denied. A fretful discontent gnaws at the heart, the worse for being ashamed to confess it.
But Ethel soon felt the error of giving way to this utter discouragement: she made it a duty to struggle against it. She rose from her seat; and, flinging open the casement, strove to divert her attention by looking out upon the river. She turned hastily away; she had no sympathy with the sunshine—the movement—the seeming cheerfulness of the world below. She took up her work, but that was no mental stimulus; she laid it down, and, going to her little bookcase, took down the first book that came to hand.
It was a favourite volume which she opened—"Fugitive Poems, by Walter Maynard." She had always taken an interest in one whom she had known from earliest childhood; and of late the melancholy in herself had harmonised with that which was the chief characteristic of his writings. She soon became interested: her sadness took a softer tone: for now it seemed understood, and met with
