the sound of the intruder's voice, our
well-fed pets set up for justices of peace, and
raise their voices to put down the base cur who
dares to hint that he is hungry. Loud thunders
the deep bass bark of the Newfoundland in his
kennel, the dog of the large honest head and
well-knit limbs. Shrill rings the pert treble
yap, yap, of the toy terrier in her basket.
Thus they add their contribution to the voices
of midnight. The voice of the wind is never so
clear and expressive as at night. Then it is that
the wind breathes among the trees those whisperings
which a dreamer fashions into human speech.
Then it is that the wind makes with the brooks
such wondrous harmonies. Then it is that
in autumn it sighs outside our window for the
summer days gone by in years that are no more.
And now on the roof of the house there begins
weird music. It suggests mystery, and sets
the fancy a working. Yet it is produced by
nothing nobler than a tall and a very ugly
modern chimney pot, into whose great open ear
the wind pours talk.

Within the house there is no lack of voices.
The crickets in the kitchen fireplace, keep
high holiday at night. Chests of drawers and
arm-chairs relieve their minds with
inexplicable cracking noises. The steady ticking
of the large clock in the hall has at this
hour more solemn emphasis than at noonday.
Men of the "desk, and the loom, and the mart"
are very much inclined to believe that after five
in the afternoon all hard work is impossible.
But many a sound working brain is never so
active as at midnight. Then, often are the voices
of the mighty dead most audible to the
attentive scholar. Then, often does thought
shape itself most clearly to the thinker's brain.
Some of Schiller's finest works were written at
midnight. From the stir of social life, from the
calmer delights of home, even from his Charlotte,
he fled to a solitary little house apart from
the city, where in the shadowy arbour near at
hand murmured among the leaves the voice
of Thekla, and upon the night wind came
swelling the manly voice of William Tell; or
up the lines of the dim garden walk, there rang
the war cry of the maid of Orleans. The stars
were looking down upon Paris when a grave
melodious voice came to tell the author of
Dombey how little Paul died. It was while
his Christina slept, that Goethe woke to
gaze at the moon. The poet brings to mind
the nightingale, which in some districts makes
all the night astir with melody. But in Devon
and upon its borders, where I have been hearing
these night voices, the song of the nightingale
is never heard. It is strange that nightingales
should avoid that corner of England in which
the mild air breathes most like the breath of
the south, and in which the woods and fields
are clothed with the brightest verdure. I say
nothing of such other voices heard at midnight,
as the voices of old memories, of vanished
hopes, of long departed dead. Mr. Longfellow,
in his Voices of the Night, has given
full and beautiful expression to all utterance of
this sort. I confine myself to the cocks, owls,
night-hawks, cockchafers, crickets, dogs, clocks,
chimney-pots, and chests of drawers.

THE ABBOT'S POOL.

IN SIX CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.

She will weep her woman's tears, she will pray her
   woman's prayers;
But her heart is young to pain, and her hopes will
   spring again
With the sun-time of her years.
MRS. B. BROWNING.

"IT is quite true, my dear," said the Vicar
of Sedgbrook, as he stretched out his slippered
feet, and sank back in his arm-chair to enjoy
the warm fire and cheerful room, doubly
appreciated after a long day passed in traversing
muddy lanes from one outlying hamlet to
another of his scattered country parish: "it is
quite true; I met Denbigh this afternoon at the
quarry cottages, and asked him if I were to wish
him joy; and he said 'Yes, it is just settled.'
He seems in very high spirits, in his quiet stiff
sort of way."

"Well, of course I am not surprised," said
Mrs. Carter, who sat at the tea-table. "I must
go the first thing to-morrow and tell Elsie that
I wish her joy."

"You can't forgive her, I know, for taking a
second husband," said the vicar, smiling. "Now
I respect her sense for putting herself into the
hands of a clever, well-to-do man like Denbigh,
who will always be able to take care of her and
maintain her."

"Maintain her! So like a man!" cried Mrs.
Carter; "always taking the mercenary
commonplace view of things! However, in this
instance, I am quite disposed to forgive the
poor little thing—only when one compares
Mr. Denbigh with Herbert Clavering!——"

"Well, my dear, really if you come to that,
Clavering was a good little fellow enough, but
Denbigh——"

"Oh! if you go by height and size, and
thews and sinews, there is no doubt which has
the advantage; Mr. Denbigh is by no means
little—nor particularly good either, I should
say."

"You don't appreciate Denbigh, Mary; I
assure you he is a first-rate fellow."

"As far as cleverness goes, and all that, I
have no doubt he is. I suppose nobody doubts
that he is the cleverest doctor in Slowshire. I
can't conceive what makes him content to
stay in this poky little place. But I can't
bear those stiff, iron grey sort of men, with eyes
that pierce like gimlets. Now there was something
cheery, frank, and sunshiny about Herbert
Clavering. As to this man, I don't like him,
and I never did, and I never shall."

"If Mrs. Clavering does, that, happily, is of
more importance."

"Yes, if she does; but in ninety cases out
of a hundred, a woman's second marriage
doesn't mean that she has forgotten number