And as within thy heart thy treasure grows,
Think whence all good, all truth, all beauty flows;
For Love, th' adoptive spirit, was not given
To find all wealth on earth, and seek for none in heaven.

NORTH AND SOUTH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

IT needed the pretty light papering of the
rooms to reconcile them to Milton. It needed
more— more that could not be bad. The thick
yellow November fogs had come on; and the
view of the plain in the valley made by
the sweeping bend of the river, was all
shut out when Mrs. Hale arrived at her new
home.

Margaret and Dixon had been at work for
two days, unpacking and arranging, but
everything inside the house still looked in
disorder; and outside a thick fog crept up to
the very windows, and was driven in to every
open door in choking white wreaths of
unwholesome mist.

"Oh, Margaret! are we to live here?"
asked Mrs. Hale in blank dismay.

Margaret's heart echoed the dreariness of
the tone in which this question was put. She
omld scarcely command herself enough to say,
"Oh, the fogs in London are sometimes far
worse!"

"But then you knew that London itself,
and friends lay behind it. Here—well!
we are desolate. Oh Dixon, what a place
this is!"

"Indeed, ma'am, I'm sure it will be your
death before long, and then I know who'll—
stay! Miss Hale that's far too heavy for you
to lift."

"Not at all, thank you, Dixon," replied
Margaret, coldly. "The best thing we can
do for mamma is to get her room quite ready
for her to go to bed, while I go and bring her
a cup of coffee."

Mr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and
equally came upon Margaret for sympathy.

"Margaret, I do believe this is an unhealthy
place. Only suppose that your mother's
health or yours should suffer. I wish I had
gone into some country place in Wales; this
is really terrible," said he, going up to the
window.

There was no comfort to be given. They
were settled in Milton, and must endure
smoke and fogs for a season; indeed, all
other life seemed shut out from them by as
thick a fog of circumstance. Only the day
before Mr. Hale had been reckoning up with
dismay how much their removal and fortnight
at Heston had cost, and he found it had
absorbed nearly all his little stock of ready
money. No! here they were, and here they
must remain.

At night when Margaret realised this, she
felt inclined to sit down in a stupor of despair.
The heavy smoky air hung about her
bedroom, which occupied the long narrow
projection at the back of the house. The window
placed at the side of the oblong looked to the
blank wall of a similar projection, not above
ten feet distant. It loomed through the fog
like a great barrier to hope. Inside the room
everything was in confusion. All their efforts
had been directed to make her mother's room
comfortable. Margaret sat down on a box,
the direction card upon which struck her as
having been written at Helstone—beautiful,
beloved Helstone! She lost herself in dismal
thought: but at last she determined to take
her mind away from the present; and suddenly
remembered that she had a letter from
Edith which she had only half read in the
bustle of the morning. It was to tell of their
arrival at Corfu; their voyage along the
Mediterranean—their music, and dancing on
board ship; the gay new life opening upon
her; her house with its trellised balcony,
and its views over white cliffs and deep
blue sea.

Edith wrote fluently and well, if not graphically.
She could not only seize the salient
and characteristic points of a scene, but she
could enumerate enough of indiscriminate
particulars for Margaret to make it out for
herself. Captain Lennox and another lately
married officer shared a villa, high up on the
beautiful precipitous rocks overhanging the
sea. Their days, late as it was in the year,
seemed spent in boating or land pic-nics; all
out-of-doors—pleasure-seeking and glad,
Edith's life seemed like the deep vault of blue
sky above her, free—utterly free from fleck or
cloud. Her husband had to attend drill, and
she, the most musical officer's wife there, had
to copy the new and popular tunes out of the
most recent English music, for the benefit of
the bandmaster; those seemed their most
severe and arduous duties. She expressed an.
affectionate hope that if the regiment stopped
another year at Corfu, Margaret might come
out and pay her a long visit. She asked
Margaret if she remembered the day twelve-
month on which she, Edith, wrote—how it
rained all day long in Harley Street; and
how she would not put on her new gown to
go to a stupid dinner, and get it all wet and
splashed in going to the carriage; and how
at that very dinner they had first met Captain
Lennox.

Yes! Margaret remembered it well. Edith
and Mrs. Shaw had gone to dinner. Margaret
had joined the party in the evening. The
recollection of the plentiful luxury of all the
arrangements, the stately handsomeness of
the furniture, the size of the house, the
peaceful untroubled ease of the visitors—all
came vividly before her in strange contrast to
the present time. The smooth sea of that old
life closed up without a mark left to tell where
they had all been. The habitual dinner, the
calls, the shopping, the dancing evenings, were