understanding had not yet grasped the extraordinary relation that exists between Faith in its full Catholic sense and everything great, good, and beautiful in the domain of reason and of feeling of science and of art. Adrien's writings seemed to open before her new vistas in every direction, and to display the whole marvellous connexion between the highest intellectual aspirations of the human mind, and the smallest point of revealed doctrine. Religion no longer appeared as something true and sacred indeed, but as concerned only with one portion of man's heart one region of his soul one aspect of his life; but as the point on which his whole existence revolves, on which his public as well as his private actions must turn, the only principle, the ruling power, the absolute master of every impulse, the disposer of every hour. She saw the visible world not merely moving alongside but encompassed on every side by a supernatural one, the contact of which becomes every day more startlingly plain. It alluded to the modern discoveries of science, so extraordinarily illustrative of the faith of the Church. It spoke of the sublime aspirations through which the old philosophers felt their way after truth, and how Plato dared to guess what the first Catechism teaches. The perfectibility of man in its Christian sense, the mystery of his vocation, the depths to which he falls, the heights to which he rises, were dwelt on each in turn. Through the confessions of sceptics, the admissions of enemies, the homage of antagonists, through history and science, through the mind to the soul, the chain of evidence made its way. The reasoning was close and as calm as truth, but the feeling was intense, and fervent as love. It was as clever as if the intellect alone had been employed upon it; it was as persuasive as if the heart had alone been engaged in it. Was it strange that it absorbed her? then roused and then strengthened her? That new thoughts, new interests, new resolutions, were formed? — that her studies were changed? that her hours were spent differently? that to get a book alluded to in that book, and they were many, became one of her greatest pleasures. That to learn some of its eloquent pages by heart was her recreation? that stealing to her mother's side whenever her health allowed of it, she read to her those passages which were most calculated to please her, and then kissing away the tears that sometimes stole down her face, she would lay her cheek against hers and whisper, "I knew you would like it?" This was all well, but it was better still that in many practical ways she, day by day, improved, that she was more assiduous in her devotions, more patient in little trials, less bitter towards her father, more tender to her mother, that she appreciated Father Lifford's qualities more, and cared less for his peculiarities. But it was not so well that a strong human feeling was mixed up with all this, though it may be that Heaven's mercy may work good through its means. The sand on which this promising edifice is rising may indeed harden into stone, and the winds blow, and the rain fall, and its fair proportions stand, for in that case it will be founded on the rock. But if it rests on nothing but the shifting ground of passion or of fancy what then will be its fate? -- She is always copying the Duc de Gandia's picture, and she has written under it these lines from her old favourite Metastasio, though she seldom reads him now -- "E proviamo al mondo Che nato in nobil core Sol frutti di virtú Produce amore." CHAPTER X. A prince can make a belted knight, But an honest man 's aboon his might, Guid faith! he mauna' fa' that. For a' that and a' that, Their dignities and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth "Virtue and knowledge are endowments greater Than nobleness and riches; careless heirs BURNS. SHAKESPEARE. WEEKS and months passed away, and nothing worthy of remark disturbed the even tenor of Gertrude's life. She went once or twice to Woodlands, but the Apleys were often away, and none of them except Mark seemed particularly anxious to keep up the acquaintance. Perhaps they had been alarmed at his evident admiration of her, and did not wish to encourage any further intimacy between them. Whenever he was at home he contrived to meet her in her walks, and to interchange a few words with her. Sometimes, when his manner was particularly eager, it occurred to her how easily, by a little encouragement, she might bring him to propose to her, and what a change would thus be brought about in her destiny; but it was never more than a passing thought. Her romantic admiration for Adrien d'Arberg forbade her entertaining it; and though she liked these brief interviews, and her manner did not by any means deter Mark from seeking them, yet one of the "fruits of virtue" which grew out of that sentiment was a reserve in encouraging attentions, which doubtless, as far as they went, were by no means disagreeable to her. But this very reserve increased Mark's admiration. At the breakfast he had been fascinated by her beauty and amused by her cleverness, which he did not quite understand, though it charmed him like a firework or a French play: but when he met her now there was something more thoughtful in her face, more gentle in her manner; and this became her so well, and gave him such an interest about her, that he would sometimes sit on his horse at the gate of Lifford Grange, gazing with a wistful look at her retreating figure, as she walked up the sepulchral avenue of yew trees towards that house into which no strangers ever entered, and which appeared to him almost like an enchanted palace. Gertrude had amused herself one day by telling him a wonderful ghost-story about it, which made his hair stand on end, but which he liked so much to hear her relate that almost every time he met her, he used to begin again with, "Now you know I don't believe |