taste, and it was one of the few pleasures which he enjoyed alone and independent of any one else, and he now did not regret that he had studied it in former years as a science, and bestowed upon it so much time and attention, which his friends thought might be much better employed, in a way more congenial to their own frivolous pursuits. Unconscious of listeners in the music room at the Grove, he would recall the inspired passages of the finest composers, or with intense feeling, and with a deep, true voice sing the songs which had been his favourites in happier hours; and as each twilight saw him seated at his piano with his soul in the melody or the words, so that hour beheld Sybil, half reclining upon the threshold of the door which led out upon the lawn, with her dreamy eyes fixed upon the coming stars, wrapt, silent, motionless, with but one thought in her heart, the cadence of sweet sounds. To her such music was a new existence, or rather some part of her being which she seemed to have lost or found, -for how unlike it was to her wild untaught carol, more bird-like than human, how strange, and yet how exquisite, that scientific combination of sounds, and she enjoyed intuitively those intricate passages of tangled harmony, which can be scarcely understood except by the favoured few whom genius has crowned, or by those patient students who make music a part of their education. With what longing did she anticipate that twilight hour, with what pleasure did she look for that daily privilege. Motionless as a statue would she sit until the parting strains sounded, and then as they died away and the instrument was closed, softly would she rise and murmur inaudible thanks for the pleasure which she had received, while Vernon in his blindness was all unconscious of her presence, and then in some woodland haant, when she knew that she had no listeners but the birds of the air, she would repeat the melody that she had learned from Vernon with the same trills and passionate intonations, giving his own emphasis to every word of her childvoice. His favourite haunt in the woods was a secluded and natural grove, and it was from this spot that the name of his country-seat, Vernon Grove, had been derived. It was, indeed, in "The very inmost heart Of an old wood, where the green shadows closed Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, A luxury of gloom." Even in the brightest sunlight there would be shade and retirement there, and the whispers of the wind in the topmost branches, that mysterious voice of the trees, brought to his spirit, if not peace, something akin to it, and like a cradled child listening to a beloved voice, he was calmed beneath the tranquillizing influence. To this spot he was often led by his attendant, who understood enough of Vernon's habits to know that he desired to be left there alone. It was at such a time as this, that Sybil one day unconsciously intruded upon his solitude. The tempter, who had led her to the grove, was a bird whose flight she was pursuing playfully, and she was seduced into those quiet precincts before she was aware of it, by its hopping from branch to branch, and consequently arching its little neck as the distance increased between them, as if it enjoyed and understood the pursuit but felt itself safe in its liberty. Just at the entrance of the Grove, the pretty creature perched itself upon a tall, bending twig that rocked to and fro even with its slight weight, and then with a sort of mocking triumph, as if it were sure that Sybil could not reach it there, sent forth such a gush of melody, such a thrilling song, that she stood entranced while she listened. When the song was ended, Sybil's joy found utterance in the ringing laugh of a careless, happy girl. "Beautiful creature!" she exclaimed, "was that song meant for me-for me alone? It must have been; and what can I do for you in return, as you sit up there on your regal throne? Shall I call you the King of the Wildwood, and will an answering song be tribute fit for a subject to her sovereign ?" The bird carolled a note as if in return to her question,-a soft, gentle, tremulous note; and then her voice rose in the forest in one of Vernon's favourite songs, at first faint and trembling as though “a tear were in it," then trilling high in clear, bell-like notes; and at last gushing out in an alto so rich and peculiar, so tender and impassioned, that Vernon forgot his wonder in his pleasure, and simply enjoyed with his whole being. The intensity of the expression was derived from him, but the trills and variations and the thousand nameless graces, Sybil's alone. "It seemed a sea-born music, floating The blue waves o'er, Like that which charms the mermaids, boating By moonlit shore, In every dying fall denoting The strains in store." As her song was finished, from the interior of the grove she heard a voice calling her name, and frightened and half abashed she entered with blushing cheeks, as though she had been guilty of a crime. She knew that it was Mr. Vernon's voice, and like a culprit she awaited what he had to say. "Sybil," said he again, in a voice which had no displeasure in it, " come nearer; I have been listening to your song; tell me how and where you learned it, and who taught you to give such expression to your words? IIas some prima donna privately given you lessons that you thus seem to have imbibed the very spirit of Italian song?" "No, never," she said quite solemnly to his playful question, "I would tell you, but I am afraid that you might be angry." "Not more than the bird to whom you sang it," was the reply, "but why do you think that I might be angry?" Sybil was candor itself, not so much from principle, for that had not yet been developed, but simply because deceit was not in her nature. "I do not know exactly why," she answered, "but that you frown at times as though something vexed you, and are so grand and solemn, that I thought you would frown upon me if you knew-" Sybil stopped. "If I knew what, child?" "If you knew," she said softly, and watching every line in his face, "that every evening when you sing and think that you are alone, I sit on the door sill watching the coming stars and listening to you, and it seems such a calm, happy close to a busy day, that I am always sorry when the music stops." Vernon smiled, rather than frowned, and this gave Sybil encouragement to go on. And then," she continued, "I try to remember what I have heard, and some. times sing as you heard me just now, out here in the woods, but only for myself." "And the birds," said Vernon, smiling still more kindly. Then he assured her that it would always give him pleasure to have her for a listener; and wishing to prolong the conversation, because he was beginning to feel an interest in his young companion, he asked her if she loved music, and if it would give her pleasure to hear those wonderfully gifted artists who have moved a whole world to admiration. "Oh, yes," she answered quickly, "the poets love it, and so do I." "And are you a poet as well as a songstress, Erato as well as Euterpe." "Oh! no, no, not a poet," said she, blushing, "but they all write so much and so feelingly about music, that it was they who first taught me to love it, and then listening to you made me realize what a glorious art it was." "And pray, what do you know about the poets?" he asked with growing curiosity, "are you a spirit or a fairy that you read their brains, and fashion their thoughts with words before they give them a form themselves? do you meet them at midnight under the stars, and do they sing for you their unpublished songs?" "No, sir," she answered, half puzzled at his bantering tone, and half fearful that the dreaded frown would follow the words, "those in the library, I mean; grandmother said that I might go there if I was careful with the books, and that you would not object, and, oh, Mr. Vernon, if you could only”— "Only what, Sybil, do not fear to of fend me, I am not the monster you imagine me, taking little boys and girls like an ogre, or killing them with a look; tell me what you were going to say." “This was all,” she answered in a voice whose tone now was softened by pity, "if you could only see to read what I read there." Vernon sighed; it needed not little Sybil's confirmation to tell him how much he lost by his blindness. 'But I must go now," she said, turning away as she saw the sudden quivering of his lip, "for grandmother must be expecting me," and so independent were they of each other that she was hurrying off without another thought of his solitude and blindness. "Is it so late, then?" he asked, "your song has shortened, wonderfully, my afternoon musings." "I am very sorry," she said frankly, as though he implied that she had done something wrong, can I call John for you? it is indeed getting late, for yonder is my star, my summer time-piece I call it, looking down upon the grove; and see, now a light cloud is passing over it, not quite hiding its beauty, and now it shines out again in a solemn, steady light." Sybil was talking to herself, scarcely to her blind companion: Alas! there was no star for him, no cloud except that over his blinded eyes, nor was there for him that pretty picture of the child, pointing with upraised finger to the heavens, yet it gladdened him to think that her unstudied words told of a love of the beautiful in nature, and it drew him nearer to his newly found friend. "We can go together, can we not, Sybil ?" he asked. “Oh, yes,” she answered gladly, and was tripping off before him with a child's thoughtlessness, but he called her back, and told her that she had forgotten that he required a guide, and hand in hand they wended their way homeward through the fragrant woods, conversing with the freedom of old acquaintances. "After all, Sybil," he said, “you are not such a child as I thought; you are almost as tall as my shoulder, though you must still be very young." "I am just thirteen," she answered, "but I am so ignorant, so very ignorant, of what my grandmother tells me every girl of my age should be acquainted with, Geography, Grammar, and Arithmetic, that I suppose that is the reason why you thought I was a very little child. As I know so little of what I ought to understand well, she tries hard to instruct me, but she is getting old and feeble now, and cannot teach me much." Vernon mused awhile; he felt that something was to be done; he felt that he had neglected her during those past two years. That she had indeed done what she could for herself, he doubted not, but what a wild, untutored mind was the result; and then her wondrous voice, and her love of the poets, what genius might not they portend, and how much a systematic education might achieve for her! He was not a man to argue, and think, and ponder upon any fancy that he might have; his resolution was taken in a moment, and he told her of it. "Just thirteen, Sybil ?" he said, "then you must be as one of your poets has said 'As a rose at fairest, Neither a bud nor blown.' And it is full time for you to have masters to instruct you, and you shall have them, if you desire it, and you shall take lessons upon what instruments, and learn what languages you choose. Would you like to be brilliant and accomplished?" If Richard could not see her, he knew by the fervent clasping of her hands, and her heart-felt exclamation of delight, that she appreciated fully his kind offer. "And are you to do all this for me, and I nothing for you?" she asked timidly, after a pause. "Oh, yes," he answered, with a laugh as careless as in other days, "you must read to me from your friends, the poets; you must write for me, sing for me, and lead me to the woodlands sometimes; you will have work enough to do, Sybil." "But not too much, I know," said Sybil, who was delighted at the idea of being of importance to any one. Then they were silent, each busily musing upon the new page of life that they had turned, and nought was heard save the twittering note of a bird seeking its nightly shelter, or their foot-falls on the dead leaves, as they passed homeward through the woods. The setting sun crimsoned the western sky, and the early stars peeped in and out in the twilight, but the man and the child walked on unconscious, thinking only of the starlight and the sunlight that had so strangely and suddenly shone upon their hearts. And soon they reached their home, from which they had departed almost strangers; but after she had led him to his accustomed seat, and again thanked him for his interest in her, after he had told her smilingly to remember that the obligation was to be mutual, they parted, fast friends. A day, an hour, a minute, may make the joy or sorrow of a life; we can even date back from a look, a single glance of the eye to the misery of years, or a clasp of the hand has been the earnest of an existence of unalloyed happiness. And that day at the grove necessarily made the one or the other, the joy or the sorrow of Sybil's life. But who can foretell the future of happy, joyous girlhood? We must accompany her step by step to the end. Sybil, I would have thy frank brow unclouded ever, thy step as bounding, thy eye as tearless as now. But can it be, where change is written on earth's fairest scenes? The sunny morning merges into the stormy night, the blooming field of summer becomes the wintry moor, and thou must change, but how, and why? Happy Sybil! With a glad step she hastened to tell her grandmother of her good fortune and to talk of her future accomplishments. She bewildered the simple old lady with her eloquence, and overwhelmed her with her recapitulation of what she would do and be. First she meant to learn about the stars, know their names, and trace the constellations in their rising and setting; she would seek the woods for botanical specimens, and class each flower and shrub with minutest care; she would study Geology, and the formation of the earth would be as familiar to her as the formation of a simple bird's nest, while French, German, Italian, and Music, would be her daily friends. Nothing seemed too difficult for Sybil's excited imagination, and if ever an air castle was built, it was then and there by the breathless child, as she recapitulated her future triumphs in learning to her grandmother, who listened almost sadly, for those whom she had loved and lost had been what Sybil called accomplished, and had passed silently away from her sight. She did not, however, chill the young enthusiast's hopes, but kissing her warmly, in her own simple way she told her that she might live to know many more things than her grandmother did, but that she must never forget that it was she who first taught her the names of those very characters which were the foundation of all book knowledge. Then looking down into the young face which was turned upwards to hers, she continued solemnly: "And Sybil, dear, one thing more I must add; remember, among many books there is still but, one-one which came from heaven-while all the rest are conceived and fashioned by men; you will never forget in the new languages, in the brilliant thoughts, in the bewildering romances which will be opened to you, the Bible, my child? promise me that." CHAPTER V. "Imagine, then, some pupil nymph consigned To you, the guardian of her opening mind, In all the bloom and sweetness of eleven, Health, spirits, grace, intelligence and heaven; While still from each exuberant motion darts A winning multitude of artless arts. Withal such softness to such smartness joined, So pure a heart to such a knowing mind, So broken-hearted when your frown dismays, So circumspect, so fearful to offend, And at your look so eager to attend, With memory strong, and with perception bright, Her words, her deeds so uniformly right, That scarce one foible disconcerts your aims, And care and trouble-never name their names! Yes, I forget you have one anxious care, You have one ceaseless burden of your prayer: It is, Great God, assist me to be just To this dear charge committed to my trust." [Dr. Gilman's Contributions to Literature. Richard Vernon faithfully put all his plans for Sybil's education into execution. He sent to a neighbouring town for masters, who gave daily lessons to his young charge, and it must be confessed that he felt less absorbed in his own immediate troubles and happier than he had been for years, for now his life had added to it a new object of interest, and he gave himself up to the work before him with an energy which surprised even himself. Training up a child to womanhood! Alas, how unfit was he for the responsibility he had assumed. It was an easy thing to guide her mind in acquiring knowledge, to teach her the varied expressions in music, or to give the right accent to a foreign tongue, but the heart, how could he think as he did, of moulding that? In his isolated position he had lost sight of the fact of his unfitness for such an office. None dared to tell him of his faults, he had not even Linwood to remonstrate when he became overbearing, but still the faults were there. Rebellious, unreconciled to the great sorrow of his life, proud, obstinate even to his own hurt, subject to fits of despondency and worse paroxysms of uncontrollable anger, which would obey no law, with no religious sense to temper a disposition not naturally gentle, how could he, how could he say as he did to himself, "I will be. the guardian to this child?” The outward graces of Sybil he might, indeed, cultivate, but never could he lift the veil which covered her heart and say with unfaltering tongue, "I am worthy to be the keeper of the treasure there." As Sybil's studies confined her to the house more than formerly, she learned something of the impulsive character of Vernon, although she had never seen his temper in its full deformity. Gratitude for the generous part he had acted, pity for his blindness and the knowledge of the interest which he took in her progress, all united in fostering a feeling of affection for him and an intense interest in his character, but it was not long be fore she beheld it in its darkest shade, beheld that stubborn will inflexible to the last, that cruel nature seemingly delighting in its power to wound. A boy, the child of a poor, but pious neighbour, had been convicted of stealing fruit from Vernon's orchard, and he ordered the culprit to be severely punished. In vain the boy, who was a fine, manly youth, confessed his crime and besought Vernon's forgiveness, promising on his knees repentance; Vernon forgave not. The boy reiterated in broken sobs that he knew that his fault was a flagrant one and deserved punishment, representing to him whom he had offended the distress of his mother when the account of his conduct and penalty should be heard by her, that mother who had taught him so differently; he dwelt on the grief of his sisters, who had ever been proud of his manliness and honesty, but fruitlessly did the poor boy plead. In Vernon's mind |