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138 er, he paused for a moment to admire the beauties of the morning. The blue wreaths of smoke were beginning to curl gracefully up from the cottages of the peasantry in the valley below, and the dew-beads one by one, were dropping from the heavy green foliage of the trees. Other domestics were stirring about the grounds, while here and there a peasant went forth to his daily labor, with the implements of husbandry swung over his shoulder. It was, withal, a pleasant scene— one which the heart of the old English ser vant loved—for it spoke of a land where cheerful industry was found. He fastened the dogs in their enclosure, and then sat down again on the steps of the eastern porch to wait a summons to his mas ter. The bright sun wheeled its broad disk from behind the eastern hills, and traveled higher and higher on his way towards the zenith. All nature was apparently rejoicing in a day well begun. For two or three long hours, the old steward sat and looked out up on the scene spread before him. A low mur mur, as of two engaged in an absorbing con versation, came to him from the room of his master. At length, impatience began to take possession of him. “1 wish this young sprig of nobility, whom master is pleased to honor so highly, would cut short his morning call, or stay to break fast. Master always haves chocolate and bread at nine, but it looks like nothing goes on to-day, as it is wont. I have waited for them full live hours here, by the sun, I verily believe; but they will never end their talk. The same humming sound comes from the room, as at first. Urgent business, and not pure mishap, has called that young lord here, for true.” As the old man ceased soliloquizing, he heard his master’s well-known step approach ing the door. He aroused himself quickly, to attend the summons which he felt sure awaited him. At length it was given, and he opened the door of the reception-room, and looked in. The old Earl stood in the middle of the lloor—his long locks, plentifully sprin kled with grey, were brushed away from his forehead, and his dressing-gown had fallen off from his shoulders, revealing more fully his tall and noble form. But the languid, musing, moody expression, which a few hours before had been upon his sharp and wrinkled features, had given place to a high flush of excitement, and his dark eye peered out from under his grey eye-brows, with an expression only seen in them upon exciting occasions. The face of the Duke, too, exhibited traces of hope, mingled with fear. His hunting-cap had fallen to his feet, and, with his cheek resting on his hand, his upturned eyes were flxed upon the face of the Earl. “Dudley,” said the old man, hurriedly, “say to the Lady Arabella that her father and the Duke of Devonshire request an im mediate interview. They wait her presence.” The servant turned slowly away upon his errand, and then, as if fearful that he had not fully understood the import of his master’s words, he paused with the knob of the heavy oaken door in his hand, waiting for a repeti tion of the command. “Do not tarry, Dudley! Our business is important. Summons your lady immedi ately!” “Ay ! it is as i thought,” muttered the old man, as he moved slowly away in the direc tion of his lady’s chamber; “ the Duke scents more precious game than could be started in the park, this morning ; but it will be in vain—all in vain.” He paused, after having ascended the oaken stair-case, before a door leading into a cham ber, the most spacious and luxurious in the castle. It would seem that every delicacy had been brought into requisition by the Earl of Lincoln, to adorn and beautify the room in which his darling daughter spent the sunny days of her maidenhood. Rich vases of flowers loaded the mantle-piece and tables, SSSMtsM Ball IT &(E A ©A S SIT IT IS * while splendidly bound books were scattered here and there throughout the room. In the deep recesses of one of the windows, the La dy Arabella herself was seated, busily enga ged with a book of devotions. While one little, dainty hand, supported her cheek, the other, with a small circlet of gold around the wrist, hung over the arm of the high-backed chair, in which she reposed. Her dress was of white, made in the peculiar fashion of that day, and her hair, soft and brown, was combed smoothly back from her high intellectual brow, and confined behind with a small comb, studded with diamonds. As the old servant opened the door, she raised her large blue eyes from the book where they had been resting, and displayed a face remarkable for the purity and sweetness of its expression, rather than for its beauty. She was evident ly one of those gentle beings, who make the paths they chance to tread in life seem smooth and thornless—one, whose low musical words sink deep into the heart, and dwell there like remembered melody —one, fragile as the vio let in the deep wood, and yet born “ to hope and endure all things,” for conscience’s sake. She seemed to have participated in the spirit of unrest which had pervaded the household that morning, for she had been up several hours, and a cluster of blush roses fastened into the front of her dress, told that she had been walking in the garden, enjoying the in vigorating influences of the early morning. Perhaps she was not unaware of her father’s entertaining an unusual guest, that morning, for she rose immediately,- and followed old Dudley to the room where they were waiting. As she entered, the young Duke of Devon shire rose hurriedly to greet her, while a soft blush mantled her face and neck. The Earl, her father, fixed his keen eyes upon her face, as if he would have read her inner soul;. but, save the blush of maidenly modesty, there was no sign of agitation. She seated her self, calmly and collectedly, beside the chair recently occupied by her father, and the sat, as if waiting the opening of a conversation, which a delicate instinct seemed to teach her was to follow, and which she knew would cause wounds she could never heal. “My daughter has not forgotten one to whom, under God, she owes her life!” said the Earl half angrily, as he marked her mere ly polite reception of their illustrious guest: “the Duke of Devonshire needs no formal introduction to her, I am sure; he rescued you from a watery grave.” “ I would have done it, and been most hap py in periling my life for one so priceless,” said the Duke, in an agitated voice, “but an arm, stronger than mine, bore her from the waves, while 1 received her from the Dank. For the trifling service I was then happy enough to have it in my power to render, no thanks are due.” “ I have been assured by my servants, who witnessed the scene,” said the Earl, “ that it was to your bravery I am indebted for the life of my child. Our interview was brief at that time, and my feelings were too much agi tated to admit of my thanking you as I ought. My child has since met with you, and thanked you in person, I have been told; but neither thanks nor gold can pay the debt of gratitude we are under to you.” “ I should, indeed, be blame-worthy and unthankful, my dear father, were I ever to forget the service rendered me by the Duke and his friend in that dreadful hour of peril,” said the Lady Arabella, her sweet eyes filling with tears as she spoke. “ The Duke of De vonshire and Mr. Johnson will ever live in my liveliest remembrance.” “ Mr. Johnson!” said the Earl, lowering his heavy eye-brows as he spoke. “ Pray, to what Mr. Johnson are we indebted'? and why have I never been informed of it before !” “ Isaac Johnson, dear father! The subject is a painful one, and has never been adverted to since. My lord, the Duke of Devonshire, though he claim not thanks, will ever be the possessor of my gratitude.” As she spoke, she bowed towards the seat the Duke had resumed during the conversa tion. “I claim not gratitude, noble lady, for any service rendered,” said the Duke, rising and approaching her, “ but there is a sentiment akin to that, which I would give worlds on worlds to possess, were they mine. I mean, your love.” As he spoke, he took her hand, and kneeled at her feet. The flu-*h came and went upon the cheek of the noble lady; and her hand trembled slightly in the palm which enclosed it; but there were no heart-flutterings; her cheek, after a few moments, resumed its stea dy color, and the nerves grew firm, while, in a soft and gentle voice, she made reply. “ My warmest, best gratitude, noble Duke, is yours—my love is irrevocably bestowed up on another— irrevocably bestowed ; and words have been spoken, which cannot be recalled. Rise, I pray you,” she continued, withdraw ing her hand, and motioning him to his feet; “rise, for I cannot endure to see one, to whom 1 am so deeply indebted, assuming the attitude of a suppliant in my presence.” The Duke did not stir. Not a muscle changed; he seemed transfixed to the spot. — He folded his hands mechanically over his breast, and his large dark eyes seemed dilating with intense emotion. One short sentence from the fresh, unchanging lips above him, had sealed hD doom, and crushed hopes and aspirations long and fondly entertained.— There was no revocation to be made —no words to be recalled; he read it in the clear blue eye, in the calm and steady voice, and unfaltering gaze of the maiden before him. 0, what bitter hours there are in life!— “ hours which crush the hopes from out young hearts,” and wring bitter tears from eyes unu sed to weeping!—moments of agony, when Friendship, and Love, and Happiness, are so many phantoms, rising up and mocking us in our misery. The Lady Arabella glanced timidly up to the face of her father. He still stood in the centre of the room, but his cheek had become ashy in its hue, and his eyes were bent upon ; her more in anger than in sorrow. As he en countered her gaze, he stepped forward, and, laying his hand upon her head, spoke. “ Arabella, my child, reflect well upon what j you are doing! Remember that this hour seals your fate ! Do you refuse to ally your- 1 self with one of the proudest houses in the I realm ? Will you persevere in prefering an untitled plebian to the nobleman, who now sues for your hand V’ j “ Father!—dearest, best of fathers!—l j have reflected—l have decided. Prevarication would, on my part, be base wickedness. I am sorry to wound, but I cannot retract.” “The fiat has gone forth, then, my noble Duke,” said the Earl sorrowfully, removing j his hand from the head of his child to the arm j of the suitor at her feet. “Rise! the Lady | Arabella is determined to ‘make her own j path, and fling her own shadow upon it!’ ” “We part not in anger!” said the girl, as she extended her hand to the Duke, whde he was in the act of rising. “We will hence- i forth be friends /” As she spoke, one of the blush roses in her ! dress fell from her bosom to the floor. The ! Duke caught it hastily, pressed it to his lips, ! and rushed from her presence without other j reply. Those who knew his proud and no- ! ble nature, said afterwards that “ he was cra zed with unrequited love.” * * * -X- **.){. * The year 1632 dawned over a band of humble pilgrims, who had fled from the old world, and fixed their rude habitations in the wilds of America. They sought among sav age hordes the dearest right of man, “ Free dom to worship God!” I heir rude cabins were built of logs, and some even dwelt in caves of the earth.— They had left behind them comforts, wealth ■ friends and ease. They had gained by the exchange that which was priceless, “libert’ of conscience and speech.” Some of them were hardy, stalwart men—creatures of iron nerve and inflexible wills; but others had been reared in the lapof luxury, and the chili rough winds of New England, affected them as the early frost does the spring flower.— Among the latter was the Lady Arabella ; Johnson, the Earl of Lincoln’s idolized child Woman! woman! what a mystery thou art! More than ten years had elapsed since the Lady Arabella had united her destiny | with Mr. Johnson’s. The Earl, her father. | llad gradually yielded in his ambitious pro jects for his child, and had sanctioned her i marriage with the man of her choice. It N remarkable that such was the case—that one so proud, and fond of hereditary honors, should have ever consented to her alliance with a gentleman without titles, or lordly ex j pectations. But God rules in the affairs of men; an humble, persecuted band of his fol j lowers, were yet to need the aid and encour agements which this titled woman would ren j der, while encountering the fatigues and tri i als incident to emigration. Mr. Johnson had become a puritan; he had sold his large land ed estates in England, and, with the money received, had aided in the embarkation of the despised sect to which he belonged. He did more than this. He joined the expedition him self, and with his frail and beautiful wife shar ed tne dangers and toils of the emigrants. During the whole of that fearful voyage, the lady Arabella was a sunbeam in the dark ship, Her sweet voice might have been heard ail day long, reading God’s precious promises to the aged, comforting the sick, strengthening the weak, and cheering all. To her hus band, she was emphatically “an angel of mercy.’’ In his saddest hours, she could chase away the gloom which gathered over his face—her own spirit never sunk into de spondency—no privation ever called a mur mur to her lip. On the 12th of June, 1630, the ship reached the port for which it was bound, in Salem, Massachusetts. Their reception among the Pilgrims was a most melancholy one, for dis ease had been among the colonists, and many of them, as they welcomed their friends, cried out in the touching language of grief, “We have looked on Death since we met you last!” Ihere w 7 as no luxurious table spread for them in the wilderness—no princely palace opening its portals for their reception. And yet again, this noble-minded heroine mur mured not. To the poor and distressed, in the colony, her visits were frequent—her sweet smile, yea, merry laugh, gushed out like the bird’s music in spring, while building its nest in the warm sunshine ; and yet none doubted her piety, for she bore in her very looks the spirit of the Saviour. But the flower of the Pilgrims could not long with stand the chill winds and hoarse blasts of a New England climate. It withered away, and the year 1832 witnessed its dissolution. In some of her visits of mercy, she caught a fearful cold. At first, it was a source of little or no inconvenience, but gradually a slow, intermitting fever, crept over her as its accompaniment, and her strength failed. — She was obliged to keep hex* room, and then the news went from cabin to cabin, that the Lady Arabella was ill, and her husband was distressed at her situation. It was touching to witness the unaffected grief and sympathy of the Pilgrims. Group after group of wo men went up, in the course of the morning, to see and prescribe in their simple way for their noble friend and benefactress ; the phy sician came with his drugs and vials; and, as the disease of the sufferer assumed a more ma lignant form, he mused long and sadly by the bed-side. Every thing was done for her that the limited means of the colony would admit.