trie habits—had, in the course of life, picked up much harmless wisdom, but, perhaps from the want of worldly prudence, failed of fortune. Contented with an obscure retreat and an humble livelihood, he might yet naturally be loth to confide to others the painful history of a descent in life. He might have relations in a higher sphere whom the confession would shame; he might be silent in the manly pride which shrinks from alms and pity and a tale of fall. Nay, grant the worst—grant that Waife had suffered in repute as well as fortune—grant that his character had been tarnished by some plausible circumstantial evidences which he could not explain away to the satisfaction of friends or the acquittal of a short-sighted world—had there not been, were there not always, many innocent men similarly afflicted? And who could hear Waife talk, or look on his arch smile, and not feel that he was innocent? So, at least, thought Caroline Montfort. Naturally; for if in her essentially womanlike character there was one all-pervading and all-predominant attribute, it was Pity. If Fate had placed her under circumstances fitted to ripen into genial development all her exquisite forces of soul, her true post in this life would have been that of the Soother. What a child to some grief-worn father! What a wife to some toiling, aspiring, sensitive man of genius! What a mother to some suffering child! It seemed as if it were necessary to her to have something to compassionate and foster. She was sad when there was no one to comfort; but her smile was like a sunbeam from Eden when it chanced on a sorrow it could brighten away. Out of this very sympathy came her faults—faults of reasoning and judgment. Prudent in her own chilling path through what the world calls temptations, because so ineffably pure—because, to Fashion's light tempters, her very thought was as closed, as
"Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,"
was the ear of Sabrina to the comrades of Comus—yet place before her some gentle scheme that seemed fraught with a blessing for others, and straightway her fancy embraced it, prudence faded—she saw not the obstacles, weighed not the chances against it. Charity to her did not come alone, but with its sister twins, Hope and Faith.
Thus, benignly for the old man and the fair child, years rolled on till Lord Montfort's sudden death, and his widow was called upon to exchange Montfort Court (which passed to the new heir) for the distant jointure house of Twickenham. By this time she had grown so attached to Sophy, and Sophy so gratefully
