ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS. 87

not the rector suddenly exclaimed, ‘* Where is
Rose ?”

‘Crying in her own room, I'll be bound ;
I’m sure she iss Why, Rose—and I really
‘ must get your reverence to speak to her, she is
a sad girl—Rose Dillon, I say—so silent and
homely-like—ah, dear! Why, grandaughter—
now, is it not undutiful of her, good sir, when
she knows how much I have suffered parting
from my Helen. Rose Dillon!” ,

But Rose Dillon was not weeping in her
room, nor did she hear her grandmother’s voice
- when the carriage, that bore the bride to a new
world, drove off. Rose ran down the garden,
intending to keep the equipage in sight as long
as it could be distinguished from an eminence
that was called the Moat, and which command-
ed an extensive view of the high road. There
was a good deal of brushwood creeping up the
elevation, and at one side it was. overshadowed
by several tall trees; in itself it was a sweet,
sequestered spot, a silent watching place. She”
could hardly hear the carriage wheels, though
she saw it whirled along, just as it passed within
sight of the tall trees: Helen’s arm, with its
glittering bracelet, waved an adieu; this little
act of remembrance touched Rose, and, falling
on her knees, she sobbed forth a prayer, carngst
and heartfelt, for her cousin’s happiness.

*“‘ God bless you, Rose !”’ exclaimed the trem-
bling voice of the discarded lover, who, pale and