ous, and his manner so peremptory, that the old steward, Judiah Flinn, endeavoured to hold him in parley long enough to take precedence of his master, (if he could,) in knowing his business. Ephraim, however, would say nothing but that "he must see Sir Everton."

"It is strange," quoth Judiah to himself, as he proceeded to a distant part of the house with his message, "very strange, that he cannot give one an inkling of what's the matter. I hate so much mystery about nothing!"

Ephraim, meanwhile, walked up and down the hall, grasped his chin, thrust his left hand into his breeches-pocket, and pursed his brows, like one grievously perplexed.

Judiah returned, and signified the Baronet's pleasure to see him. The next minute he was in Sir Everton's library, a spacious room, well stored with books, the very appearance of which dilated our pedagogue's heart with gladness.

As soon as he was seated in a comfortable arm-chair, opposite a blazing fire, Sir Everton inquired what might be the urgent business

that had brought him there in such an inclement night. Ephraim straightened his lank body, crossed his grasshopper legs, and again grasping his chin, began.

"He who is the messenger of bad news, Sir Everton, has but a thankless office. But everything is for the best, though we can't always think so; and what must be will be, even when it is to be! He was a sad scape

grace so I can't say I am surprised at what has happened."

"From your exordium, Mr. Bosley," observed the Baronet, "I conclude you have something unpleasant to communicate respecting my nephew."

"Would you believe it? He is gone! Absconded! - Left my house this morning before daybreak. But everything is for the best-everything is for the best, though we cannot always think so," continued Ephraim, elevating his black bushy eyebrows with an air of vexation, which showed that he himself was not, at that moment, a convert to his own philosophy.

"Gone!" repeated the Baronet, after a pause. "And how did he go?"

"Out at the back-door, down the lane, along the bottom of the hill, and through the church-yard," replied Ephraim, with topographical precision.

"He'll come back again-"

"He'll come to the gallows," interrupted Ephraim, uncrossing his legs, and resting his chin upon both hands, his elbows supported by his knees. "It is a hard say of another man's child-a very hard say; but then everything is for the best; and what must be will be, even when it is to be."

He felt a little surprised, that this friendly prediction called forth no acknowledgment from Sir Everton; when, turning his head, he saw him earnestly consulting a large folio volume that lay before him. He continued to search its pages for several minutes, without speaking. At length, fixing his eyes upon Ephraim with a very serious expression of countenance, he said:

"Are you a dreamer, Mr. Bosley ?"

"This is no dream," replied Ephraim, puzzled at the drift of the Baronet's question. "I mean, do you ever dream when sleep?"

you

"Sometimes I am visited by nocturnal illusions, but "

"Call them not illusions, Mr. Bosley," interrupted Sir Everton; "it is the language of ignorance applied to the revelations of eternal spirit."

The solemnity with which this rebuke was uttered, admonished him that he had made a hole in his manners, and he determined to mend it without loss of time.

"The fact is," he continued, " I am a great believer in dreams, but—”

"Mr. Bosley!" exclaimed Sir Everton, "a belief in dreams, without a knowledge of their causes, or an observance of their fulfilment, is mere superstition. He who has learned to interpret the mysteries of sleep, by the events of time, may often say with Daniel, ‘I saw a dream which made me afraid! The thoughts upon my bed, and the visions of my head,

troubled me.'

Ephraim was now totally at a loss what to say, so he held his tongue. Sir Everton, meanwhile, who had not once taken his eyes off him, thus continued :

"I, Mr. Bosley, have been a DREAMER all my life; and I very early discovered, that our dreams are as loose fragments of stone dug from a quarry. In their separate masses they are nothing; put together by the skill of the architect, they become palaces or castles, which have both use and meaning. From that moment I watched their premonitory revelations with unremitting vigilance, and waited patiently for their interpretation in coming events. I was soon convinced, too, that when we sleep, the soul flings the memory of her pre-existent state in shadowy glimpses upon her present consciousness. But I pass all that. And now, Mr. Bosley, I will show you the connexion between dreams and events. This book," he continued, pointing to the volume that still lay before him, "which I call my NOCTUARY, contains the exact description of every dream I have had since I was at college, where