THREE HOURS ON THE DIAL OF A RHAPSODIST. 227

quietly: “the shadow is already cast; the cloud hangs above!Death, the great merchant, has set his seal of disease upon hisproperty, and will shortly send for it! I am no physician, andwould therefore forbear to fix (as human skill sometimes pretendsto do) the period when hope, and light, and love, must vanish:but,” he added, rousing himself, “ let us not amass our griefsbefore the time; the hour is not at hand for either of you, fairones ! at least, if it be ” (with a convulsive sigh), “ may / neverbe its prophet! ”

He rose, and with a bow hurriedly left the box: when Jocelynturned to seek his friend, he was gone!

Hour the Third.

Let us enter the studio of the artist—it is evening, and theshades are gathering still deeper in the already darkened room.A curtain, half-shading the window, completely obscures theportion immediately below it; beyond, folding-doors admit therays of an antique lamp, faintly illuminating the graceful detailsof the adjoining chamber, poetical and fairy-like in its everyarrangement. The soft summer breeze rising from the riverbelow gently stirs the muslin drapery; on the smooth bosomof the “ silent highway” sounds of busy life are borne, yet at sogreat a distance as only to render the repose more soothing andintense, like thoughts which the heart acknowledges as symptomsof its deeper tides, but which, when they rise to the surface,bring no eddy to break the tranquil flow of the soul’s expanse.

The friends are together. De Grey, half-reclined upon adeeply - cushioned bergere, is watching Jocelyn Waldegraveas he stands beside the easel, upon which are placed twopictures, the one a copy from the other : a sweet, natural sketch,from his friend’s pencil.

Several other paintings are in the room: in each lurks acertain indefinite characteristic, felt and acknowledged by the