The principal party consisted of a kind, goodhumoured looking father, a rattling lad of fifteen, just home from school, no doubt, and three young ladies, two sisters and a "dear friend," averaging from eighteen to twenty-five. But there was yet another passenger belonging to them, a slim, delicately-formed young man, with a slight cough and a very languid expression of countenance; he had a look of care and premature age, and was very silent. He read a little, and seemed to think much. Our journey came to an end at Dawlish, that pretty sea-bathing place on the coast of South Devon. It is a pleasant ride thither along the water's edge, for the line runs by the sea-shore all the way from the estuary thither, and a pretty, picturesque shore it is. But the train was going further, and such an excitement was produced by the voice of the guard at Dawlish, such a looking out for boxes and bags, and property of all descriptions, as made every one suddenly feel very selfish. Our carriage was quite emptied, and the great talkers, the silent young man, and the solitary lady and ourselves, stood on the platform. The guitar-case and gun-case, the fishing-tackle and the favourite dog, were all collected; and at the last moment a more important possession still was remembered, even a second-class passenger, the attendant of the family, who, having fallen asleep, had, as a matter of course, to be awakened, and who stood at last in a state of most pitiable bewilderment by the luggage. The party seemed to have lodgings already prepared for them, and within so short a distance of the railway that they could walk to the house with ease; but the young invalid looked tired and worn, and we observed for the first time, as he left the station, that he walked lame. The only fellowtraveller that remained besides ourselves was the young lady, to whom allusion has been made. She stood with one foot firmly planted on a neatlywrapped box, and with as many shawls, parasols, little bags and baskets in her hands and arms as they could be expected to hold. She seemed used to manage for herself; but still I had time to notice that she had a lonely look, and one could scarcely help painfully marvelling if any heart were aching to-day because of her absence, if any eye filled with tears as it rested on a vacant place in the household, and if now one bosom were throbbing with joy at the prospect of meeting. Alas! the lady's face plainly bore the inscription," Alone in the world!" And she was in mourning too; not rich, new mourning, but black that looked already old whilst the grief was fresh, and it was plain that the garb of woe would be thrown aside ere the tear was dry. You are sure my boxes will be safe ?" said the lady to the porter, receiving a ticket. "Quite sure, ma'am; all right;" and he wheeled them away without ceremony; so, hoping for the best, she sallied forth in quest of lodgings. The search seemed to be beset with many difficulties, for long after we had felt quite settled, and had seen our late companions strolling in a home like way about their pleasant myrtle-scented garden within full view of the blue sea-when it was almost dusk indeed-we observed the little figure of the lady marshalling a porter with a barrow from the railway-station to a small, quiet, unostentatious lodging in a bye-street. Morning came; the young ladies were bathing at seven, walking at ten, at the circulating library at noon, and coming out thence shortly afterwards with three volumes a-piece. Our natural conclu sion was, that they would spend the somewhat sultry afternoon in reading and repose; but never surely were more indefatigable pleasure-hunters! When four o'clock came, the whole party set out with sketch-book, camp-stools, etc., in a carriage, on some distant expedition, from which they did not return till nine. It is surprising how lodgers do watch one another at the sea-side. We felt quite an impertinent interest in the proceedings of our fellow-travellers, and so they did in ours, we have no doubt. And thus they went on day by day, we quite envying their capacity for exertion, and they really seeming never to be weary. The invalid seldom accompanied his friends; now and then they walked out by the side of his low donkey-chair; but he certainly looked happier when, with his sketch-book, his botanical tin, and his other little sources of quiet out-door amusement, he travelled forth alone into the lovely shaded lanes, or drove upon the little space of sand which Dawlish boasts on the sea-shore. But his happiest hours, to judge by his countenance, were when he reclined, with no other companion than his dog and his book, under the shadow of a fine rock, watching the tide in its ebb or flow with that kind of dreamy fascination of which many an invalid at the sea-side has been sensible, and with a delight that never tired. Sometimes he would extend his walk a little, and, when he thought himself unobserved, would manage to reach the wilder rocks, where he seemed happier still, and even less lonely than in human companionship; for his were the companions of many an afflicted one-the natural beauties of creation, which to him had voices unheard by the unstricken and joyous, whose hearts had never, like his, known weariness in the morning of life. One day he lay gazing into the pure depths of those clear, still, rocky pools, with their green silky hangings, and rejoicing in all that the poet saw when he sang of "Those hollows of the tide-worn reef He was sitting there one morning, we say, under his favourite rock and in his favourite solitude, when a grey-haired fisherman, sturdy in form and strong in step, passed him. He had his net and his basket on his shoulder, and was bent on secur ing some prawns, which, not being very plentiful this season, met with a ready sale amongst the visitors and invalids at Dawlish. Busy as he was, and in haste to avail himself of the low tide, he * Montgomery. tell turned his head when he saw the young man, and regarded him as he might have regarded a son. Perhaps he had once had a son like him, frail and suffering. A little encouragement from the invalid and he would have lingered; but our friend was not social, and, as he looked more earnestly still into the rock pool, the fisherman judged that he would not wish to be disturbed, and so passed on. Now, it is the privilege of tale-tellers to peep into solitary haunts like the present, and so I will you the result of my inquiry into the young man's feelings ou that brilliant July morning. If you had asked him whether he were happy, he would undoubtedly have said, "Oh yes, with na ture I am never dull. The soft murmur of that retreating tide is sweeter and more musical in my ear than ever were the notes of harp touched by mortal fingers. These corallines and sea-weeds, which in your eye may be so mean and worthless --the delicate shells which you tread beneath your feet-and these arborets of jointed stone,' have a charm to me that is dearer, ay, and a voice, too, more congenial, than the tones of the merry and light-hearted ones. Yes, I am happy-with na ture." But, indeed, he was not happy. Nature and the beauties of creation can never supply the longing which the Maker has implanted in every human soul for sympathy and communion. It is all a fiction that man can be happy alone-a delusion which he who, cherishing it, and withdrawing from association with his fellow-men, because he may not meet at every turn with thoughts or sentiments perfectly resembling his own, will find out when perhaps the heart he has closed so long will refuse to open at his bidding, and other hearts may then be closed to him. Eden would not have been complete without sympathy. He who made man's heart formed it to give as well as to receive -to participate and not to enjoy alone. Something of this void Horace Wilton had often felt, and in spite of his intense happiness, he felt it now; but he cherished an idea that is quite a favourite with many reflective and intellectual young persons, namely, that he was not understood (or appreciated, as self-conceit would have said), and that, therefore, he must walk alone in the world, which, indeed, he was quite content to do. How strange! the solitary young lady, whose arrival was recorded at the library under the name of Miss Hall, was cherishing just the same sort of bosom serpent; and pretty and harmless as the thing seemed, it was poisoning the life-blood, paralysing the vital energy, and ruining the internal peace of both. She was alone in the world, poor creature, and so she often said, as she pitied herself. It was but a twelvemonth ago since she had buried her only brother-her only near relation, in fact and now she was in the plight of caring for no one, and, consequently, no one caring for her. Quite wrong, Miss Hall, let us tell you; this is not your misfortune, remember, but your fault. If no one care for you, then is it certain that you are doing nothing in the great family of mankind; and that, for all purposes of value here, yon sea-gull, with its silver breast skimming the blue wave, or winnowing the air with its fan-like wings, would be as little missed as you. Nay, there are little ones awaiting the mother bird on some distant crag, and if she fall a victim to the fowler's gun, they will pine, and perhaps die; but who would miss you, solitary lady ? Miss Hall was a great sea-weed gatherer, and she was so intent on her search this morning, that, being somewhat near-sighted, she stumbled over Horace Wilton's outstretched feet, and was com pelled to apologize. He could but say something civil; so he said, "Don't mention it," and "A lovely morning; and Miss Hall passed on. By-and-by she met the old fisherman returning from his prawning; his basket was not very full, but he whistled cheerily. He was but a rough, untutored, untravelled man, but he was skilled in the human countenance, and something of the compassion he had experienced for Horace Wilton, he now felt for Miss Hall. Touching his hat courteously, he said: "Beg your pardon, ma'am, but the tide will run up fast in half an hour, and if you pass yon point, you'll find yourself in a queer fix." Nothing, perhaps, could so effectually have aroused the social eleinent in the lady as this appeal to her fears; and she turned quickly, determined to keep close to the old man in case of danger. Ah, Miss Hall! you would get on badly "alone in the world," you see. They had nearly a mile of very rough, uneven walking to perform; nothing, indeed, for the honest Dawlish fisherman, but a great deal for the delicate London lady in her old thin boots; and she complained of the shore, and of Dawlish generally, in no measured terms-" It is a dull place, I think." Miss Hall had said the same of Brighton and Hastings. "Do you think so, ma'am? Well, maybe it is sorrowful-like, for where sick folks come so much, that is but natural. Did you pass a poor young gentleman, ma'am, as you came along, lying under the rock yonder, with a dog at his side? There's an early grave written on that face, if ever there was. Yes, when one thinks, Dawlish is dull." This was not exactly the view of the matter that Miss Hall intended; her thoughts had a limited range, and seldom extended beyond her own little self, and she only coolly assented to the fisherman's remarks. At this moment a boy came up to them, and he seemed in haste; but Will Besley (so the fisherman was called) stopped him. 66 "No success to-day, Charley; no prawns worth your going for. I haven't caught above three score.' The boy's face overcast. "How's the old man, Charley ?" 66 Very bad, very low; I had counted on getting somewhat nice for his supper to-night after a good prawning. The widow lady at Cove Cottage or dered two score of me to-day, but she can't have them, that's certain." "I tell you what, Charley, she shall have the prawns, and you shall have the money." The lad, a high-spirited, industrious, independent lad, coloured. Yes, and you shall pay me by taking an oar, if I've the chance to get a turn to-day a-pleasuring. But run off with 'em, my boy, to home,' and then come down on to the beach to the 'Good Hope,' where you'll find me.” Ah! generous Besley! you may well whistle so joyously on your rocky path. What are rough stones to thee, honest fisherman? With a heart |