The Press., 1892-10-27


 know, and how could she understand, so young and woman, too, that duty makes exile needful? Of course do not mean to suggest that we deem onr new home in the Promised Land an exile" And here he again gave the same anx- ious look had before observed, as if he dreaded I had the power to dissolve an unsubstantial illusion.
 'sI wish had thought" he continued, 'sto show you, when you were at tea, a picture of Clitheroe Hall have. It is my daughter Ellen's work. She has 8 genius for art, really genius. We have been living in a cottage near there, where she could see the hall from her window-dear old place! and she has made & capital drawing of it." "You had left itt' I asked. He had paused, commanded by his melancholy recollections.
 "Oh, yes! Did I not tell you about my losses? was rich man and pros porous once. I kept open house, sir, in my wife's lifetime. She was a great beauty. My dear Ellen is like her, but she has no beauty-a good girl and daughter, though, like all young people, she has a juvenile wish to govern-but no beauty. Perhaps she will grow hand some when we grow rich again" "Few women are so attractive as Miss Clitheroe," said boldly enough.
 Il have tried to be good father to her, sir. She should have had diamonds and pearls, and everything that young ladies want, if I had succeeded. But you ought to have seen Clitheroe Hall, sir, in it's best days. Such oaks as I had in my park! One of those oaks is mo- ticed in Evelyn's Silva. One day, a great many years ago, found young man sitting under that oak writing verses. l was hospitable to him, and gave him luncheon, which he ate with a very good appetite. if he was poet. did not ask his name; but not three months after I received volume of | poems, with sonnet among them, really very we'll done-very we'll done, | indeed-inscribed to the Clitheroe oak The volume, sir, was by MT. Words worth, quite one of our best poets in his way, the founder of a new school" "A very pleasant incident!'
 "Yes, indeed. The poet was fortu- nate. was he not? But if you are fond of pictures, should have liked to show you my Vandykes. We had the famous Citheroe Beauty, an earl's daughter, maid of honor to Queen Henrietta Maria. She chose plain Hugh Clitheroe before all the noblemen of the court-we Clith- eroes have always been fortunate in that way. 1 said plain Hugh, but he was as handsome a cavalier as ever wore napier. He might have been an earl himself, but he took the part of liberty and was killed on the Parliament side at Edge moor. I had his portrait, too. d Van i dyke, and one of the best pictures he ever painted, as I believe is agreed by connoisseurs. You should have seen the white horse, sir, in that picture-full of gentleness and spirit, and worthy the handsome cavalier just ready to mount him."
 As the old gentleman talked of his heroic ancestor, name not unknown to history, he revived little and I saw an evanescent look of his daughters vigor in his eye. It faded instantly. He sighed and went on.
 Il should almost have liked to live in those days. It is easier to die for holy cause than to find ones way along through life. I have found it pretty hard, sir-pretty hard-and I hope my day of peace is nearly come."
 How could I shatter his delusion and thunder in his ear that this hope was a lie?
 'sI had happy time of it," he con tinued, 'till after my Ellen's birth, and ought to be thankful for that. I had my dear wife and hosts of friends-so thought them. To be sure I spent too much money, and sometimes had rather too gay an evening over the elaret at my 1 old oak dining table. But that was harmless pleasure, sir. was always a kind landlord. never could turn out a tenant nor arrest a poacher. I suppose I was too kind. I might better have saved some of the money gave to my people in beef and beer on holidays. But it made them happy. like to see every body happy. That was my chief pleas ure. The people were very poor in Eng land then, sir-not that they are not poor now-and I used to be very glad when a good old English holiday or a birthday gave me a chance to give them a little festival"
 could imagine him the gentle, genial host. Fate should have left him there in the old hall, dispensing frank hospitality all his sunny days and bland seasons through, lunching young poets, and showing his Vandykcs with proper pride to strangers. His story carried truth on its face. In fact, the man was all the while an illustration of his own tale. Every tone and phrase convicted him of his own character.
 l lContinued next weekly