with vigorous regularity; but, hark!—the
plane is suddenly arrested half way!—and
see, the tracing and pencil instantaneously
drop from the glass opposite, and the piquant
little artist vanishes like magic from the
window. Presently the planing goes on again
with a slow and pensive irregularity that
makes me feel quite low-spirited.

Although mine was a pastoral as well as an
ecclesiastical charge of the St. Barnabas
district, and I was bound to watch over my flock,
yet it may be said that such close scrutiny of
rny neighbours as that which I have confessed
was scarcely dignified in a clergyman; but
it must be remembered that what I have here
brought together in a short space was spread
over several months. Nor did the arduous
duties of a new district admit of much idle
window gazing. My church was only a
temporary one, and I made it my business to call,
in succession, on my parishioners, not only to
make myself personally acquainted with each,
but to invite them to worship. I began this
mission at home; for, although my landlord's
mother was a regular attendant at church,
the son never once made his appearance
within its walls.

Old Mrs. Bevil was a large old lady of
painfully timid temperament, whose existence
was passed in one of the sunken kitchens, and
whose mission on earth was apparently to
cook glue for her son, vouchsafing any of the
time to be spared between the steaming of
the pots in attendance upon me. One Saturday
morning I expressed my regret to her
that so excellent and industrious a son should
appear to be negligent to his Sabbath duties.

"He isn't!" said Mrs. Bevil, sidling
towards the door, and feeling, with a hand
outstretched behind her, for the handle.

I should mention that Mrs. Bevil was so
much "put out" when spoken to by anyone
above her in station, that when you showed
symptoms of engaging her in talk, she winced
and made artful efforts to escape—like a child
when a dentist exhibits his instruments.

"What church does he go to?"

"French Protestant."

"Indeed! then he is conversant with
French!"

Mrs. Bevil had by this time found the door-
knob, and had turned it. Her confusion was
so great, that her face—never very pale—
glowed like a live coal.

"Of course," I repeated, "as your son
attends a French place of worship, he
understands French."

In the midst of her bewilderment Mrs.
Bevil stammered,

"Yes—French polishing."

I dared not smile, lest the ignorant old
soul's shame should overwhelm her; so in
order to appear to change the subject without
actually doing so, I asked if she knew
anything of the mysterious young lady opposite?

The old woman curtseyed herself backwards
into the opening of the door, and having felt
that retreat was practicable, she said, "Please
Sir; no, Sir;" and vanished with the rapidity
of a mouse, let out of a lion's cage.

It was not difficult to guess why young
Bevil preferred the French church to my own.
I had never doubted that the charming
embroideress opposite was a foreigner. She
worshipped in a language she understood
best; and her admirer—more in obedience
to his silent passion than his spiritual
duties—followed her thither to worship
her. On expatiating one day, however, on
the sinfulness of Sabbath-breaking, he
partially disarmed me by owning that he had
been assiduously learning French in order to
understand and join in the service. I made
not the slightest allusion to the charming
Silhouette; for I saw from his nervous and
blushing manner, that it was too deep an
affair with him to be lightly touched. I
ascertained that although he saw his adored
daily, and followed her weekly to church, he
had never had courage to speak to her, or to
address her in any way whatever.

My interest in this absorbing case of silent
love deepened daily. I pitied young Bevil.
Supposing, after he had proceeded to the
extremity of avowed courtship, his idol should
prove a wicked little French coquette, and
jilt him? Such a presentiment did not want
foundation. Although the summer had
arrived—and warmer, more congenial weather
I never remember—the Silhouette disappeared
entirely from behind the fairy curtains.
During all the cold weather, when she
must have shivered to sit there, she was
never absent; but now, when the window is
the only endurable part of a room, she is
utterly invisible. Is she skilfully manœuvring
Love's delicate, sensitive telegraph, conscious
that she has secured her victim; and now,
after the manner of finished coquettes, does
she leave him to pine in the throes of hopeless
despair? Or, doubts she the truth and ardency
of his love, as expressed by his silent watchings
of her window, and by his regular church-
goings; and does she disappear from his
longing, loving looks to lure him to the overt
act—a verbal declaration? If the latter,
her tactics will fail. Young Bevil's passion
is not a mere flash of romance; it is
earnest and practical. He does not stand idly
gazing, and sighing, and hoping, and despairing.
The more he loves the harder he works.
Until he has placed himself in a position to
speak to her with confidence as to the future,
he will be silent.

Here I am probably asked, how could I
know all this? I answer, from substantial
evidence. When one sees a man running a
race, it is certain that there is, far or near, a
goal. Young Bevil raced manfully, and the
winning-post he kept in view was matrimony.
Early and late his tools were audible, not only
to obtain capital in money, but to provide
property of his own handy-work. When I
first took his lodgings, they were scantily