harmonious psalms that were in the book that lay
beneath the head of the dead, and the moon
shone in all her splendour."

A RENT IN A CLOUD.

IN TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER IV. THE "LAGO D'ORTA."

LEAVING Loyd to compose his letter, we will
follow Calvert, as, with vigorous stroke, he
rushed his light boat through the calm water,
leaving a long bright line of bubbles in his
wake. Dressed in his blue flannel shirt and
white trousers, a gay bunch of roses stuck
jauntily in the side of his straw-hat, there was
an air of health, vigour, and dash about him, to
which his full bright eye and up-turned moustache
well contributed. And, as from time to time
he would rest on his oars, while his thin skiff
cleaved her way alone, his bronzed and manly face
and carelessly waving hair made up a picture of
what we are proud to think is eminently British
in its character. That is to say, there was about
him much of what indicated abundance of
courage, no small proportion of personal strength,
and a certain sort of recklessness, which in a
variety of situations in life is equivalent to
power.

To any eye that watched him, as with scarce
an effort he sent his boat forward, while the
lazy curl of smoke that rose from his short pipe
indicated ease, there would have seemed one
who was indulging in the very fullest enjoyment
of a scene second to none in Europe. You had
but to look along the lake itself to see the
most gorgeous picture of wooded islands and
headlands glowing in every tint of colour, from
the pure white of the oleander to the deep
scarlet of the San Giuseppe, with, in the distance,
the snow-capped Alps of the St. Bernard, while
around and close to the very water's edge
peeped forth little villas, half smothered in
orange-blossoms. Far over the lake came their
floating perfumes, as though to lend enchantment
to each sense, and steep the very soul in
a delicious luxury.

Now, as Calvert felt the refreshing breath of
the gentle air that stirred the water, he was
conscious of a glorious morning, and of something
generally grand in the scene about him; but
that was all. He had little romance—less of
the picturesque—in his nature. If his eyes
fell on the lake, it was to fancy the enjoyment
of cleaving through it as a swimmer; if he
turned towards the Alps, it was to imagine how
toilsome would prove the ascent; how deeply
lay the snow on the wheels of the diligence;
how many feet below the surface were buried
the poles that once marked out the road. But
even these were but fleeting fancies. His
thoughts were seriously turned upon his own
future, which opened no bright or brilliant
prospect before him. To go back again to
India, to return to the old regimental drudgery,
or the still more wearisome existence of life
in a remote detachment; to waste what he
felt the best years of life in inglorious indolence,
waiting for that routine promotion that
comes associated with the sense of growing old;
and to trace at last the dim vista of a return
to England, when of an age that all places and
people and things have grown to be matters of
indifference. These were sad reflections. So
sad, that not even the bright scene around him
could dispel. And then there were others, which
needed no speculation to suggest, and which
came with the full force of documents to
sustain them. He was heavily in debt. He
owed money to the army agent, to the
paymaster, to the Agra Bank, to the regimental
tailor, to the outfitter—to every one, in short,
who would suffer him to be a debtor. Bonds,
and I O's, and promissory notes, renewed till
they had nigh doubled, pressed on his memory,
and confused his powers of calculation.

An old uncle, a brother of his mother's, who
was his guardian, would once on a time have
stood by him, but he had forfeited his good
esteem by an act of deception with regard to
money, which the old man could not forgive.
"Be it so," said he; "I deemed my friendship
for you worth more than three hundred
pounds. You, it would seem, are differently
minded; keep the money, and let us part." And
they did part, not to meet again. Calvert's
affairs were managed by the regimental agent,
and he thought little more of an old relative,
who ceased to hold a place in his memory when
unassociated with crisp inclosures "payable at
sight."

"I wonder what would come of it if I were
to write to him; if I were to put it to his
humanity to rescue me from a climate where,
after all, I might die—scores of fellows die out
there. At all events, I detest it. I could say,
'My leave expires in October, if you would like
to see me once more before I quit England for
ever, for I am going to a pestilential spot—the
home of the ague and jungle fever, and heaven
knows what else—your sister's son—poor
Sophy's child.' That ought to touch him."
And then he went on to think of all the tender
and moving things he could write, and to picture
to himself the agitation of him who read them;
and thus speculating, and thus plotting, he
swept his light boat along till she came close in
to shore, and he saw the little villa peeping
through the spray-like branches of a weeping
ash that stood beside it. "Higher up," cried
a voice, directing him. "Don't you know the
landing-place yet." And, startled by a voice not
altogether strange to him, he looked round and
saw the old lady of the Rhine steamer, the same
who had snubbed him at Coblentz, the terrible
Miss Grainger of the lost writing-case. It was
some minutes before he remembered that he was
performing the part of boatman, and not appearing
in his own character. Resolved to take all
the benefit of his incognito, he lifted his hat
in what he fancied to be the true Italian style, and
taking a basket in each hand, followed the old
lady to the house.

"It is three days that we have been expecting