verity of her look much abating, added, with great stress on the words, "Thou hast never angered me."

"Indeed I hope not," said Master Francis earnestly. "But who or what hath made thee look so unhappy?"

"Thou hast," she answered.

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"I" exclaimed the youth with extreme surprise and sorrow. "What a wretch am I to have done it! and yet I know not how it could be; for gratitude for thy never-tiring kindness doth prompt me at all times to do the very reverse. Tell me how it was, and instantly will I seek to undo the unsought-for mischief."

Joanna silently took from the little pocket at her girdle a paper that she gave into his hands-the which he instantly opened, designing to read it, as such seemed to him to be her wish; but to his exceeding astonishment he discovered it to be the very poem he had written and lost from off the desk in his uncle's office. He stood like one that is detected in wrong-doing, unable to say aught for himself; yet, though he saw that his expostulation had done him mischief, knew he not what offence there could be in it.

"What made thee think I had ceased to love thee?" asked she, in a voice by no means angry, after she had watched for a sufficient time, his downcast eyes and modest confusion of countenance, as he stood before her.

"It seemed to me that thou dost regard another,” replied Master Francis, tremulously.

"Whom?" enquired Joanna, with more earnestness, fixing on him a somewhat anxious and penetrating look.

"Ralph Goshawk," answered he.

She remained silent for some few seconds, but a faint smile might have been observed about the corners of her beautiful mouth.

“In truth, I marvel thou couldst have entertained such a conception," said she at last.

"Dost thou not love him indeed?" asked the youth, almost incredulously, as it were.

"Indeed I love him not," she replied.

"And dost regard me as kindly as thou wert used?” he enquired more urgently, raising his eloquent eyes to her own.

"Methinks quite as kindly," answered she.

"Dear, dear Joanna!" exclaimed Master Francis as he kneeled on one knee, and taking in his the disengaged hand that lay upon her lap, bowed his head till his lips rested thereon, and in that position remained. The melancholy expression of Joanna's countenance still was altered not; but there was now a tender interest in her dark eyes as she gazed upon her youthful lover. Presently she raised herself in her position, and took his hand in both hers, very affectionately. "Yet am I much hurt that thou shouldst doubt me," said she; "I thought I had proved beyond question, how much I regarded thee above all others-perhaps with more carelessness than did become me. But knowing the innocency of mine intentions, and trusting in the modesty of thy disposition, I was content. Alack! 'tis a sad world! we cannot do right when we wish; and when we are satisfied

of our conduct, there cometh some malicious tongue to slander our doings. None know the wickedness that exists-that poisons the air we breathe with a perpetual pestilence, and obliges us to do by craft what we cannot do by honesty. I have to endure many things that make me unhappy-very unhappy-I needed not such verses as thou hast written."

As she concluded the sentence, he raised his head, and saw that she was wiping with her handkerchief a tear that did tremble on her eyelid.

"Indeed, they shall trouble thee no more," cried the youth, as he disengaged his hand, and tore the paper into numberless small fragments; "and very heartily am I vexed that I should have given thee a moment's uneasiness. For what wonderful goodness, hast thou exhibited towards me;-the like of which surely was never known! Truly I must have behaved most unnaturally to have vexed thee in this manner; and I'll never forgive myself, if thou wilt not forgive me." And then, most sorrowful in heart, he hid his face upon her lap.

"I have forgiven thee," said she, affectionately twining her fingers in the light curls of his chesnut hair; "but take not such fancies into thy head again; be content with the assurances thou art continually receiving of how much I regard thee, and think nothing of whatever else may seem of a different tendency. Nothing can be so sure as that, whilst thou art worthy, thou wilt be beloved." Master Francis was too much enraptured to reply; and in this position they remained for some minutes-she bending over him, with her dark hazel eyes softened into tenderness; and he impressed so deeply with the subduing spirit of the moment, that he would not, or cared not to move from where he was.

Joanna having at last taken away her hands to enclasp his, he raised his head, and looking into her face, very fondly, yet with a touch of regret, said,-"But why hast thou denied me those most sweet caresses thou didst use to grant?"

"Truly I am not in the mood on all occasions," replied she, in rather a sad tone of voice; "there are remembrances I cannot obliterate when I would, that come upon me at times, and make me regardless of all except the discomfort they bring. It would be but a mockery to caress thee under such circumstances; and indeed, though I may often seem gay-hearted-forgetting for a time the unpleasantness of the past, in the enjoyments of the present;-yet, when awakened to recollection-which is no difficult matter,-there lives not a creature on this earth so truly wretched as am I. Be content then with the pleasure I can grant when I may be in the humour, and seek not, when the time is not auspicious, to increase my disquietude by ill-timed importunity."

"I will not," replied he; "but wilt thou do so ever again?" he asked, as if almost afraid to put the question.

"I will," she answered, with apparent unaffectedness.

"Dear Joanna, but wilt thou do so soon ?" he enquired, more impressively.

"I will," said she.

"Exquisite Joanna! but wilt thou do so now ?" he asked, with still greater emphasis.

It would be unveiling the sweet mysteries of affection, to describe the endearments that blessed the reconciliation of these devoted lovers. There throbbeth not a heart in the wide world, that hath been touched by the generous influence of true love, but hath played its part in the same drama, and can, from the fond prompting of the memory, imagine the entrancing scene more vividly than could I describe the acting of it. Methinks, too, that the development of those delicious influences that make humanity angelic, should be kept sacred from the vulgar eye; else might the selfish and the profligate find matter in it for idle speculation, or licentious conjecture. Pity it is that there should be any in whom the better part of their natures hath vanished, like the sap of a decaying tree, and vanity making them believe all to be like unto themselves, in the green freshness of fairer plants, they can see naught but their own hollowness and worthlessness. I know that, by the generous and truehearted, what I should relate would be rightly interpreted; but no writer is so fortunate as to meet with all readers of such a sort.

The affection which existed betwixt Joanna and Master Francis, had in it this peculiar feature, that the former had so much the seniority of her lover, it invested her with an evident controlling power over him. She appeared as though uniting in her behaviour the authority of a careful guardian with the fondness of a devoted woman, and sometimes it appeared as if some strange interest bound her to the youth, of so deep a tenderness, as was marvellously like unto that of a parent. In truth, it was a strange thing to behold a creature so exquisitely fashioned, having much the outward appearance of one existing only for, and in the enjoyment of the most passionate worship of the opposite sex, seeming, with a delicacy the purest nature could never have excelled, so virtuously to conduct herself, as proved all the sterling excellence of womanhood was manifest in her actions; whilst the enamoured youth that knelt before her, dumb with excess of modesty, and overpowered with the intensity of his admiration, regarded her with such an enthusiasm in his delighted gaze, tempered with so profound a respect, as plainly shewed he loved with the purity of heart, and earnestness of purpose, which belong only to that age and disposition that exist in the enjoyment of a perfect innocency.

"Dear heart," exclaimed he, after a long, yet very eloquent silence, "it seemeth to me exceeding strange that when I sit me down to write of thee, all admirable thoughts, like the bees hastening to the sweet blossoms, come crowding to be penned; but when with my lips I would essay to breathe into thine ear aught of what rare pleasure I experience from the continual influence of thy unbounded goodness, such words as I have at command are so little to the purpose, that I am forced to a seeming ungrateful silence; yet am I most gratefully bound to thee. Thou art my guardian angel, and in earnest truth, most exquisite Joanna, my heart ever yearneth to pour out its spirit in thanksgiving for thy unceasing kindness."

He received no reply, unless it was conveyed in a more evident

pressure of the hands she held clasped in her own, or in a softer and more thrilling glance from the clear hazel of her lustrous eyes. He continued

"My benefactress! my"

"Hush!" she exclaimed quickly, interrupting him. "Have I not told thee never to allude to what I have done for thy good?"

He remained silent, as if conscious he had committed an error. "And now, prythee, tell me how hast thou sped with thy tragedy?" she enquired.

"It will not do, dear Joanna," he replied.

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'Despair not—thou wilt do better anon," she said, in an encouraging tone.

"But methinks I have found a friend," added Master Francis, more cheerfully.

"I am truly glad on't," said she.

"Hast heard of Master Shakspeare-whose plays so wonderfully do delight the town?" enquired the youth.

"Indeed have I," she replied. "My father hath often promised to take me to see the players do a play of his, but he liketh the sports of the Bear Garden best, therefore I have not been."

"I should like to take thee mightily," observed he. "For it is most delectable entertainment. But I must tell thee-Master Shakspeare, to whom I was directed to send my tragedy, though he did tell me very candidly of its faults, expressed himself right glad to do me a service; and as earnest of his sincerity, he hath but now sent for me to the playhouse.'

"Speed thee, then, Francis," she exclaimed, rising from her seat and raising him from the ground. "It be not right of thee to lose the precious time when such a friend desireth to serve thee. But here," she added, as she took from around her neck the very gold chain she did receive of old Gregory Vellum, and threw it over her youthful lover. "Wear that for my sake-but let not thine uncle see it, or mayhap he may think thou hadst it not honestly, and question thee churlishly upon it; and I do not wish thee to say I gave it thee, nor do desire that thou shouldst say what is not true. let me again request of thee in true kindness, that when thou wantest aught that his miserly nature doth refuse; ask it of me, and thou shalt have it straight."

And

"Nay, dear Joanna," he replied, looking somewhat distressed. "Thou hast lavished upon me so many gifts already, that I am ashamed to accept of this, or to ask of thee anything; and, if thou wilt not be offended, I would sooner that thou shouldst continue to wear it. In truth, it is too good a thing for me to have."

"That it cannot be," answered she, regarding him with a more perceptible fondness. "I would have thee wear it beneath thy doublet, and affix it to the miniature of thy mother. Now, no excuses! I will not hear of them. And be sure let me know when thou dost lack anything."

"Oh, thou art too kind!" exclaimed the youth, with all the expression that love and gratitude could give.

"Now haste thee to Master Shakspeare," said Joanna.

"Dare I ask of thee once again, to let me taste of those honey sweet delights thou didst bestow on me a brief while since ?" enquired he, looking into her eyes, as if his own were drawn thereunto by some marvellous magic. How she answered, methinks it be scarce necessary to state, when it cometh to be known, that in the next moment Master Francis was speeding on his uncle's errand with a heart as light as if he had not a care in the world.

Having delivered the account-more courteously than his miserly kinsman designed, he posted off to the playhouse on the Bankside, sometimes imagining what Master Shakspeare did want with him, and thereupon building many monstrous fine castles in the air, and then turning his thoughts to the contemplation of the exquisite excellences of Joanna, and feeding his mind with dreams of happiness she was to realise at some not far distant day. In this mood he arrived at the playhouse, which he recognised by the flag flying at the top. It was thronged with people-some waiting to see the queen, and others the play; round about were boys and serving men holding horses, and here and there might be seen costardmongers and others bawling out fruit. Making for a little door at which there was no crowd, he was entering thereat, when he was stopped by a surly looking fellow with a wooden leg and a red nose.

"Well, how now! what dost want?" he cried in a gruff voice. "I am come to see Master Shakspeare," replied the youth.

"Won't do," said the other sharply, as he took up a position before him, as if to stop his proceeding further, and then scrutinised his appearance very closely. "The players be all a dressing, and can't be disturbed for every jackanapes that wants to see the play for nothing."

"But I have business with him,". added Master Francis.

"Won't do," repeated the fellow, stumping closer to him, and looking more forbiddingly. "Dost thou not know that this be no hour for him to see runaway apprentices who seek to be players? So get thee gone."

"But he hath sent for me, and I must see him," said the youth more determinedly.

"Won't do, I tell thee!" shouted the man. "Nay, if thou dost not take thyself off, I'll set the dog on thee. Here, Pincher! Pincher! Pincher!" And immediately a savage looking wiry haired terrier came from under a chair barking and snapping at his heels. Master Francis, seeing that there was no remedy, was just about to turn back with a heavy heart, when, who should come into the place but the same wide-mouthed, squinting-eyed boy that had brought him the letter, bearing a tankard in his hand, as if he had come from a neighbouring tavern. Gib seemed to understand the state of the case immediately.

"How now, Will Peppercorn!" he cried, in a voice that shewed that the name of Stentor was not ill-applied. "This good youth is he whom I told thee Master Shakspeare did so much desire to see.” "How should I know that?" said the fellow sulkily; then drawing off his dog, returned to his chair.

"Follow me, and I will shew you the way with a very absolute