AS time proceeds, renewal and decay, its twin principles of mutation, are everywhere and necessarily active, applying to the moral as well as to the material world. Affections displace and succeed one another. The most beautiful are often the first to die. Characteristics in their beginning, minute and unsubstantial as the fairy brood that people the woodland air, enlarge and materialize till they usurp the dominion of the whole man, and the people and the world are changed.

Sir Booth Fanshawe is away at Paris just now, engaged in a great negotiation, which is to bring order out of chaos, and inform him at last what he is really worth per annum. Margaret and her cousin, Miss Sheckleton, have revisited England; their Norman retreat is untenanted for the present.

With the sorrow of a great concealment upon her, with other sorrows that she does not tell, Margaret looks sad and pale.

In a small old suburban house, that stands alone, with a rural affectation, on a little patch of shorn grass, embowered in lilacs and laburnums, and built of a deep vermillion brick, the residence of these ladies is established.

It is a summer evening, and a beautiful little boy, more than a year old, is sprawling, and babbling, and rolling, and laughing on the grass upon his back. Margaret, seated on the grass beside him, prattles and laughs with him, and rolls him about, delighted, and adoring her little idol.

Old Anne Sheckleton, sitting on the bench, smiling happily, under the window, which is clustered round with roses, contributes her quota of nonsense to the prattle.

In the midst of this comes a ring at the bell in the jessamine-covered wall, and a tidy little maid runs out to the green door, opens it, and in steps Cleve Verney.

Margaret is on her feet in a moment, with the light of a different love, something of the old romance, in the glad surprise, “Oh, darling, it is you!” and her arms are about his neck, and he stoops and kisses her fondly, and in his face for a moment, is reflected the glory of that delighted smile.

“Yes, darling. Are you better?”

“Oh, yes — ever so much; I’m always well when you are here; and look, see our poor little darling.”

“So he is.”

“We have had such fun with him — haven’t we, Anne? I’m sure he’ll be so like you.”

“Is this in his favour, cousin Anne?” asked Cleve, taking the old lady’s hand.

“Why should it not?” said she gaily.

“A question — well, I take the benefit of the doubt,” laughed Cleve. “No, darling,” he said to Margaret, “you mustn’t sit on the grass; it is damp; you’ll sit beside our Cousin Anne, and be prudent.”

So he instead sat down on the grass, and talked with them, and prattled and romped with the baby by turns, until the nurse came out to convey him to the nursery, and he was handed round to say what passes for “Good night,” and give his tiny paw to each in turn.

“You look tired, Cleve, darling.”

“So I am, my Guido; can we have a cup of tea?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll get it in a moment,” said active Anne Sheckleton.

“It’s too bad disturbing you,” said Cleve.

“No trouble in the world,” said Anne, who wished to allow them a word together; “besides, I must kiss baby in his bed.”

“Yes, darling, I am tired,” said Cleve, taking his place beside her, so soon as old Anne Sheckleton was gone. “That old man”——

“Lord Verney, do you mean?”

“Yes; he has begun plaguing me again.”

“What is it about, darling?”

“Oh, fifty things; he thinks, among others, I ought to marry,” said Cleve, with a dreary laugh.

“Oh, I thought he had given up that,” she said, with a smile that was very pale.

“So he did for a time; but I think he’s possessed. If he happens to take up an idea that’s likely to annoy other people, he never lets it drop till he teases them half to death. He thinks I should marry money and political connection, and I don’t know what all, and I’m quite tired of the whole thing. What a vulgar little box this is — isn’t it, darling? I almost wish you were back again in that place in France.”

“But I can see you so much oftener here, Cleve,” pleaded Margaret, softly, with a very sad look.

“And where’s the good of seeing me here, dear Margaret? Just consider, I always come to you anxious; there’s always a risk, besides, of discovery.”

“Where you are is to me a paradise.”

“Oh, darling, do not talk rubbish. This vulgar, odious little place! No place can be either—quite, of course — where you are. But you must see what it is — a paradise”— and he laughed peevishly —“of red brick, and lilacs, and laburnums — a paradise for old Mr. Dowlas, the tallow-chandler.”

There was a little tremor in Margaret’s lip, and the water stood in her large eyes; her hand was, as it were, on the coffin-edge; she was looking in the face of a dead romance.

“Now, you really must not shed tears over that speech. You are too much given to weeping, Margaret. What have I said to vex you? It merely amounts to this, that we live just now in the future; we can’t well deny that, darling. But the time will come at last, and my queen enjoy her own.”

And so saying he kissed her, and told her to be a good little girl; and from the window Miss Sheckleton handed them tea, and then she ran up to the nursery.

“You do look very tired, Cleve,” said Margaret, looking into his anxious face.

“I am tired, darling,” he said, with just a degree of impatience in his tone; “I said so — horribly tired.”

“I wish so much you were liberated from that weary House of Commons.”

“Now, my wise little woman is talking of what she doesn’t understand — not the least; besides, what would you have me turn to? I should be totally without resource and pursuit — don’t you see? W............