the impress of that which is past? The men of to-day are as truly living souls as the men who existed two thousand years ago; and have as much need to be guided,-that which they have does not guide them. When men become able to use their private judgment about their religion and the belief by which they ought to live, it has ceased to be a religion; it has lost its hold, its grasp on the hearts and minds of men ;-the need of a dominant power is making itself felt. That which ought to be a grand unity is breaking up into fragments, and every man has to build himself his own shelter from the ruins as he can; but, because we are deprived of the beautiful temple in which our fathers worshipped, are we to dwell amid the wrecks for ever? But certain periods, ever since the beginning of things, times not unlike those in which we now live, have occurred,-when nations have been sitting amid the ruins of their gods in desolate expectation of that which shall be, and in the time of deepest need a messenger, a teacher, has always arisen amongst them. Teachers of the highest nature have been of very rare advent in the cycle of eternity, who have had a grasp strong and firm on humanity,— their own nature deep and wide enough to comprehend and articulate the world-wide wants and aspirations of all men, to whom the people have willingly submitted themselves. Leaders and teachers, so far exalted in their nature above their fellows as to seem like gods on earth, have not often appeared; nevertheless, when the world required a mighty impulse to carry it forward, they have appeared, and gone before, making a path towards the future, into the Unknown, in which the ages that followed have walked. It is written, "The people that sat in darkness have seen a great light, and to them that sat in the valley of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined." And why should not that light shine into our hearts also? Why should wE,, of all the ages which have preceded us, expect to be left desolate? Why are we to be condemned to juggle with our own souls, striving to persuade ourselves that we believe what we do not? Instead of trembling and crouching to the PAST, let us have faith in the Future; for it is to the FUTURE that our faces are set. FORWARDS mankind must of necessity go, so long as the generations of men continue on the earth. There is no return possible into the Past. The Arabs have a proverb which signifies that the most distant event in futurity lies nearer to us than the transaction that happened an hour ago. It is in the Future we must hope-the Past is barred against us.

549

A STAR IN THE DARK.

"There is a future to all who have the virtue to repent, and the energy to atone." -BULWER LYTTON.

You may call it foolish and romantic, if you like, but I repeat, that I could more easily forgive one great fault, committed under strong temptation, and foreign to the natural disposition, than a series of petty meannesses springing from and belonging to the character.'

Thus spoke Helen Travers to her sister, Mrs. Cunningham, and the thread of their discourse is taken up where first it was overheard. It was a strange spot for anything like a "confidential" or "sentimental" conversation to have taken place; but every one must have observed, that subjects of interest often arise in the most unexpected manner. The two ladies had mistaken the hour at which a morning concert was to commence, had arrived somewhat too early, and had consequently taken their seats before any others were occupied. Perhaps, warming with the subject under discussion, they had not observed the few stragglers who from time to time dropped in, and certainly had not heard the footfall of a gentleman who entered, and seated himself immediately behind them, just at the moment when some of the attendants were making a prodigious din in their re-arrangement of the benches near the orchestra.

"I could not have married a man in whom I did not take pride," replied Mrs. Cunningham; "I am very sorry for people who have ever been led away to do anything wrong, but they must take the consequences of their own conduct; certainly anything like disgrace, or the world's censure, falling upon my husband would crush me to the earth."

"Not if his fault were the one fault of a life," resumed Helen; "not if you loved him very dearly. Nay, I think his very suffering would draw you more together. I have a theory, that the very happy do not love half so deeply as those who have known

sorrow.

"I call such ideas perfect nonsense."

"I know you do," replied her sister with a faint smile, and playing as she spoke with the fringe of her shawl.

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Any one would think, to hear you talk, that you had fallen in love with some scapegrace or another, and were seeking to excuse your folly."

"Susan! you know there is nothing of the kind.

You know I have never felt anything more lasting than a passing fancy, which one shakes off, just as waking breaks up a dream.

"How should I know?

“Then believe,—I would not deceive you. Though three-andtwenty, indeed I dread old-maidism far less than an ill-assorted union.'

Helen Travers turned her head as she spoke, and though she did not perceive the stranger, he caught the profile of her animated countenance. But the audience were by this time arriving, and the sisters drew nearer together to make room for new comers. There was an end to their conversation of course.

Notwithstanding a certain family likeness, a look that was caught now and then, the sisters were very different. The elder, Mrs. Cunningham, was far the more beautiful, if exquisitely chiselled features and a brilliant complexion could make her so. But though quick and clever, even witty and accomplished, she was deficient in sentiment and the powers of imagination; was a lover of detail; and therefore despised, because it was to her incomprehensible, the higher and generalising mind. A thoroughly worldly education had completed her character, and rendered her a cold-hearted, selfish woman of the world; without enough of heart to feel the necessity of affection, and yet possessing an insatiable vanity that fed on universal admiration! Her sister formed a perfect contrast. With features less regular, her countenance was as changeful as the sea; for it mirrored every thought and feeling, as they welled up from her woman's heart. Early removed from the influence of worldly-minded parents, she had been reared by a widowed aunt, a high-minded being, who had sought and found the sweetest solace for her own early bereavement, in the artless nature of her young relative. Although by no means a stranger to the Metropolis, or to society, the country had been Helen's home. Her young heart had expanded beneath the influences of nature; her taste had been refined, her fancy quickened by it; and though she had read much, she had had time and leisure to think more.

In short, she was a fine natural character, as little warped as possible, by the prejudices of the selfish and the conventionalities of society. Death had, a year before, deprived her of her more than mother, and the independence which this beloved relative had bequeathed to her, while it rendered her an object of envy to her unmarried sisters, seemed to her own heart no consolation for her irreparable loss.

But the stranger who had overheard those few sentences which, to a thoughtful mind, revealed a world of knowledge, what of him? He had come to that morning concert simply to enjoy music in which he delighted; yet so absorbed did he become in some all engrossing thoughts, that the sweet sounds which he had sought to hear, fell upon his soul only, from time to time, as chimes that harmonised with his reflections, whatever they might be, and were only remembered afterwards by the power of association which linked some peculiar cadence with a thought, a dream, a memory: or with a moment where his attention had been roused by some expression of pleasure or admiration in the sweetest voice he had ever heard the voice of Helen Travers. He was not what boarding-school girls and youths in their teens call young, for he must have reached five or six and thirty; and, according to such high authority, he had passed the age of romance and the capability of a sudden love, and yet, in those two hours he drank as deeply of the draught as ever did mortal man. A strange and awful Youth had checked and driven back the tide of emotions which belonged to its epoch; only that it might swell now with the concentrated might of a loftier sentiment, a chastened tenderness, and restrained passion. He would--ere half that time had expired-have perilled life to have touched her ungloved hand, or to have caressed the light ringlet which floated from time to time beyond her bonnet!

It seemed, too, that fortune was to favour him, for friends came up, and addressed Mrs. Cunningham by name; mutual introductions elicited that of Helen. He had but to follow them to their door; and now he knew who she was, and where she lived. This he did with wonderful calmness. People always are calm on really great occasions; except, indeed, people who are themselves too small ever to make or understand them.

Well-the pigmy of soul escape through the entangling meshes which Fate weaves for mankind, into the outer void of mere animal existence; they are the strong of heart and quick of sense who are

retained to play great parts in the struggle of life and the war of the passions. And yet, and yet oh mystery of humanity! who that has suffered deeply, has not felt that in the deepest depths of anguish there is a pulse which vibrates not with pain! Feebly, and rather as the first faint promise of a future joy, than the flicker of an expiring power, but still to console, still to whisper, "Peace, peace; better thus, than not to feel!

So felt William Johnson-for by that common name must the stranger be known-so felt he in the hour of endurance, when that strong man writhed in silent lonely agony on the floor of the gorgeous apartment of which he was master.

Life is either one long chapter of accidents, or there is no such thing as an accident in the world! Three days afterwards the stranger of the concert-room was formally introduced to Helen Travers at the house of a mutual friend. Three months from that day let us listen to their words; they had been betrothed for weeks. The scene was a drawing-room in an antique country house. Both were the guests of Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham.

"I have but one care, William, one sorrow in the world," exclaimed Helen, pressing the hand which had fondly clasped hers between both her own; " oh, why this mystery, why this concealment! You are free to do as you will, and so am I though good, and generous, and true; and rich," she added with a smile; as you are, my family, you well know, would receive you with

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open arms!"

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'The time is come; be seated," he replied in a tremulous voice, and releasing his hand with a gesture that might have been, but was not, mistaken for coldness. And while Helen sank on a neighbouring couch, he leaned his arm for support on the opposite side of the mantel-piece. His countenance was pale as ashes, his voice grew more steady as he proceeded.

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but

The first time I saw you, he continued, "I heard you say you could more readily forgive the one great fault of a life, than habitual meanness of character. I have two sins to confess ere I would wed you as I might do, and you never, never know them; you see if I am my own accuser, I also make the most of my virtues; therefore do I take some credit for enforcing secresy till I had summoned strength for the confession. For if you reject me, and sorrow in the act, I believe you would rather not take the cold world into your confidence. And yet, Helen, if there be solace in revealing what I tell you, be free as air to do so if you