in a. low, choking voice. †You are surprised to see me Mistress Grace. and with reason ; perhaps I am guilty of presumption in even entering your kins- man’s domain. Well it is for the last time. Forgive me if I have startled you, or in- truded on your solitude. May I speak to you for ï¬ve minutes ? I will not detain you long. Believe me I never expected to see you hear te-night." “ I only arrived today at Northampton,†he proceeded, calming as he went on ; “I have been appointed to the command of a division of the army, to watch this district, and preserve the peace of his Majesty and his Parliament. We have reason to believe that a conspiracy has been organized to plunge this country once more into civil war. Suspicwns persons are about.†Grace glanced sharply at him. “ My troopers are even now scouring the country to arrest a messenger from France. of whom I have received information. It is sad work ; my duty will compel me to hang him to the nearest tree.†“ Then why on earth did you come I" was Grace’s very natural reflection. but she only bowed and faltered out a few words expressive of her willingness to hear all he had to say. It was fortunate that the failing light pre- ventgdrlrxis seeing how palg she had tqrneq. “ Believe me, Mistress Grace, it is hopeless for the ‘ Malignants’ to stir up civil war again. His Majesty’s Parliament will act for the safety of his Majesty’s person, and it will be my duty, with the large force I command. to escort him in security to the neighborhood of London.†Grace listened attentivelyâ€"the little Royalâ€" ist was half frightened. and half indignant at the calm tone of conscious power in which the successful soldier of the Parliament announced his intentions. Eiï¬ngham paused, as if to gather courage. then proceeded. speaking very rapidly, and looking studiously away from the person he addressed. “ You have never known, Mistress Graceâ€" God forbid you ever should know â€"â€"such suf- fering and such anxiety as I have experienced now for many long months. I did not come here to-night to tell you this. I did not come here expecting to see you at all, It was weak. I grant you. and unmanly; but I could not resist the temptation of wandering near your home once again, of watching the house in which you were, and perhaps looking on the light that shone from your window. I am no love-sick swain, Mistress Grace,†he added smiling bitterly, †with my rough sol- dier’s manners and my gray hair ; but I plead guilty to this one infatuation, and you may despise me for it if you will. Well I as I have met you to-night I will tell you allâ€" listen. Ever since I have known you, I have loved youâ€"God help me lâ€"better than my own soul. You will never know, Grace, you shall never know. how truly, haw dearly, how worse than madlyâ€"I feel it is hopelessâ€"â€"I feel it is no use~that I can never be more to you than the successful rebel, the enemy that is only not hated because you are too gentle and kind to hate any human being. Many a weary day have I longed to tell you this, and so bid you farewell, and see you never more. It is over now, and I am happier for the con. fession. God bless you, Grace l If you could have cared for me I should have been worthy ‘ of youâ€"it cannot beâ€"I shall never forget , youâ€"farewell l" _ . He raised her hand. pressed it once to his lips, and ere she had recovered from her as- tonishment he was gone. Grace looked wildly around her, as one who wakes from a dream. It seemed like a dream indeed, but she still heard the tramp of his step as he walked away in the calm night, and listening for a few minutes after he had gone distinguished the clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the hard road leading to Northampton. Grace was utterly bewildered and confused. There was something not un- pleasant in the sensation too. Long ago, though she was a good deal afraid of it, she had hugely admired that stern enthusiastic nature, but the image of another had preâ€" vented the impression ripening into any feel- ing deeper than interest and esteem. And now to discover for a certainty that she had subjugated that strong. brave heart, that the rebel warrior had been worshipping her in se- VOL. XXII. THE “ And the thing must be told,†sobbed the. agitated girl, when she had detailed her un- expected meeting with Efï¬ngham, and its startling results ; “ and father mustn’t know it, or it will all be worse than ever; he’ll be arming the servants and the few tenants that have got a horse left, and all the horrors will have to begin again. and he’ll be killed some day, Mary, I know he will. What shall I do 1’ \Vhat shall I do?" cret all those long months,in the midst of his dangers and his victories, that her influence had softened his rigor to many a Royalist, and that he had saved her own dear old father at Naseby for her sake, â€"all this was anything but disagreeable to that innate love of domin- ion whieh exists in the gentlest of her sex, and such a conquest as that of the famous Parliamentary general (for to that rank George had speedily risen) was one that any woman might be proud of, and was indeed a soothing salve to her heart, wounded and mortiï¬ed by the neglect of another. But then the dan- ger to that other smote her with a chill and sickening apprehension. It could be none but Bosville that had been seen and suspected by the keen-eyed Parliamentarians. He might be a prisoner even now, and she shuddered as she reflected on that ghastly observation of Emngham’s about the nearest tree. Word by word she recalled his conversation, and the design upon the King’s liberty, which she had somewhat overlooked in the contemplation of more personal topics, assumed a frightful import- ance as she remembered that she was the depositary of this important intelligence. What ought she to do ? Though Eflingham had trusted her, he had extorted no promise of secresy, and as she had always been taught besides that her ï¬rst duty was towards her Sovereign, there was no time for consideraâ€" tion. What was to be done ? The King was in danger~ Bosville was in dangerâ€"and she alone had ‘the knowledge. though without the power of prevention. What was she to do :7 What could she do ? She was completely at her wit‘s end ! In this predicament Grace’s proceedings were characteristic, if not conclusive; she ï¬rst of all began to cry. and then resolved upon consulting Mary, and making a “ clean breast of it.†which she fell: would be an in- expressible relief. With this object. she re- turned at. once to the house, and hurried without delay to her friend’s chamber. That lady‘s indisposition had appar- ently not been severe enough to cause her to go to bed. On the contrary, she was sitting up, still completely dressed, and with n. wakeful, not to say harassed, expression on her ceuntenance, which we eluded allidee of sleep for many hours to come. She welcomed Grace with some little astonishment, " her headache was better, and it was kind of deer Gracey to come and in- quire after herâ€"she was just going to bedâ€"- she had been sitting up writing,†she said. Mary’s courage always rose 1n a difï¬culty ; her brow cleared now. and her head went up. †He must not be told a. word. and the King must 1 Leave that to me, Graeey.†Grace looked unspeakably comforted for a. moment, but the tide of her troubles surged in again irresistibly, as she thought of the suspected ï¬shuman and the noose at the nearest tree. ' “ But Bosville, Maryâ€"Bosvilleâ€"think of him. close by here. and those savages hunt- ing for him and thirstiug for his blood. Oh 1 Mary, I must save him. and I will. \Vhat can be done? advise me, Maryâ€"advise me. If a hair of his head is hurt, I shall never sleep in peace again." Grace flung herself into her arms, and had “ the cry" fairly out, which had been checked 'whilst she ran into tho house. “ I wish we had stopped and spoken to him to-day,†observed Mary, abstractedly ; “and yet it might only have compromised him, and done no good. Notwithstanding Mistress Cave’s self-com- mand, a. shadow as of great pain passed over her countenance. It faded, nevertheless, as quickly as it came. She took Grace’s hand in her own. and looked quietly and sadly in the girl’s wesping Vface. “ Do you ldve Bim, Gracey ?†she said, very gegtly, and with a sickly sort qumib. U Gréée's only answer {vas to hide her face between her hands and sob as if her heart would break‘ Till she had sobbed herself to sleep in her chamber, her friend never left her. It was midnight ere she returned to her own room, and dotted the blank sheet of paper with a few short words in cipher. When this was done, Mary leaned her head upon her hand, and pondered long and earnestly. There was a. sheét of paper â€on the table, only it was blank. Grace looked up sharply through her tears. “Did you know it was Bosville, Mary, in that disguise? So did I 3â€, We have all read of the pearl of great price in the holy parable, and how when the seeker had found it. he went and sold all that he had, and bought it and made it his own. Lightly he thought of friends. and fame, and fortune, compared to the treasure of his heart. We have often imagined the weary look of utter desolation which would have overspread his features, could he have seen that pearl shivered into fragments, the one essential object of his life existent no moreâ€"the treasure destroyed. and with if the heart also. Such a. look was on Mary 5 pale face as she sat by her bedside watching for the ï¬rst flush of the summer dawn. The sun shone bright. on the level terraces of Holmby House â€"â€" huge stone vases grotesquely curved and loan with garden-flowers studded the shaven lawns and green slopes that adorned the southern front of the palaceâ€"here and there a. close-clipped yew or stunted juniper threw its black shadow across the sward, and broke in some measure the uniformity of those long formal alleys in which our fore- fathers took such pleasure. Half way down the hill, through the interstices of their quivering screen of leaves, the ï¬sh-ponds gleamed like burnished gold in the morning light ; and far below the sunny vale, broken by clumps of forest timber, and dotted with sheep and oxen, stretched away till it lost it- self in the dense woodlands of Althorpe park. Two ï¬gures paced the long terrace that immediately fronted the mansion. To and fro they walked with rapid strides, nor paused to contemplate the beauties of the distant landscape, nor the stately magniï¬cence of the royal palacewshafted, mullioned, and pin- nacled like a stronghold of romance. It was Charles and his attendant, the Earl of Pem- broke, taking their morning exercise, which the methodical King considered indispensable to his health, and which was sufï¬ciently harassing to the old and enfeebled frame of the noble commissioner. Charles, like his son, was a rapid and vigorous pedestrian. His bodily powers were wonderfully unsus- ceptible to fatigue ; and perhaps the concen- trated irritation awakened by a life of con- tinuous surveillance and restraint may haw found vent in thus ï¬ercely pacing like some wild animal the area of his cage. Poor old Pembroke, on whom the duty of a state-gaoler to his Sov- erein had been thrust, sorely against his will. and for whom “a good white pillow for that good white head†had been more appropriate than either steel headpiece or gilded coronet, had no such incentive to exertion, and hal- ted breathlessly after the King, with a ludi- “THE FALCON GENTLE." CHAPTER XXIX. RICHMOND HILL, THURSDAY, DEC; 11, 1879. Lord Pembroke was out of breath, and a little deaf into the bargain. “Very true, your Majesty," he assented, having caught just enough of the King’s discourse to be aware that it related in sortie measure to the weather. “Very true, as your Majesty says, we shall have rain anon !" And the old Earl looked up at the skies, over which a light cloud or two were passing, _ with a sidelong glance, like some weatherwise old raven, de- voutly hoping that a. shower might put an end at once to the promenade and the con- versetion. “ Ay! it is even so,†procvésded the King, apparently answering his own thoughts, rather than the inconsequent remark of his attendant. “There is indeed a cloud uthwart the sun, and yet he is shining as brightly behind it upon the rest of the universe, as though there were no vail interposed between our pett;v selves and his majestic light. And shall we murmur be cause the dark hour cometh and we must grope in our blindness awhile, ' a‘nd mayhap wander from the path, and stumble and bruise our feet till the day breaks in its glory once more? Oh man ! man ! though thou art shaking and shivering in the storm, the sun shines still the same in its warmth and dazzling light; though thou art cowering in adversity, God is everywhere alike in wisdom, power and goodness." "Look yonder, my lprd Earl,†said be, pointing to the beauteous scene around him â€"the smiling valley, the trim pleasure- grounds, the sparkling waters, with the lazy pike splasing at intervalsgto the surface, and the blossoms showering pink and White in the soft summer breeze. 2*»:“Look yonder, and see how the sun penetrates every nook and cranny of the copsewood, even as it floods the open meadows in its golden glory. ‘ That sunlight is everywhere, my lord, in the lowest depths of the castle vaults, as on you bright pinnacle, around which the noisy daws are wheeling and chattering even now. ’I‘is that sunlight which oflers day, dim though it be, to the captive in the dungeon, even as it bsthes in its lustre the eagle on the elifl. Is there no moral in this, my lord? Is there no connean, think you, between the rays which give warmth to the body, and the inner life which gives lighi‘to the soul ‘2†As the King spoke, he turned and paced the length of the terrace once more. The clouds passed on, and the day was bright as ever. It seemed a. good omen ; and as the unhappy are prone to be superstitious, it was accepted as such by the meditative monarch. In silence he walked on, deeply engrossed with many a sad and solemn subject. His absent Queen, from whom he had been long expecting tidings, whom he still loved with the undemonstrative warmth of his deep and tender nature â€"his ruined party and prescribed adherentsâ€"his lost Crown, for he could scarce now consider him- self a Sovereignâ€"his imperillsd life, for already had he suspected the intentions of the Parliament, and resolved to oppose them if necessary, even to the deathâ€"~lastly, his trust in God, which, weak. imprudent. injudiciuusas he may have live , nBv‘er‘i’xeï¬ serted Charles Stuart even in the last ex- tremity â€"which never yet failed any man who relied upon it in his need, from the King on the throne to the convict in the dungeon. But the monarch‘s walk was doomed to be interrupted, and Lord Pembroke’s penance brought to an earlier close than usual, by a circumstance the origin of which we must take leave to retrograde a few hours to ex- plain. affecting as it does the proceedings of a fair lady, who, in all matters of difï¬culty or danger, was accustomed to depend on no energies and consult no will but her own. The King, whose lungs. like his limbs, were little affected by accustomed exercise, strode maniully on, talking, as was his wont, upon grave and weighty subjects, and anon wait- ing with mental patience for the answers of the lagging courtier. Hi -3 Ma 1esty was this morning in o, more than usually moralizing mood. We left Mary Cave in her chamber at Boughton, watching wearily for the dawn, which came at length as it comes alike to the bride, blushing welcome to her wedding mom, and to the pale criminal, shrinking lrom the sunlight that he will never see more -â€"-which will come alike over and over again to our children and to ourchildren’s children, when we are dead and forgotten, but which shall at last be extinguished too, or rather swallowed up in the Eternal Day, when Dark- ness, Sin and Sorrow shall be destroyed for evermore. crous mixture of deference and dismay, looking wistfully at the stone dial which stood midway in their course every time they passed it, and ardently longing for a. time of his dismissal from this ï¬le most fatiguing of all his unwelcome duties. Pale and resolute, Mary made a careful toilet with the ï¬rst streaks of day. Elabor- ately she arranged every fold of her riding- gear, and with far more pains than common pinned up and secured the long tresses of her rich brown hair. Usually they were accustomed to escape from their fastenings, and wave and float about her when dis- ordered by a gallop in provekingly attractive profusion ; but on this occasion they were so disposed that nothing but intentional violence was likely to disturb their shining masses. Stealthily she left her apartment, and without rousing the household sought the servants’ ofï¬cesâ€"no diï¬icult task, as bolts and bars in those simple times were usually left un- fastened, except in the actual presence of some recognized danger ; and although asuch an old-fashioned manor-house as that of Boughton might be fortiï¬ed securely against an armed force, it was by no means of im- pregnable to a single thief who should simply take the precaution of taking oï¬ his shoes. Not a single domestic did Mary meet, as she took her well known Way towards the stables; and even Bayard’s loud neigh of recognition, echoed as it was by the delighted sorrel, failed to disturb the slumbers of Dymocke and his satellites. With her own fair hands Mary sad- dled and bridled her favorite, hurting her deli- cate ï¬ngers against the straps and buckles of his appointmeuts. With her own fair hands she jessed and hooded “Dewdrop,†and took her from her perch in the falconer‘s mews, without leave asked of that still unconscious functionary ; and thus dressed and mounted, with foot in stirrup and hawk on hand, Mary emerged through Boughton park like some female knight-errant, and took her well- known way to Bramptontord. We are all more or less self-deceivers, and this lady was no exception to the rule of hu- manity. Secrecy was no doubt judicious on such an expedition as that which she had now resolved to take in hand ; yet it is probable that Dymoeke at least might have been trusted as far as to saddle her horse and hood her falcon; but something in Mary’s heart bid her feel shame that any one, even a ser. vent, should know whither she was bound ; although other and unacknowledged motives besides the obvious duty of warning Charles of his danger prompted her to take so decided a step, she easily persuaded herself that zeal for the King’s safety, and regard for his perâ€" son, made it imperative on her to keep religiously secret this interview she proposed extorting from his Majesty ; and that in so delicate and dangerous a business she ought to conï¬de in no one but herself. So she rode gently on towards Brampton- ford, Bayard stepping lightly and proudly over the Spangled sward, and “Dewdrop†shaking her bells merrily under the inspirit- ing influence of the morning air. A few short With a deep sigh she roused Bayard into a gallop; and the good steed, nothing 10th, stretched away up the hill with the long, regular stride that is indeed the true “poetry of motion." A form crouching low behind a clump of elders watched her till she was out of sight, and a. shabbily-dressed ï¬sherman, with sad brow and heavy heart, then resumed his occupation of angling in the Nene with the same studious pertinscity that he had displayed in that pursuit for the last two days. As she neared the river, she looked anx- iously and furtively around. peering behind every tree and hawthorn that studded the level surface of the meadow. In vain; no ï¬sherman disturbed the quiet waters of the Neneâ€"no solitary ï¬gure trampled the long grass, wet with the dew of morning. There was no chance of a recognitionâ€"an explana- tion. Perhaps he avoided it on purpose -â€"per- haps he felt aggrieved and wounded at her long silenceâ€"perhaps he had forgotten her al- together. Two years was a long time. Men were proverbially inconstant. Besides,had she not resolved in her own heart that this folly should be terminated at once and for ever 7 Yes, it was providential he was not there. It was far betterâ€"their meeting would have been painful and awkward for both. She could not be sutï¬ciently thankful that she had been spared the trial. All the time she would have given her right arm to see him just once again. It would have required indeed all the in-- stincts of a loving heart, such as the sorrel, in common with his generous equine brethren, undoubtedly possessed, to recognize in the wan, travelâ€"stained angler the comely exter- ior of Humphrey Bosville. The drooping mustache had been closely shaved, the long lovelocks shorn off by the temples to admit the short flaxen wig which replaced the young Cavalier’s dark, silky hair. His worn-out beaver too, slouched down over his eyes, and a. rusty jerkin, with his high collar devoid of linen, completed the me- tamorphosis, while the small feet were encased in huge, shapleless wading boots, and the hands, usually so white and well kept. were now embrowned and stained by the in- fluence of exposure and hard usage. His dis- guise, he flattered himself, was perfect, and he was not a little proud of the skill by which he had escaped susplcionin the port at which he landed, and deceived even the wary sol- diers of the Parliament as to his real charac- ter, at several military posts which they occu- pied, and where he had been examined. Humphrey Bosville, as we know, had passed his parole never again to bear arms against the Parliament; but his word of honor, he conceived. did not prohibit him from being the prime agent in every hazardous scheme organised by the Royal Party at that intrigu- ing time. True to. his faith. he missed no op- portunity of risking his life in the heart of an enemy’s country to deliver an important letter from the Queen to her wretched and impris- onedhusband. For this cause he prowled atealthily about the river Nene, waiting for the chance of Charles’s crossing the bridge in some of his riding expeditic “,8, and the sport of ï¬shing in i ‘ em to be engaged enabled bin; 7.1. w x. in m . same spot ior several hoflrs, unsuspected of Lught save a. characteristic de- votion to that most patience-wearing of amuse- ments. Though he saw his ladye-love ride by alone in the early morning, a feeling of duty, still paramount in his soldier’s nature. prevented his discovering himself even to her. So he thought and persuaded himself there was no leaven of pique. no sense of irritation at long and merited neglect, embittering the kindly impulses of his honest heart. He watched her receding term with aching eyes. “ Ay,†thought poor Humphrey, all . his long- cherished love welling up in that deep tide of years ago she would have urged her horse into a gallop in the sheer exuberance of her spirits; nay, till within the last twenty-four hours, she would have paced along at least with head erect, and eye kindling to the beau- ties of the scene ; but a change had come over her bearing, and her brow wore a. look of depression and sadness, her ï¬gure stooped listlessly on her saddle ; her whole exterior denoted that weary state of dejection which overcomes the player in the great game of life, who has thrown the last stakeâ€"and lost I “ bitter waters†which is so near akin to hate, “ ride on as you used to do in your beauty and your heutlessness, as you would do without drawing rein or turning aside, though mybody were beneath your horse’s feet. What care you that you have taken from me all that makes life hopeful and happy. and left me instead darkness where there should belight, and listless despair where there should be courage, and energy, and trust? I gave you all, proud, heartless Mary, little enough it may be, and valueless to you, but still my all, and what have I reaped in exchange? A fevered, worn-out frame, that can only rest when prostrated by fatigue, stortnred spirit that never knows a. respite save in the pressure of immediate and imminent danger. Well, it will soon be over new. This last stroke will probably ï¬nish my career, and there will be repose at any rate in the grave. I Will be true to the lust. Loyalty before all. You shall hear of him when it is too late, but of his own free Will, proud, heartless women. he will never look upon your face again !†Our friend was very much hurt, and quite capable of acting as be imagined. These lov- ers’ quarrels. you see, though the wise rate them at their proper value, are sufliciently painful to the poor tools immediately con- cerned, and Major Bosville resumed his sport, not the least in the frame of mind recom- mended by old Izaak Walton to the disciple who goes wï¬shing. Meanwhile Mary Cave stretched on at Ba- yard’s long easy gallop till she came in view of the spires and chimneys of Holmby House towering into the summer sky, when, with a. gleam of satisfaction such as she had not yet displaced kindling on her beautiful face, she drew rein, and prepared for certain active op- erations. which she had been meditating as she came along. Taking a circuit of the Palace, and enter- ing the park at its westernmost gate, s‘he loosed Dewdrop’s jesses, and without un- nooding her, flung the falcon aloft into the air. A soft west wind was blowing at the time, and the bird, according to the nature of its kind, ï¬nding itself free from restraint, but at the same time deprived of sight, opened its broad wings to the breeze and soared away toward the pleasure-grounds of the Palace, in which Charles and the Earl of Pembroke were taking their accustomed exercise. Mary was no bad judge of falconry, and the very catastrophe she anticipated hap- pened exactly as she intended. The hawk, sailing gallantly down the wind, struck heavily against the branches of a tall elm that intervened, and fell lifeless on the sward almost at the King’s feet. Mary at the same time urging Bayard to his speed, came scour- ing rapidly down the park as though in search of her lost favorite, and apparently uncon- scious of tkc presence of royalty or the prox- imity of a palace. put her horse’s head straight for the sunken fence which divided the lawns from the park. Bayard pointed his small ears and cleared it at a bound, his mistress reining short after performing this feat, and dismouuting to bend over the boyd of her dead falcon with everyappearence of acute and preoccupied distress. The Kiï¬g and -Lord Pembroke looked at each other in mute altonishment. Such an // Mary was no contemptible actress; acting is, indeed, an accomplishment that seems to come naturally to most women. She now counterfeited such violent confusion and alarm at the breach of etiquette into which her thoughtlessness had hurried her, that the old Earl of Pembroke began to make excuses for her impetuosity, and whilst Mary, affect- ing extreme faintness. only murmured “ water, water,†the old courtier kept urging upon the King that †the lady was probably ignorant of court formsâ€"that she did not know she was so near the palace â€"that her horse was run- ning away with her,†and such other incon gruous excuses as his breathless state ad- mitted of his enumerating. The King los‘t patience at last. “ Don’t stand prating there, man,†said he pointing to Mary, who seemed indeed to be at the last gasp; “go and fetch thel ady some waterâ€"can you not see she will faint in two minutes ‘2" And while the old Earl hobbled off in quest of the reviving element, Charles raised Mary from her knees, and repeated, in a voice trembling with alarm, his previous question, “Are there tidings from the Queen?" “ No, my liege.†replied Mary, whose faint- ness quitted her with extraordinary rapidity as soon as the Earl was out of our shot. “This business concerns yourselfi There is a plot to carry off your Majesty's person, there is a plot to lead you to London a prisoner, this very day. I only discovered it at midnight. I had no means of communicat- ing unwatched with my Sovereign, and I took this unceremonious method of intruding on his privacy. Forgive me, my liege, I did not even know that I should be so fortunate as to see you for an instant alone; had you been accompanied by more than one attendant, I must have taken some other means of placing this packet in your hands.†The King looked down at the beautiful ï¬gure kneeling there before him. her cheek flushed. her eye bright with enthusiasm, her long soft hair showering over her neck and shoulders, her horses bridle clasped 111 one small gloved hand, while the other held his own) which she had just passed ierv'ently ta her lips; and impersonation of loyalty, self- abandonment, and unavailing heroism, of all the nobler end purer qualities which had been wasted so fruitlessly in the Royal cause ; and a. sad smile stole over his countenance, whilst the tears stood in his deep, melancholy eyes, as he looked from the animated living ï¬gure, to the dead falcon that completed the groug. As Mary spoke she unbound the masses of her shining hair, and taking a. paper from its folds, presented it to the King, fall- ing once more upon her knees, and kissing the royal hand extended to her with devoted loyalty. “ I have here communicated to your Majesty in cipher all I have learned about the plot. I might have been searched had I been compelled to de- mand an interview, and I knew no better method of concealing my packet than this. Oh, my liege ! my liege l conï¬de in me, the most devoted of your subjects. It is never to late to play a. bold stroke ; resist this measure with the swordâ€"say but the word. lift but your royal hand. and I will engage to raise the country in sufï¬cient force to bring your Majesty safe off, if I, Mary Cave, have to ride at their head I†“ Enough blood has been shed,†said he ; “ enough losses sustained by the Cavaliers of England in my quarrel. Charles Stuart will never again kindle the torch of warâ€"no, not to save his crownâ€"not to save his head 1 Nevertheless, kind Mistress Mary, forewarned is forearmed, and your Sovereign oï¬ers you his heartfelt thanks, ’tis all he has now to give, for your prompt re- solution and your unswerving loyalty. Would that it had cost you no more than your falcon â€"would that I could replace your favorite with a bird from my own royal mews. Alas ! I am a. King now only in nameâ€"I believe I have but one faithful subject left, and that is Mistress Mary Cave l†apparition was indeed an unusual variety in those tame morning walks, and the drooping ï¬gure of the lady, the dead bird, and the roused, excited horse, would have made a ï¬t group for the sculptor or the painter. “ Gallantly ridden, fair dame !" said the King, at length breaking the silence, and dis. covering himself to the confused equestrian. “ Although this is a somewhat sudden and unceremonioue intrusion on our privacy, we are constrained to forgive it, in consideration of the boldness of the feet, and the heavy na- ture of your loser Your falcon, I fear, is quite dead. Ha!†added the monarch, with a start of recognition ; “ by my faith it is Mia- tress Mary Cave 1 You are not here for nothâ€" ing.†he proceeded, becoming visibly pale. and speaking in an agitated tone; “ are there tid- ings of the Queen ?" As the King spoke. Lord Pembroke returned with the water, and Mary, with many ac- knowledgments of his Majesty’s condescen~ sion, and many apologies and excuses, mingled With regret for the loss of her falcon, mounted her horse. and leaving the pleasure grounds by a private gate or postern to which the Earl had the Key, returned to Boughton by the way she had come, . pondering in her own mind on the success of her enterprise and the impending calamities that seemed gathering in to crush the unhappy King. Much to the relief of the aged nobleman, this adventure closed the royal promenade for that morning, and Charles, giving orders for his attendants to be in readiness after dinner, as it was his intention to ride on horseback and indulge himself in a game of bowls at Lord Veux’s house at Boughtonâ€" an intention which may perhaps be accounted for his abrupt dismissal of Mary Caveâ€"re- tired to the privacy of his closet, there to de- liberate. not on the stormy elements of his political future, not on the warning he had just received, and the best means of averting an imprisonment which now indeed threatâ€" ened to be no longer merely a matter of form ; not on the increasing power of his sagacious enemy, who was even then taking his wary, uncompromising measures for his downfall, and whose mighty will was to that of the feeble Charles as his long cut-and- thrust broadsword to the walking rapier of a courtier; not of Cromwell’s ambition and his own ineompetency ; not of his empty throne and his imperilled headâ€"but of an abstruse dispute on casuistical divinity and the unï¬nished tag of a. Latin verse ! Truly in weaker natures constant adverâ€" sity seems to have the effect of blunting the faculties and lowering the Whole mental or- ganization of the man. The metal must be iron in the ï¬rst instance, or the blast of the furnace will never temper it into steel. “A RIDE ACROSS A COUNTRY.†On the day during which the events record- ed in our last chapner were taking place, the good sorrel horse, with the instinctive saga- cicy peculiar to his kind, must have been‘ aware that some trial of his mettle was imminently impending. Never before in the whole cum'se of his experience had the same care been bestowed on his feeling, wa‘ering. and other preparations for an ap- pxolmcd mm; ncwr bum: u had 113me a so miumrlv e:. z‘nquuJ the soundues s of uer an: paud buckle of his appo utmcms, inv spewed 50) idly the Elite of hip! shoes, 01' ï¬ned L119 1);; in his mouth. and the links of his curhchain with such judicious delicacy. Horses are keenly alive to all premonitery symptoms of activity, and the sorrel’s kind- WHOLE N0.l,115.â€"â€"N0, 27; ///// M Teefy CHAPTER XXX‘ It seemed to be no captive monarch sur- rounded by his gaolers that rained his good horse so gallantly in front of the trampling throng ; not one of his royal ancestors in the plentitude of his power could have both treated with greater outward show of respect than was Charles by his attendants who spied his most secret actions. and the com- missioners who were employed by the Parlia- ment to deprive him of his personal liberty. Old Lord Pembroke. riding on his right hand a little in rear of the King. bowed his vener- able head to the horse’s mane at every. ob- servation . of his sovereign. The Lords Denbigh and Montague, with the ceremon- ious grace which they had acquired years.be- fore at Whitehall, remained at the precise distance prescribed by etiquette from the per- son of royalty, and conversed when spoken to with the ready wit of courtiera and the ' ’r‘i â€beeï¬ng EPE'ï¬gï¬sh' :9hiefliï¬_ï¬â€™â€9ï¬â€˜ Charles beckoned his groom of the bed- chumber to ride up alongside, and old Lord Pembroke fell respectfully to the rear. It might have been remarked, however, that Montague immediately spurred on and remained within earshot. Herbert was a. favorite with the monarch. His affectionate disposition was not proof against that fascina- tion which Charles undoubtedly exercised over those with whom he came in daily con- tact, and a similarity of tastes and habits, a congeniality of disposition between master and servant, each being of a. speculative tem- perament deeply imbued with melancholy, laid the foundation of a friendship which seems to have been a congalation to the one in the darkest hours of adversity, the pride and glory of the other to the latest day of his life. Meanwhile a goodly cavalcade was approach- ing the half ruined bridge of Bramptonmhich here spanned the None, and which, although impassable to carriages, admitted of the safe transit of equestrians riding in single ï¬le. Bit and bridle rang merrily as the troop wound downward to the river side ; feathers waved. scarfs and cloaks floated gaudily in the breeze, and gay apparel glis. tened bright in the summer sun. It was the King and his courtiers bound for their afternoon’s amusement at Boughten, dis- coursing as they rode along on every topic save the one that lay deepest in each man’s heart. with that mixture of gay sarcasm and profound reflection which was so pleasing to the sovereign’s taste, and hazarding opinions with that happy audacity stopping short of freedom which always met with en- couragement from the kindly disposition of the Stuarts. No armed escort surrounded the King, no outward display of physical force seemed to coerce his will or fetter his actions ; yet the Parliament had chosen their emissaries so well that for all their decorous Observances and simulation of respect, with the exception of Herbert, not an inhabitant of Holmby House, from the earl in the presence to the sculliou in the kitchen, but was more or less a traitor to his sovereign. Tucrewas s marshy meadow by the river’s brinkY which even at this dry season of the year was moist and cool, grateful to the sen- sations of horse and rider. As the sorrel sp- prouched it. he snorted once or twice, erected his ears, and neighed long and loudly. The neigh was answered in more directions than one, for dragoons were patrolling the road in pairs, and no less than two outposts of caval‘ ry were distinctly visible. It seemed as though the war had broken out afresh. Dymocke rode quietly round and round the meadow, apparently attending solely to his horse, and an indefatigable angler,who ought ere this to have caught every ï¬sh in the Nine, looked up in astartled manner for an instant. and resumed his sport w1th redoubled energy and perseverance. Wilson as physician, and Mr. Thomas Herbert as groom of the bedchamber in waiting. made up the tale of the King’s personal attendants, whilst servants with led horses, and one or two yeomen of the guard, completed the eavelcude. "Patrolling ! †quoth Dymocke to himself, as he emerged from the park-gates and espied at no great distance two well-mounted dra- goons pacing along the crest of 8. raising ground, and apparently keeping vigilant watch over the valley of the Nene below. “A picket ! " he added with a grim leer. and a pm. on his horse’s neck, as the sun glinted buck from a dozen of carbines and the same number of steel breast-plates drawn up near a clump of trees, where the ofï¬cer in command flattered himself he was completely hidden from observation. “Well. they've no, call to say nothing to me,†was his con- cluding remark as he jogged quietly down to- wards the river side, affecting as much as possible the all‘ and the manner of % groom- Lminini; aliorse about to run for some val- uable szakeâ€"a process sure to meet with the sympathies of Englishmen. whatever may be their class and creed, and one which even most rigid Presbyterian would be unwilling to embarrass or interrupt. In was a good stake, too, that the sorrel was about to run forâ€" a stake of life and death, a match against time, with the course marked out by chance, and a winning-post placed by destiny. The sieel was sound and trim, his condition ex- cellent, his blood irreproachable ; to use the language of Newmarket, would he stay the distance and get home ? “ What sayest thou, Muster Herbert ‘2†said ‘ harles. laying his hand familiarly on the neck of his servant‘s horse as he paced slowly down towards the bridge. “ Did not the Stoios over that the wise mania alone a king and was not their ideal of wisdom the nil ad- mirari of the sntirist? Did they not hold that. it was a quality which made its possessor insensihle to pain or pleasure. pity or anger ; uliko impervious to the sunshine of prosperity as immovable by the storms of adversity; that the wise man knew neither hope nor fear, neither tears nor laughter; that he was essen- tially all-in-all to himself, and from his very nature equally a prophet, a priest, a cobbler, and a king ‘1†“Even so, your Majesty,†answered Her- bert; “ and it has always appeared to me that the ox browsmg contentedly in his pas- ture, satisï¬ed to eat and drink, and ruminate and die, approaches more nearly to the philosopher‘s ideal of wisdom, than Socranes with his convictions of the iuture, and Plato, with his speculations on the soul." lingeye and dilated nostril showed that he was prepared to sustain his part, whatever it might be, in the pending catastrophe. Dy~ monke, t-m, Md dis â€ï¬‚ed the warlike air and p mnmm bent: \1 j Lc‘u he usually af- Iucied: km had 0 My shortened his mmwnn'vmm , . u..l1L,andas he was H: kuwsu in w - man of few words and :m n-ww mimw-zx-u',1mne of his fellnw-ser- '\ .2:,-: u: ml tum Ian >11 them-(Alves to ques- U 1: v: 11 “in“ m ‘15 the wink-yard in a «,tmm' mulmzn'y undress, and rode the sor- 1'01 cau'elully mu m it were for :m airing. “ Right, Master Herbert,†answered the King, readily losing himself as was his wont in the labyrinth of abstract discussion which he delighted to provoke. †The two schools of ancient philosophy arrived, but by differ- ent paths, at the same destination. “ Eat and drink,†urges the Epicurean, “ for to- morrow you die." “ Rest and ponder,â€quoth the Stoic‘ “ for there is no reality even in life.†Either maxim is directly opposed to the whole apparent scheme of the natural world. The one would impress you with the uselezsnewe of sowing your grain ; the other convince you of the absurdity of reap- ing your harvest. Did either really prevail among men, the world could scarce go on a. year. â€"â€"This demonstrates the practical in love- making : -â€"It is said that the child born on Christ mas will always hate turkey and goose and lean towards codï¬sh and bacon. 08,11 my darling Wash the dishes ? Can she scrub the kitchen floor ? Will she keep on mending stockings \Vhen she hours the baby rom' ? Docs her nose detect bad butter, With which grocery stores abound ‘? Tell me, darling, do your shoestrings Fasten neat, or trail the ground. [To BE CONTINUEDJ