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When Jasper St. Aubyn opened his eyes, dim with the
struggle of returning consciousness and life, they met a pair of
eyes fixed with an expression of the most earnest anxiety on
his own — a pair of eyes, the loveliest into which he ever had yet
gazed, large, dark, unfathomably deep, and soft withal and tender,
as the day-dream of a love-sick poet. He could not mark
their color; he scarce knew whether they were mortal eyes,
whether they were realities at all, so sickly did his brain reel
and so confused and wandering were his fancies.

Then a sweet, low voice fell upon his ear, in tones the gentlest,
yet the gladdest, that ever he had heard, exclaiming:—

“Oh! father, father, he lives — he is saved.”

But he heard, saw no more; for again he relapsed into unconsciousness,
and felt nothing further, until he became sensible
of a balmy coolness on his brow, a pleasant flavor on his
parched lips, and a kindly glow creeping as it were through all
his limbs, and gradually expanding into life.

Again his eyes were unclosed, and again they met the earnest,
hopeful gaze of those other eyes, which he now might perceive
belonging to a face so exquisite, and a form so lovely, as
to be worthy of those great glorious wells of lustrous tenderness.

It was a young girl who bent over him, perhaps a few months
older than himself, so beautiful that had she appeared suddenly
even in her simple garb, which seemed to announce her but one
degree above the peasants of the neighborhood, in the midst of

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the noblest and most aristocratical assembly, she would have
become on the instant the cynosure of all eyes, and the magnet
of all hearts.

Of that age when the heart, yet unsunned by passion, and
unused to strong emotion, thrills sensibly to every feeling awakened
for the first time within it, and bounds at every appeal to
its sympathies; when the ingenuous countenance, unhardened
by the sad knowledge of the world, and untaught to conceal one
emotion, reflects like a perfect mirror every gleam of sunshine
that illuminates, every passing cloud that overshadows it pure
and spotless surface, the maiden sought not to hide her delight,
as she witnessed the hue of life return to his pale cheeks, and
the spark of intelligence relume his handsome features.

A bright, mirthful glance, which told how radiant they might
be in moments of unmingled bliss, laughed for an instant in
those deep blue eyes, and a soft, sunny smile played over her
warm lips; but the next minute, she dropped the young man's
hand, which she had been chafing between both her own, buried
her face in her palms, and wept those sweet and happy
tears which flow only from innocent hearts, at the call of greatitude
and sympathy.

“Bless God, young sir,” said a deep, solemn voice at the
other side of the bed on which he was lying, “that your life is
spared. May it be unto good ends! Yours was a daring venture,
and for a trivial object against which to stake an immortal
soul. But, thanks to Him! you are preserved, snatched as it
were from the gates of death; and, though you feel faint now,
I doubt not — and your soul trembles as if on the verge of another
world — you will be well anon, and in a little while as strong as
ever in that youthful strength on which you have ta'en such
pride. Drink this, and sleep awhile, and you shall wake refreshed,
and as a new man, from the dreamless slumber which
the draught shall give you. And you, silly child,” he continued,

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turning toward the lovely girl, who had sunk forward on the
bed, so that her fair tresses rested on the same pillow which
supported Jasper's head, with the big tears trickling silently
between her slender fingers, “dry up your tears; for the youth
shall live, and not die.”

The boy's eyes had turned immediately to the sound of the
speaker's accents, and in his weak state remained fixed on his
face so long as the sound continued, although his senses followed
the meaning but imperfectly.

It was a tall, venerable-looking old man who spoke, with
long locks, as white as snow, falling down over the straight
cut collar of his plain black doublet, and an expression of the
highest intellect, combined with something which was not melancholy,
much less sadness, but which told volumes of hardships
borne, and sorrows endured, the fruits of which were
piety, and gentleness, and that wisdom which cometh not of
this world.

He smiled thoughtfully, as he saw that his words were hardly
comprehended, and his mild glance wandered from the pale
face of the handsome boy to the fair head of the young girl
bending over him, like a white lily overcharged with rain.

“Poor things,” he whispered softly, as if speaking to himself,
“to both it is the first experience of the mixed pain and pleasure
of this world's daily trials. God save them scatheless to the
end!”

Then recovering himself, as if by a little effort, from his
brief fit of musing, he held forth a large glass goblet which was
in his right hand, full of some bright ruby-colored liquid, to the
lips of Jasper, saying:—

“Drink, youth, it will give thee strength. Drink, and fear
nothing.”

The young man grasped the bright bowl with both hands,

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but even then he had lacked strength to guide it to his lips, had
not his host still supported it.

The flavor was agreeable, and the coolness of the draught
was so delicious to the feverish palate and parched tongue of
Jasper, that he drained it to the very bottom, and then, as if exhausted
by the effort, relaxed his hold, and sunk back on his
pillow in a state of conscious languor, exquisitely soft and entracing.

More and more that voluptuous dream-like trance overcame
him, and though his eyes were still open he saw not the things
that were around him, but a multitude of radiant and lovely visions,
which came and went, and returned again, in mystic evolutions.

With a last effort of his failing senses, half conscious of the
interest which she took in him, yet wholly ignorant who or
what was that gentle she, he stretched out his hand and mastered
one of hers with gentle violence, and holding it imprisoned
in his burning fingers, closed his swimming eyes, and sunk
into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The old man, who had watched every symptom that appeared
in succession on his expressive face, saw that the potion had
taken the desired effect, and drawing a short sigh, which
seemed to indicate a sense of relief from apprehension, looked
toward the maiden, and addressed her in a low voice, not so
much from fear of wakening the sleeper, as that the voice of
affection is ever low and gentle.

“He sleeps, Theresa, and will sleep until the sun has sunk
far toward the west, and then he will waken restored to all his
youthful power and spirits. Come, my child, we may leave
him to his slumbers, he shall no longer need a watcher. I will
go to my study and would have you turn to your household duties.
Scenes such as this which you have passed will call up
soft and pitiful fancies in the mind, but it behooves us not

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over-much to yield to them. This life has too much of stern and
dark reality, that we should give the reins to truant imagination.
Come, Theresa.”

The young girl raised her head from the pillows, and shook
away the long, fair curls from her smooth forehead. Her tears
had ceased to flow, and there was a smile on her lip, as she
replied, pointing to her hand which he held fast grasped, in his
unconscious slumber

“See, father, I am a prisoner. I fear me I can not withdraw
my hand without arousing him.”

“Do not so, then, Theresa; to arouse him now, ere the effects
of the potion have passed away, would be dangerous,
might be fatal, Perchance, however, he will release you when
he sleeps quite soundly. If he do so, I pray you, come to me.
Meantime, I leave you to your own good thoughts, my own little
girl.”

And with these words, he leaned across the narrow bed, over
the form of the sleeping youth, and kissed her fair white brow.

“Bless thee, my gentle child. May God in goodness bless,
and be about thee.”

“Amen! dear father,” said the little girl, as he ended; and
in her turn she pressed her soft and balmy lips to his withered
cheek.

A tear, rare visitant, rose all unbidden to the parent's eye as
he turned to leave her, but ere he reached the door, her low
tones arrested him, and he came back to her.

“Will you not put my books within reach of me, dear father?”
she said. “I can not work, since the poor youth has made my
left hand his sure captive, but I would not be altogether idle,
and I can read while I watch him. Pardon my troubling you,
who should wait on you, not be waited on.”

“And do you not wait on me ever, and most neat-handedly,
dear child?” returned her father, moving toward a small, round

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table, on which were scattered a few books, and many implements
of feminine industry. “Which of these will you have,
Theresa?”

“All of them, if you please, dear father. The table is not
heavy, for I can carry it about where I will, myself, and if you
will lift it to me, I can help myself, and cull the gems of each
in turn. I am a poor student, I fear, and love better, like a little
bee, to flit from flower to flower, drinking from every chalice
its particular honey, than to sit down, like the sloth, and
surfeit me on one tree, how green soever.”

“There is but little industry, I am afraid, Theresa, if there be
little sloth in your mode of reading. Such desultory studies are
wont to leave small traces on the memory. I doubt me much
if you long keep these gems you speak of, which you cull so
lightly.”

“Oh! but you are mistaken, father dear, for all you are so
wise,” she replied, laughing softly. “Everything grand or
noble, of which I read, everything high or holy, finds a sort of
echo in my little heart, and lies there for ever. Your grave,
heavy, moral teachings speak to my reason, it is true, but when
I read of brave deeds done, of noble self-sacrifices made, of
great sufferings endured, in high causes, those things teach my
heart, those things speak to my soul, father. Then I reason no
longer, but feel — feel how much virtue there is, after all, and
generosity, and nobleness, and charity, and love, in poor, frail
human nature. Then I learn not to judge mildly of myself,
nor harshly of my brothers. Then I feel happy, father, yet in
my happiness I wish to weep. For I think, noble sentiments
and generous emotions sooner bring tears to the eye than mere
pity, or mere sorrow.”

And, even as she spoke, her own bright orbs were suffused
with drops, like dew in the violet's cups, and she shook her
head with its profusion of long, fair ringlets archly, as if she

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would have made light of her own sentiment, and gazed up into
his face with a tearful smile.

“You are a good child, Theresa, and good children are very
dear to the Lord,” said the old man. “But of a truth, I would
I could see you more practically-minded; less given to these
singular romantic dreamings. I say, not that they are hurtful,
or unwise, or untrue, but in a mere child, as you are, Theresa,
they are strange and out of place, if not unnatural. I would I
could see you more merry, my little girl, and more given to the
company of your equals in age, even if I were to be the loser
thereby of something of your gentle company. But you love
not, I think, the young girls of the village.”

“Oh! yes, I love them dearly, father. I would do anything
for any one of them; I would give up anything I have got to
make them happy. Oh, yes, I love Anna Harlande, and Rose
Merrivale, and Mary Mitford, dearly, but — but —”

“But you love not their company, you would say, would you
not, my child?”

“That is not what I was about to say; but I know not how
it is, their merriment is so loud, and their glee so very joyous,
that it seems to me that I can not sympathize with them in
their joy, as I can in their sorrow; and they view things with
eyes so different from mine, and laugh at thoughts that go nigh
to make me weep, and see or feel so little of the loveliness of
nature, and care so little for what I care most of all, soft, sad
poetry, or heart-stirring romance, or inspired music, that when
I am among them, I do almost long to be away from them all,
in the calm of this pleasant chamber, or in the fragrance of my
bower beside the stream. And I do feel my spirit jangled and
perplexed by their light-hearted, thoughtless mirth, as one feels
at hearing a false note struck in the midst of a sweet symphony.
What is this? what means this, my father?”

“It is a gift, Theresa,” replied the old man, half mournfully.

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“It means that you are endowed rarely, by God himself, with
powers the most unusual, the most wondrous, the most beautiful,
most high and godlike of any which are allowed to mortals.
I have seen this long, long ago — I have mused over it; hoped,
prayed, that it might not be so; nay, striven to repress the
germs of it in your young spirit, yet never have I spoken of it
until now; for I knew not that you were conscious, and would
not be he that should awaken you to the consciousness of the
grand but perilous possession which you hold, delegated to you
direct from Omnipotence.”

He paused, and she gazed at him with lips apart, and eyes
wide in wonder. The color died away in a sort of mysterious
awe from her warm cheek. The blood rushed tumultuously to
her heart. She listened, breathless and amazed. Never had
she heard him speak thus, never imagined that he felt thus, before—
yet now that she did hear, she felt as though she were
but listening again to that which she had heard many times
already; and though she understood not his words altogether,
they had struck a kindred chord in her inmost soul, and while
its vibration was almost too much for her powers of endurance,
it yet told her that his words were true.

She could not, for her life, have bid him go on, but for worlds
she would not have failed to hear him out.

He watched the changed expression of her features, and
half struck with a feeling of self-reproach that he should have
created doubts, perhaps fears, in that ingenuous soul, smiled on
her kindly, and asked in a confident tone:—

“You have felt this already, have you not, my dear child?”

“Not as you put it to me, father; no, I have never dreamed
or hoped that I had any such particular gift of God, such glorious
and pre-eminent possession as this of which you speak.
I may, indeed, have fancied at times that there was something
within me, in which I differed from others around me —

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something which made me feel more joy — deeper, and fuller, and more
soul-fraught joy, than they feel; and sorrow, softer, and moved
more easily, if not more piercing or more permanent — which
made me love the world, and its inhabitants, and above all its
Maker, with a far different love from theirs — something which
evermore seems struggling within me, as if it would forth and
find tongue, but can not. But now, that you have spoken, I
know that it indeed must be as you say, and that this unknown
something is a gift, is a possession from on high. What is this
thing, my father?”

“My child, this thing is genius,” replied the old man solemnly.

The bright blood rushed back to her cheek in a flood of crimson
glory; a strange, clear light, which never had enkindled
them before, sprang from her soft, dark eyes; she leaned forward
eagerly. “Genius!” she cried. “Genius and I! Father,
you dream, dear father.”

“Would that I did; but I do not, Theresa.”

“And wherefore, if it be so, indeed, that I am so gifted,
wherefore would you alter it, my father?”

“I would not alter it,” he replied, “my little girl. Far be it
from my thoughts, weak worm that I am, to alter, even if I
could alter, the least of the gifts of the great Giver. And this,
whether it be for good, or unto evil, is one of the greatest and
most glorious. I would not alter it, Theresa. But I would
guide, would direct, would moderate it. I would accustom you
to know and comprehend the vast power of which you, all unconsciously,
are the possessor. For, as I said, it is a fearful
and a perilous power. God forbid that I should pronounce the
most marvellous and godlike of the gifts which he vouchsafes
to man, a curse and not a blessing; God forbid that, even while
I see how oft it is turned into bitterness and blight by the coldness
of the world, and the check of its heaven-soaring

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aspirations, I should doubt that it has within itself a sovereign balm
against its own diseases, a rapture mightier than any of its
woes, an inborn and eternal consciousness which bears it up as
on immortal pinions, above the cares of the world, and the poor
realities of life. Nevertheless, it is a perilous gift, and too
often, to your sex, a fatal one. Yet I would not alarm you, my
own child, for you have gentleness of soul, such as may well
temper the coruscations of a spirit which waxes oftentimes too
strong to be womanly, and piety, which shall, I trust, preserve
you, should any aspiration of your heart wax over-vigorous and
daring to be contented with the limitations of humanity. In
the meantime, my child, fear nothing, follow the dictates of
your own pure heart, and pray for his aid, who neither giveth
aught, nor taketh away, without reason. Hark!” he interrupted
himself, starting slightly, “there is a sound of horses' hoofs
without; your brother has returned, and it may be Sir Miles is
with him. We will speak more of this hereafter.”

And with the word he turned and left the room.

When he was gone she raised her eyes to heaven, and with
a strange rapt expression on her fair features rose to her feet,
exclaiming:—

“Genius! Genius! Great God, great God, I thank thee.”

Then, in the fervor of the moment, which led her naturally
to clasp her hands together, she made a movement to withdraw
her fingers from Jasper's death-like grasp, unconscious, for the
time, of everything around her.

But, as she did so, a tightened pressure of his hand, and
some inarticulate sounds which proceeded from his lips, recalled
her with a start to herself.

She dropped into her seat, as if conscience-stricken, gazed
fixedly in his face, then stooped and pressed her lips on his inanimate
brow; started again, looked about the room with a half
guilty glance, bowed her head on his pillow, and wept bitterly.

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