Yet burns the sun on high beyond the cloud;
Each in his southern cave,
The warm winds linger, but to be allowed
One breathing o'er the wave,
One flight across the unquiet sky;
Swift as a vane may turn on high,
The smile of heaven comes on.
So waits the Lord behind the veil,
His light on frenzied cheek, or pale,
To shed when the dark hour is gone. --LYRA INNOCENTIUM

On the afternoon on which Guy expected an answer from Mr. Edmonstone, he walked with his fellow pupil, Harry Graham, to see if there were any letters from him at Dr. Henley's.

The servant said Mrs. Henley was at home, and asked them to come in and take their letters. These were lying on a marble table, in the hall; and while the man looked in the drawing-room for his mistress, and sent one of the maids up-stairs in quest of her, Guy hastily took up one, bearing his address, in the well-known hand of Mr. Edmonstone.

Young Graham, who had taken up a newspaper, was startled by Guy's loud, sudden exclamation,--'

'Ha! What on earth does this mean?'

And looking up, saw his face of a burning, glowing red, the features almost convulsed, the large veins in the forehead and temples swollen with the blood that rushed through them, and if ever his eyes flashed with the dark lightning of Sir Hugh's, it was then.