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And thou that, silent at my knee, Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes, Filled with the love of childhood, which I see Pure through its depths, -- a thing without disguise. Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast, When I have checked its throbs to give thee rest, Mine own, whose young thoughts fresh before me rise, Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, And circle thy young soul with free and healthful air? -- HEMANS.
The events we have recorded, from the time of Clarence's visit to Mordaunt to the death of Lord Ulswater, took place within little more than a week. We have now to pass in silence over several weeks; and as it was the commencement of autumn when we introduced Clarence and Mordaunt to our reader, so it is the first opening of winter in which we will resume the thread of our narration.