more streams and climbing more stair-ways. | into this sudden abyss. Yet they come like a From this bridge just at the head of the Cathe-shower of light, aqueous meteors darting downdral Fall we may pause and look back without ward into the gloom. fearing the fate of unhappy Orpheus or Lot's wife. We have one of the most characteristic views of water-carved rocks and boiling waters in the Glen. Just in the centre, where the contorted outline of the upper shelf meets the dark shadow of the nether gulf, we see a huge head bobbing grotesquely up and down, with curling locks of ghastly whiteness, like those of Undine's frightful uncle, Khulebom. This is the head of the Cathedral Cascade.

Now forward, and up a few shelving steps in the rock, and we have before us the scene which, in our opinion, climaxes all the beauties and sublimities of the Glen.

The main stream descends in a perspective of sparkling cascades, uniting a succession of circular pools in deep stone basins or wells, grooved and polished like finely wrought marble. On either side the cliffs rise to an awful height, showing rocky entablatures, with architrave, frieze, and cornice as clean cut and well proportioned as those of a Grecian temple. Over these come pouring adventurous streamlets from the upper world-foolish young creatures that have wandered and fallen unwittingly

THE PATRIARCH.

At every turn here there is material for a wonderful picture, and when our time is limited it is difficult to make a selection. Still forward, we wind along a shelving path that gives a dry passage under the water-fall on the left. Beyond there is still a mile or more to be explored, full of curious and pretty things; but we have climbed so many ladders, steps, and stair-ways that we must be approaching the level of the upper world; indeed, the diminished height of the cliffs indicates this sufficiently, and may account for our diminishing interest. Then we know Nature is under bonds never to repeat herself; and we begin to suspect she must be getting straitened for new patterns of water-falls. She had better consult Harper's Bazar of last season, or close the exhibition.

A short distance above we met the faithful and ingenious road-maker of the Glen, who informed us that the practicable highway ended for the present in a certain dark pool of unknown depth. The news was not unwelcome, for we felt as if we had been spending the day with the Undines.

Retracing our steps, we observed many beautiful points which in the eagerness of our advance we had overlooked. There is a deep circular well, whose obscurity is partially lighted by the shimmer of a slender cascade, which is one of the most remarkable objects in the collection.

Returned 10 the Mountain House, we began to suspect it was near dinner time, and concluded to go back to town by the short road across the hill. Here again was a scene in dramatic contrast with those we had just turned our backs on. The pretty village, the lake, and the horizon of hills all melting and swimming in the warm golden sunlight just as we had left them, but warmer.

Where are we now? Whose are these beautiful grounds, with flower-starred turf and groups of stately evergreens? Tombs! ah, yes! we are passing through the cemetery.

Thus always, after our day of hope and achieve- | ting resort. To complete its claims to their rement, this is our nearest way home. Yet the gard there is now in process of erection a large view of so glorious a resting-place might cheer and convenient sanitarium, where the malingerour hearts even amidst the gloom of the dark ing public may be dosed with pure air, exervalley. cise, and cheerful recreation-nature's medicines-on scientific principles.

Thus ended our first day at the Glen.

Some of the company remained a week or more, steaming up and down the lake, and visiting other objects of interest in this delightful region. There are other glens and waterfalls, of themselves well worthy the attention of the tourist, whose wonders and beauties are second only to the Glen at Watkins.

If any one doubts the superior healthfulness of this region let him visit our ancient friend, Thomas Terryberry, who lives at the head of the Glen. This patriarch, still brisk and merry as a cricket, alert on his feet as a boy, with all his faculties clear and sound, boasts that he is ninety-seven years of age. Now as we have the best local authority for asserting that he has been ninety-seven for the last sixteen years, we may safely predict that he can live sixteen years longer without getting much ahead of "his century."

There are pleasant drives through a country dotted with neat villages, blooming with orchards and vineyards, abounding in all agreeable and picturesque objects; but we returned to the Glen day after day, and found that, instead of palling, its weird charms rather grew upon No place is more easy of access than Watus. At each visit some new beauty was devel-kins, located directly on the great lines of travel oped, some curious nook or angle, unremarked to and from Niagara, of which the Glen is a before, arrested our attention; and we took leave regretfully, impressed with the belief that we had not seen the half of its wonders.

worthy pendant; and any modern Dr. Syntax, philosophically curious in sight-seeing, may have the opportunity to decide whether it is In conclusion, we would commend the spot more enjoyable to take one's quantum of subto some of our great landscape artists, as prom- limity in one stunning, foaming gulp, or to sip ising subjects worthy of their powers. To the it more coolly and luxuriously through a spininvalid there is no more healthful or invigora-dling tunnel three miles in length.

M

ANNE FURNESS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MABEL'S PROGRESS," "AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE,"
"VERONICA," ETC.

CHAPTER XXXVII. OTHER was crying when I went into the room. She hastily wiped her eyes, and turned her back to the light when she saw me. But I had perceived the tears.

"Did you see your grandfather?" she asked, in a quick, confused way. "What did he say ?" I briefly told her of my grandfather's absence from Horsingham, and of his being expected back at night. She gave a little sigh, partly of disappointment, partly of relief. She had dreaded the time when my grandfather should learn the truth. Then, before I spoke of the letter, which I had slipped into my pocket, I in my turn questioned her.

He

in the house. Flower had walked in, with un-
abashed front, and requested to see her.
had come, he said, for his money. A quarter's
wages were owing to him, which he peremp-
torily demanded. Mother told him that he
had forfeited all right to his wages by running
away from the house, in the manner he had
done, without a word of warning; but that if
money was really due to him-which she did
not at all know-it might be that his master
would pay him some portion of it, if he applied
for it in a proper manner. She (mother) could
do nothing for him. He must speak with Mr.
Furness.

But this did not suit Flower. He tried to persuade her into giving him some money then and there. She might have been weak enough to do so, in order to get rid of him, had she had the means; but she had them not. On this the fellow grew very insolent; threatened all sorts of vague vengeance; declared that it had been "No, dear. I have not been fretting about a bad day for him when he came into such a that."

"What is the matter, mother? You're not -you're not fretting for me? Not repenting what we did this morning? Dear mother, I'm sure it was a right thing to do, and I am so thankful that we accomplished it."

"Then is there any new grief come to you?" She hesitated for some time to answer, saying it was nothing; she had been foolish in taking it so much to heart. At length, fearing that I should think the matter worse than it really was, she told me that she had had two troubles since I had been absent. The first had been Flower's very unexpected appearance. My father was in Horsingham. Mother was alone

VOL. XLIII.-No. 253.-4

beggarly house; and, in fine, was unreasonable and insolent, as was the nature of him. But through his vague threats of vengeance something definite had pierced. He knew all about Mr. Gervase Lacer. Miss Anne would not much like him to spread what he knew in Horsingham. All that he had said that time Mr. Furness blackguarded him for it had been true-and more! Why had he denied it, then, and begged pardon? Why, because Mr. Lacer

A nice, way! Charged with the ruin of her family! It was too monstrous. And the worst is that father has so taken it to heart! He won't hear me blame the woman. 'No,' he says; 'she was right, perhaps. I bring trouble and misery on every one. My name is a by-word where it had been honored for generations!' And so he goes on. It was cruel. I can't forgive her. And are we not making sacrifices to do right? Shall not we, too, be forced to go away from our pleasant home, and give up all we have in the world?"

had tipped him to hold his tongue. respectable son-in-law Mr. Furness had got hold of! And Flower would take care that all Horsingham knew his story. But presently he had broken out in a still more insulting and ruffianly strain. Well, he wished Miss Anne joy, then, of the letters she had written to "Lacer," that was all! She might be sure they would be made public enough if it suited "Lacer's" book to do so, unless Mr. Furness would buy him off. And finally Flower took his departure, after treating my mother to this scene, with a volley of coarse sneers and low abuse, which he uttered aloud on his way through the kitchen and across the garden, for the benefit of the two women-servants and any others who might be at hand to hear.

"What did he mean, Anne, by letters you had written to Gervase Lacer?" asked my mother. "The man was not quite sober, but I do not believe he was so intoxicated as not to know what he was saying. You never wrote to Mr. Lacer, did you?"

I felt that that was no time to plead or make excuses for Mrs. Arkwright. I thought that the letter I had brought with me would be the best means of soothing my mother, and turning her thoughts away from the thorny present to green pastures where we might hope, at least, for peace.

"Oh, Anne!" she said, and clasped her hands tightly together. "Oh, Anne! if it should be-if it is—”

I took it from my pocket, and held it up before her eyes, telling her at the same time how I had come by it, and that grandfather had directed she should open it in his absence. Moth"I wrote to him twice. Once at your bid-er's face paled and flushed, and paled again, ding to ask him to dine or drink tea here-a as she devoured the square, red-sealed envelope mere commonplace note of three lines. The with her eyes. other time I wrote to him was after I had learned from him that my father was concerned in having a race-horse trained secretly. I was disturbed by the thought night and day. I kept turning it over this way and that way in my mind. At length I wrote a little letter to Mr. Lacer, asking him if there were no means to prevent to prevent all the trouble that did happen, after all. It was not very wise, perhaps, so to write. But I was so restless and unhappy I could have caught at the merest straw. The letter was one which-now-all the world might read."

"Of course, darling! But I was doubtful of the fact of your having written at all. And how did Flower ascertain it ?"

"Perhaps he posted the letter; I don't remember. Nor is it worth a second thought. Dearest mother, don't let such a wretch's low malignity disturb you. But you had a second trouble, you said. What was it?"

"The second trouble, Anne, is a more serious one. And I'm afraid it will hurt you a good deal. Your father went to Horsingham. He was obliged to do so. There he heard that Matthew Kitchen had put an execution into the Arkwrights' house. That was a blow to him, for I think it opened his eyes to the hard, grasping character of the man. Father has always said that Matthew was more reasonable and forbearing than people gave him credit for. Then there came worse. He saw Mrs. Arkwright somewhere—in a shop or in the street -and she began to rail upon him, laying her misfortunes at his door. Poor father!"

"She is violent, mother. But consider-five little children! And then her husband, whom she so idolizes-"

"Oh, Anne, I can't forgive her! It was too unjust. Your father attacked publicly in that

"Surely it is a bearer of good tidings, dear mother. The matter was nearly settled before. Ought not father to be present when we open it? Where is he? Let me call him."

"He is wandering about the shrubbery. But stay, Anne! Don't go, my child! If it should not be good news, after all! Let us spare him the chance of disappointment. Give it to me."

Her hands shook so much that she tore the cover across in trying to open the letter. And she breathed quickly, and kept her lips parted, like a person parching with thirst.

There were two letters-one from Colonel Fisher to my grandfather, the other from the new proprietor of the Scotch estate to Colonel Fisher himself.

Mother looked at the latter first. It was very brief-a few lines, as I could perceive without distinguishing the words, very neat and straight, and headed by a big gilt monogram. Mother kept her eyes fixed upon it for a much longer time than it could have taken to master its contents. She seemed to be reading it over and over again. At length, as she did not look up, I said, in a low voice, "Well, mother ?"

But the chill of her silence had struck to my heart. I knew-I knew! She glanced at me for a moment, and heaving a deep, long sigh, shook her head slightly. Then she looked down again at the letter lying open on her lap.

I took it up and read it. But to this hour I can not recollect a word of it, although I gathered the sense of it instantly. It seemed to me as if the paper were covered by one word-No! no! no! no!-in characters that quivered before my quivering eyes.

The face was

not altered as by age or imbecility. No, the lines were firm, the brows and jaw strong as ever. But behind that mask there was not light, but darkness. But I feel how inadequate are my words to convey the impression it made upon me.

We remained a long time without speaking. | could fancy that the reverse had taken place. Then we tried to cheer each other. This one Light after light had been quenched. The sun chance had failed, but there would be others. of the spirit had grown dim. We had had no right to make sure of success on the first attempt. So little trouble had been taken, after all. And so forth. "You have not looked at the other letter, mother," said I. "What does Colonel Fisher say? He may have heard of something els "Colonel Fisher!" The words were echoed in my father's voice, smooth the folded letter with the palm of his and my father stood in the room. hand, neither looking up nor making any other

While mother was speaking he continued to

There was no help for it. He must read the movement. When she paused he said in a ill news without any preparation.

Father then read the Colonel's letter, but not loud. We watched his face. It did not move, or change much, except that a dull red color spread itself over his forehead and cheeks. I have said that my father was a tall man, stalwart and upright. During these last few weeks he had become bowed, and his head hung forward on his breast with a moody air. It was as if failure and shame and disappointment and remorse had been ponderable things, whose burden was laid upon his shoulders.

He did not speak a word, but folded the letter again, laying it on the table before him, and smoothing it with the palm of his hand with a slow, monotonous motion.

queer, apathetic manner, and in a monotonous tone, very unlike his old, robust voice, which had a wide range of notes in it,

"I suppose that your father would take care of you and Anne, if I were gone, Lucy?" "Gone, George darling! Gone where?" Father shook his head. "That I can't tell," said he, in the same manner as before.

"If you were obliged to be away for a time, of course we could be at Mortlands, Anne and I. But I had hoped we should all remain together."

"Your father is displeased with me; very justly. But I-don't-think-he would-visit it-on you-and the girl."

The words dropped out slowly, slowly, from his mouth, as rain still drips from the eaves when the force of a shower has long spent itself.

"Father would do any thing in the world for us, or for you, dear George! Indeed, indeed he would."

"For me? He can do nothing for me. But he is a good man. I have always known that." "You must not say he can do nothing because this first trial has failed. You are cast Mother, uneasy at his silence, began to talk down by it. But let us look the state of the in as unconcerned a manner as she could as- case fairly in the face. All debts will be paid. sume. It was a disappointment, of course; That is the first and chief comfort, is it not? but who could get a suitable situation at the You will leave Water-Eardley owing no man a very first attempt? Father might find some- shilling. Nay, perhaps there may remain a thing in England. Perhaps he would like that little money in hand from the sale. If you better than going off to the Highlands. It have to wait a few weeks before finding emmight turn out well after all, might it not? ployment, we have a home to go to, and a welMr. Cudberry had spoken only the other day come. Mortlands would shelter us all, George of a large estate in one of the eastern counties dear. With your knowledge and experience that he had heard of; the property of a minor; and recommendations, it is difficult to suppose and the guardians wanted a responsible person that you would be long without a situation. as steward and general manager. And thus And you would not be foolishly proud. You poor mother went on, gathering together what would take any honest employment to start crumbs of comfort she could find, for her hus- with. Why, when I see how clear and straight band's disappointment. our way lies, I wonder that we can be despondent. It seems almost ungrateful, darling!"

Disappointment! Was it disappointment? There was an inscrutable look in his face that attracted my attentive eyes to it incessantly, and as incessantly baffled their scrutiny-a look that made his face strangely unfamiliar to me, if I may use such a phrase. We speak of a face being lighted up, and we all know what is meant by it. We know what it is to see the eyes, those "windows of the soul," shine with an inward fire. In my father's countenance I

As mother spoke she had put her hand on father's shoulder caressingly, and now stooped down and kissed his forehead. He did not respond to the caress, but looked up at her with haggard eyes, and said:

"It is easy to talk of things being clear and straight, and of all debts being honorably paid. Debts! Who knows whether there is enough to cover them? Who knows whether you and

Anne have not beggared yourselves for nothing? | he repeated the words several times broodingly, Shall you not curse me in your hearts if it turns and, as it were, to himself. out to be so ?"

It was a weary, dreary day, all that remained of it. But in the evening there was a full moon, and we coaxed my father to go with us into the garden. It was not warm, but a serene, still night, and we wrapped shawls round us and paced about the garden paths, among the flow-creased and faded by the years it has passed ers and shrubs, looking so spirit-pale in the in mother's little Tunbridge-ware box, into moonlight. Then we sat down on a garden which she put it that morning after she and I bench, and lingered there until quite late. It had read it. This is the note: was long since we three had been together undisturbed. Mother sat encircled in my father's arm. Her head leaned upon his shoulder. One of her hands clasped his hand; the other held one of mine. Her face was upturned to the serene sky, and it looked, I thought, like one of the white, sweet flowers at her feet.