A little tinkle, as of cinders falling from a grate, replied; a movement--a fire was gently stirred; and the slight rustle of life continuing, a step paced equably backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, in the apartment.

Fascinated, I stood, more fixedly fascinated when a voice rewarded the attention of my strained ear--so low, so self-addressed, I never fancied the speaker otherwise than alone; solitude might speak thus in a desert, or in the hall of a forsaken house.
"'And ne'er but once, my son,' he said, 'Was yon dark cavern trod; In persecution's iron days, When the land was left by God.
From Bewley's bog, with slaughter red, A wanderer hither drew; And oft he stopp'd and turn'd his head, As by fits the night-winds blew.
For trampling round by Cheviot-edge Were heard the troopers keen; And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge The death-shot flash'd between,'" &c.

&c.
The old Scotch ballad was partly recited, then dropt; a pause ensued; then another strain followed, in French, of which the purport, translated, ran as follows:-- I gave, at first, attention close; Then interest warm ensued; From interest, as improvement rose, Succeeded gratitude.
Obedience was no effort soon, And labour was no pain; If tired, a word, a glance alone Would give me strength again.
From others of the studious band, Ere long he singled me; But only by more close demand, And sterner urgency.
The task he from another took, From me he did reject; He would no slight omission brook, And suffer no defect.
If my companions went astray, He scarce their wanderings blam'd; If I but falter'd in the way, His anger fiercely flam'd.
Something stirred in an adjoining chamber; it would not do to be surprised eaves-dropping; I tapped hastily, And as hastily entered.
Frances was just before me; she had been walking slowly in her room, and her step was checked by my advent: Twilight only was with her, and tranquil, ruddy Firelight; to these sisters, the Bright and the Dark, she had been speaking, ere I entered, in poetry.

Sir Walter Scott's voice, to her a foreign, far-off sound, a mountain echo, had uttered itself in the first stanzas; the second, I thought, from the style and the substance, was the language of her own heart.

Her face was grave, its expression concentrated; she bent on me an unsmiling eye--an eye just returning from abstraction, just awaking from dreams: well-arranged was her simple attire, smooth her dark hair, orderly her tranquil room; but what--with her thoughtful look, her serious self-reliance, her bent to meditation and haply inspiration--what had she to do with love?
"Nothing," was the answer of her own sad, though gentle countenance; it seemed to say, "I must cultivate fortitude and cling to poetry; one is to be my support and the other my solace through life.