ALFRED.

Lucile! (first and last

Be the word, if you will!) let me speak of the past.
I know now, alas! though I know it too late,
What pass'd at that meeting which settled my fate.
Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet! let it be!

I but say what is due to yourself-due to me,
And must say it.

He rush'd incoherently on,

Describing how, lately, the truth he had known,

To explain how, and whence, he had wrong'd her before,
All the complicate coil wound about him of yore,

All the hopes that had flown with the faith that was fled,
'And then, O Lucile, what was left me,' he said,
'When my life was defrauded of you, but to take
'That life, as 'twas left, and endeavour to make
'Unobserved by another, the void which remain'd
'Unconceal'd to myself? If I have not attain'd,
'I have striven. One word of unkindness has never
'Pass'd my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has ever
'Received my submission. And if, of a truth,

'I have fail'd to renew what I felt in my youth,

'I at least have been loyal to what I do feel,

'Respect, duty, honour, affection. Lucile,

'I speak not of love now, nor love's long regret:

'I would not offend you, nor dare I forget
'The ties that are round me. But may there not be
'A friendship yet hallow'd between you and me?
'May we not be yet friends-friends the dearest?'

'Alas!'

She replied, 'for one moment, perchance, did it pass 'Through my own heart, that dream which for ever hath brought 'To those who indulge it in innocent thought

'So fatal and evil a waking! But no.

'For in lives such as ours are, the Dream-tree would grow 'On the borders of Hades: beyond it, what lies?

Y

'The wheel of Ixion, alas! and the cries

'Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us,

'Are the days when with innocence we could discuss

'Dreams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreams of my life! 'Oh trust me, the best friend you have is your wife. 'And I-in that pure child's pure virtue, I bow

'To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow

'Not one blush when I first took her hand. With no blush Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you.

'Hush! hush! 'I would say what I wish'd to have said when you came. 'Do not think that years leave us and find us the same! The woman you knew long ago, long ago,

'Is no more. You yourself have within you, I know,
'The germ of a joy in the years yet to be,
'Whereby the past years will bear fruit. As for me,
'I go my own way,-onward, upward!

'O yet,

'Let me thank you for that which ennobled regret,
'When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled,—
'The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead,

'But it is not corrupted. I too have at last

'Lived to learn that love is not-(such love as is past, 'Such love as youth dreams of at least)-the sole part

'Of life, which is able to fill up the heart;

'Even that of a woman.

'Between you and me

'Heaven fixes a gulf, over which, you must see,
'That our guardian angels can bear us no more.
"We each of us stand on an opposite shore.
'Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women learn,
'By an instinct men never attain, to discern
'Each other's true natures. Matilda is fair,
'Matilda is young-see her now, sitting there!—
'How tenderly fashion'd-(oh, is she not, say,)
'To love and be loved?'

IV.

He turn'd sharply away

'Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair;

'Of all that you tell me pray deem me aware;

'But Matilda's a statue, Matilda's a child;

'Matilda loves not-'

Lucile quietly smiled.

As she answer'd him:-'Yesterday, all that you say
'Might be true; it is false, wholly false, though, to-day.'
'How?—what mean you?'

'I mean that to-day,' she replied,

'The statue with life has become vivified:
'I mean that the child to a woman has grown:
'And that woman is jealous.'

'What! she?' with a tone

Of ironical wonder, he answer'd-'what, she!

'She jealous!-Matilda !-of whom, pray?-not me!'

'My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but you 'Is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank Heaven, too, 'That so lately this passion within her hath grown. 'For who shall declare, if for months she had known. 'What for days she has known all too keenly, I fear, 'That knowledge perchance might have cost you more dear?'

'Explain! explain, madam!' he cried in surprise;

And terror and anger enkindled his eyes.

'How blind are you men!' she replied. Can you doubt 'That a woman, young, fair, and neglected—'

'Speak out!'

He gasp'd with emotion. 'Lucile! you mean-what? 'Do you doubt her fidelity?'

'Certainly not.