The lady of the manor (Volume 3)

SIXTH COMMANDMENT--THOU SHALT DO NO MURDER

The lady of the manor, finding herself again surrounded by her young people, asked one of them to repeat the sixth commandment, viz. "Thou shalt do no murder," which was to furnish the subject for conversation during the evening.

"I remember the time, and indeed it is not a very distant one," remarked one of the young ladies, "when I should have said, 'Here at least I am guiltless; here at least I am safe: I never committed murder, that is very certain.'"

"And would you not venture to assert as much now, my dear Miss Emmeline?" said the lady of the manor, smiling.

The young lady shook her head, and replied, "No, no; I have already been brought in guilty in every conversation, and now I dare not plead innocence on any occasion."

"Until we are made sensible of the spirituality and extent of the law of God, my dear young people," remarked their excellent instructress, "we may possibly buoy ourselves up with the idea that we have duly observed some parts of it; but those persons who have enlarged views on this subject cannot possibly deceive themselves in this manner. Hence the importance of studying the law, and regarding it as our schoolmaster to bring us to Christ: for when any individual is convinced that he is condemned on every side by the law, he sees himself compelled to fly for safety to the Gospel.

"But, to leave the law in general, and to recur to that particular part of it now chosen for our consideration, let us meditate upon these words, viz. 'Thou shalt do no murder;' and endeavour thoroughly to comprehend the nature of that thing from which we are here commanded to abstain.

"'Thou shalt do no murder:' that is, thou shalt not cause or countenance the death of any fellow-creature. The question then is, What is this death which we are forbidden to inflict?

"In reply, I remark, that, as man partakes of a two-fold nature, so that by which alone he can be wholly destroyed must also be of a two-fold nature. The first death is, therefore, two-fold, namely, temporal and spiritual; besides which there is a second death, that takes place when the first death is completed."

The lady then proceeded to describe the several parts and natures of the first and second death, and spoke to this effect--"Temporal Death is the separation of the soul from the body.

"Spiritual Death is the separation of soul and body from God's favour in this life, which is the natural state of all unregenerate persons, who are all destitute of the quickening powers of grace.

"Eternal Death (called the second death) consists in the everlasting separation of the whole man from God.

"And as the first death is two-fold," continued the lady of the manor, "and is followed by a second death so also is the first life two-fold, consisting of the natural and spiritual life, and these are succeeded by that which is eternal. Adam, by his disobedience, made his children liable to death in all its forms; and Christ, by his obedience, abolished death, and brought life and immortality to light. [2 Tim. i. I0.] All living creatures on earth are subject to temporal death; all unregenerate persons are under the dominion of spiritual death; and all men who die unrenewed will be delivered over to eternal death. Temporal death is the mildest and least to be dreaded of any of these modes of death: and hence the Saviour provides no exemption from this, which is, at most, but a light affliction, enduring only for a moment; but, on the contrary, calls on his children to submit to it with joy and rejoicing, inasmuch as it promotes their entrance into glory.

"I have now," continued the lady of the manor, "explained to you, my dear children, the nature of death; and will proceed next to point out the various modes in which that commandment which saith, 'Thou shalt do no murder,' may be transgressed.

"If," proceeded the lady of the manor, "I, through design or negligence, hasten the dissolution of my own body or that of any other human being, I am, in fact, guilty of murder. If I privately desire the death of any one in order to advance what I suppose to be my own interest, I am guilty of murder in thought and before God. For it is written, Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him. [I John iii. I5.] All ambitious and vindictive expressions partake of the nature of murder, and frequently tend to it in a direct way. All wars and fightings, except in actual self-defence, and after all other means have been tried without success to preserve peace, undoubtedly partake of the same character. But inasmuch as wars between nations are commonly beyond the province of females in retired life, I say the less on this part of my subject; only remarking, that it should be the object of every woman on all occasions to promote peace, and to inspire the mind of her husband, brothers, or sons, with the dread of occasioning death in any form.

"It is, I trust," continued the lady of the manor, "almost needless, in the present day, to remark that the practice of duelling is nothing more nor less than a genteel way of committing murder; and I am sorry to add, that I fear there are few duels of which women, if not the occasions, are not the instigators and promoters. It is astonishing how careless even some of the fondest mothers are in the sentiments which they utter before their sons on the subject of duelling, and how they maintain those sentiments of false honour which cherish this practice, so contrary to every principle of that religion generally professed in this country. It is remarkable also, that nearly all female novel-writers formerly maintained the necessity of duelling; and even some at the present day are guilty of the same offence against morality. This same cruel and bloodthirsty spirit may also be observed to pervade every page of the ancient writings of the heathen; and it is in this particular that I consider these writings as being more contrary to the spirit of Christianity than in any other circumstance belonging to them. Granting that it were possible to weed the classic writers from such passages as offend a delicate ear on other subjects, I maintain, that it would be as impossible to clear them of their vainglorious and cruel sentiments, as it would be to separate the warp and woof, and yet leave the weaver's work in any other state than that of a mere confused heap of threads and ends. But, as much has been said on a former occasion on the subject of heathen writers in your presence, my dear young people, I shall here be the less diffuse; and proceed to remark, that all historians, without any other exception than those of the sacred records, abet the cause of war, bloodshed, and murder. Not one of these, as far as I can recollect, explains the causes of war to be what they are, viz, the lusts and passions of mankind, or makes the proper distinction between the real hero, who gives up his life in defence of his country, and the conquerer who indulges his lust of victory at the expence of thousands of his fellow-creatures.

"It may also be observed," continued the lady, "that the greater number of the admired poets of the present day, like so many bloodhounds, (if the expression may be allowed me,) mingle in the same cry; and in their writings bloodshed and murder of every description are exalted to heaven under the name of glory. This spirit, so contrary to Christianity, mixes itself more or less in most conversations, and is as frequently supported by the smiles of females as by the approbation of the hardier sex."

Here the lady of the manor paused, and the young ladies expressed some astonishment, or, rather, something like alarm, at finding themselves, and even the whole world, implicated in one dreadful charge.

"My dear young people," returned the lady, "be not surprised to find yourselves thus condemned. Have I not from the first laboured to convince you of sin in general, and does it astonish you to find that you are also under condemnation in every particular? How is it possible for you so to have read the Holy Scriptures, as not yet to be convinced that you are individually guilty of the death of Christ, and that you repeat this offence whenever you commit sin? Every one who, after having known the way of righteousness, turns away from thence, crucifies to himself the Son of God afresh, and again puts the Holy One to open shame. Murderers then we all are, my dear young people, and by nature the children of him who was a murderer from the beginning."

"What you say, Madam, is certainly true," replied Miss Emmeline; "but I never saw this subject in such a light before: for it is only a very short time since I should have said with Hazael, 'Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?'"

The lady of the manor then proceeded to make the following observations. "The human race, my beloved young people, are, in the Scriptures, classed into two orders; viz, those who are led by the Spirit of God, and those who live according to the flesh. These are so mingled with each other in society, and are frequently so confounded by human weakness and the remaining influence of sin on the one hand, and worldly wisdom and cunning on the other, that no mere man, however discerning, is able accurately to distinguish, on all occasions, between the real child of God and the mere professor. As, we, however, are not to judge each other, it is not necessary for us to look any further into these matters than may be requisite to our right understanding of the Christian character in general. I have laboured, in our examination of those commandments which have already passed before us, to shew their spiritual nature and tendency; and not only to prove that we are condemned by each, but also to explain the faultless obedience which is required of every individual--an obedience which no mere man has ever yet been able to accomplish. It is now my wish to state to you the nature of that principle in the creature which, being followed up to its end, is neither more nor less than universal destruction, ruin, and death.

It is certain, that the Almighty, in his infinite wisdom, has allowed to all men (to speak only of this earth) their times, and the bounds of their habitation. Every mortal has his appointed season, and his allotted dwelling-place; and to walk his little time on earth in that his prescribed place, with humility and obedience, is the sum of human wisdom. To do that which the Lord would have him do, to mark the notices of the divine will, and to be ready to go and come at the divine command,--this is the substance of religion; and is dictated by that spirit, which, were it to become universal, would restore the glories of Eden, and make the earth one universal paradise. But the unregenerated man, and he who is but partially delivered from the bonds of Satan, is unable to understand this mystery. He cannot content himself with his situation on earth, and is always anxious either to quit his appointed place, or to vary its attendant circumstances. He always desires something which he sees in the possession of others; and is only restrained from depriving them of the objects desired, by want of power, fear of punishment, dread of shame, or, if he be partly reformed, by something like principle, which prevents him from actually causing that evil to his neighbour in which he still secretly rejoices when occasioned by another.

"But, in order to understand the ultimate tendency of this spirit, we must divest it of its restraints; we must remove the hedges of thorns with which the Lord, in his infinite mercy, so frequently encompasses the ways of those whose salvation he has sworn to accomplish: and we must endue the individual who is actuated by this spirit, with temporal power, with talents, and with health; and then we shall not long be left without a proof, that the character which aims to advance self is neither more nor less than that of a murderer, and that religion itself often proves too weak to restrain such an one from sacrificing every other feeling to that of his own exaltation.

"In order, my dear young people," continued the lady of the manor, "to open your minds on this subject, I would strongly recommend to your attention the study of history; beginning with that of the ancients, as it is found in Scripture, and proceeding downwards to the present day, according to the plan traced in the tenth chapter of Genesis: and you will then discover, that these records of ancient and modern times contain little more than the results of multitudes of experiments, made amidst a great variety of circumstances, by kings, heroes, philosophers, and more ordinary men, for securing happiness to themselves, and in their own way inducing others to embrace it: and you will also be convinced of the total failure of all these experiments; and, if the divine blessing attends your studies, you will grow wiser by these multitudes of examples, and will learn to be content in that situation in which God has placed you, satisfied to see yourselves excelled by others, and having no other wish than to be found standing in your lot at the end of your days.

"And now," said the lady of the manor, "as I have kept your attention for some time on what I should call a somewhat dry discussion, I will, if you will permit me, read a little narrative which I happen to have by me, and which I select from any other I could choose on this subject, because it does not affect the ordinary cases of the destruction of the body--a crime which is looked upon with a just abhorrence in civilized society--but relates to that more refined sort of destruction which consists in allowing selfish and ambitious feelings to interfere with the spiritual good of others, and by these means inflicts spiritual death, as far as it lies in the power of man so to do, upon our fellow-creatures; a species of murder supposed by some to be described in the Psalms, under the term of blood-guiltiness, from which the royal psalmist entreats the Lord to preserve him--Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation: and uphold me with thy free Spirit: then will I teach transgressors thy ways; and sinners shall be converted unto thee. Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation; and my tongue shall sing aloud of thy righteousness. [Psalm ii. I2--I4.]

"From the time when I first had the honour of becoming your instructress," proceeded the lady, "I have endeavoured to draw your attention to the defects of persons in polished life, and in religious society, where gross vices are seldom tolerated, and where sin must assume a decent garment in order to be endured; and it is with this view that I am about to treat of this subject of murder in its more recondite, but, probably, scarcely less fatal, form."

The lady of the manor then took out a little manuscript, and read--

THE STORY OF THE TWO MINISTERS

In a large manufacturing town in the north of England there formerly resided a certain tradesman, who, with his wife, obtained good employment, and lived in great credit, in the hope of long enjoying these advantages; when the worthy couple were both suddenly cut off by a contagious fever which at that time raged in the town. By their deaths, their only son Edmund was left an orphan at the tender age of two years; and, as little property remained after all the affairs were settled, the child would have been reduced to a very destitute situation, had not an aunt of his father, a single woman, of very excellent character, received him into her house with the intention of adopting him as her own child.

This lady, by name Mrs. Mary Stephens, had, through divine grace, been enabled to devote herself, for some years past, to the service of God. Her fortune was easy, and her wants few; and in order to have but little worldly care, and more time and money to devote to the service of her neighbours, she lodged and boarded in a worthy, though humble, family, and thus was disencumbered from the charge of providing her own table.

Mrs. Stephens, though not brought up in polished life, yet, having been early led by divine grace into a knowledge of that which is right, had been enabled to cast away those petty and unimportant cares and employments which too often fill the female mind, and had occupied herself for many years in reading such books, and performing such works, as rendered her best fit to administer spiritual and temporal help to those around her. She had become fond of reading. She took particular delight in Scripture, and also in profane history, because it threw light on certain obscure parts of Scripture. She loved sacred music and sacred poetry, and cultivated her taste for both. And thus, though plain in her outward appearance, and reserved in her general manner, there were at that time few women whose society was so delightful in private as that of Mrs. Mary Stephens.

The first recollection which little Edmund Stephens had of his infancy, was that of finding himself drinking tea at a small round table with the lady above described, The room in which they sat was very long and wide, though low. It was wainscoted with oak, and a large casement window at one end stood in a bow, raised from the rest of the apartment by a single step. It was winter time, and a fire blazed on the hearth. The chimney-piece was adorned with a set of blue Dutch tiles, all in perfect preservation, each of them presenting some scene from Scripture history; and a plate of toast-and-butter stood before the fire on a stand of bright black ebony tipped with silver.

This scene of the tea-table no doubt often recurred during the first winter of Edmund's residence with his aunt; but he recollected it as if it had only happened once: and he remembered also, that, after tea, his aunt took him on her lap, and gave him his first ideas of the immortality of his soul, of what his Saviour had done for him, and of the happiness of heaven and misery of hell.

The next thing he remembered, was a course of little lectures, which his kind protectress gave him on the subjects depictured upon the tiles; and no doubt these lectures were repeated over and over again, as, even in after life, he carried in his mind's eye the various groups represented on each blue varnished picture of the chimney-piece, from the representation of Adam and Eve in Paradise, to that of the Day of Pentecost and the cloven tongues, which finished the series. Nor was it historical information merely which this excellent woman gave her little nephew on the subjects suggested by the painted chimney-piece. She knew that the scheme of salvation by Christ runs like a golden thread through the whole tissue of Scripture, and she failed not to point out this golden clew to her little boy, and caused him, as much as she could, to seize it every where, and hold it fast on every occasion. Thus, of Edmund Stephens, as of Timothy, it might truly have been said, that from a child he was made to know the Holy Scriptures, which are able to make us wise unto salvation, through faith which is in Christ Jesus. For all Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness: that the man of God may be thoroughly furnished unto all good works.

Thus the good aunt adopted the first easy mode which suggested itself of convoying spiritual instruction to the mind of her little pupil; neither did she fail to follow up, by every other means which she could think of, that which she had so happily commenced. This sweet passage from the Prophet Isaiah was continually present with her, and afforded a perpetual motive of action--Whom shall he teach knowledge? and whom shall he make to understand doctrine? them that are weaned from the milk, and drawn from the breasts. For precept must be upon precept, precept upon precept; line upon line, line upon line; here a little, and there a little. [Isaiah xxviii. 9, I0.]

It was Mrs. Mary Stephens's wish that her nephew should become a minister of the Church of England; and as she was aware that, in order to his acquisition of that knowledge of the learned languages which is thought necessary for those who are to be admitted to ordination, he must, after a while, be in a great measure removed from under her eye, she was particularly anxious to make the best of those nursery years so precious to every tender mother or teacher, in which the beloved nursling is altogether her own. To lose no opportunity of inspiring her little boy with pious sentiments, to make him acquainted with the word of God in all particulars, was therefore her chief and constant object; and, during this interval, it was wonderful to observe the various points of view in which this excellent aunt caused him to search and examine the Scriptures. To trace the Saviour under his various types and emblems, was one of the favourite exercises in which she delighted to occupy her nephew.

At one time, she would point out to him the first appearance in Scripture of the second Person of the Holy Trinity, under the type of light, which, at the command of the Creator, poured itself on the dark face of the earth; and then she shewed him how this light was embodied, on the fourth day of the creation, in the substance of the sun, that heavenly luminary thus becoming the image of the God incarnate, who in the fifth millennial was revealed to man in human flesh in the person of Christ. Hence she led him to trace this emblem through Scripture, in all its various bearings, until she brought him to the completion of all things, when the man Christ, having finished his office, and delivered up all things unto the Father, it shall be said, The city hath no need of the sun to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. [Rev. xxi. 23.]

Another time she would point out to him the signification of the six days appointed for labour, and of the seventh set apart from the beginning of the world for a holy rest, and explain to him the typical meaning of the Sabbath; thus opening to his young mind such fields of beauty and scenes of glory in the latter days, as would fill his imagination for hours, and give him a subject for divine study and contemplation for days together.

Frequently, also, would she make him trace the notices of our blessed Saviour under the type of the lamb, from the period in which he first appeared under that emblem on the altar of Abel till he shall shine triumphantly in the New Jerusalem, having accomplished the mighty work of man's redemption, And, as the mind of the little boy expanded, she again drew his attention to the Saviour, not in his state of the victim only, but in that of the Conqueror and the King.

But there was no character of our Lord throughout the Holy Scriptures which she caused her little pupil to study with greater attention than that of the Shepherd; pointing out the disinterestedness and the devotedness of the True Shepherd for his flock, and continually holding up this example to his love and admiration. And then she would again lead him to those views of future blessedness held forth under the type of the Sabbath, when the promises shall be fulfilled; and the Lord will save his flock, and they shall no more be a prey; and he will set up one shepherd over them, even his servant David, and he will feed them, and be their shepherd; and they shall dwell safely in the wilderness, and sleep in the woods.

On these occasions, this excellent woman would give her little pupil such views of the last millennial glory, and of that blessed time when judgment shall dwell in the wilderness, and righteousness remain in the fruitful field, and the work of righteousness shall be peace, and the effect of righteousness quietness and assurance for ever, that he would often say, "Dear aunt, when will these things be? O that the chief Shepherd would come very soon, and gather his flock together!"

But, were I to enter into all the various views of Scripture which Mrs. Mary Stephens gave to her little pupil, I should be compelled to protract my narrative to an unwarrantable length. Suffice it therefore to say, that this good woman, always bearing in mind that she was educating a minister, considered, that if, through her negligence and ignorance, his character did not attain to that extent of usefulness which it might, otherwise, have reached, she might justly be numbered among those of whom it is said, Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh! [Matt. xviii. 7.]

Resolved, with the divine blessing, to set her whole heart to the work, and to spare no effort by which she might advance the spiritual welfare of her little nephew, when Edmund had entered his tenth year, his aunt thought she ought no longer to delay placing him under the care of some person who could carry on his education in those branches of knowledge, for the teaching of which she was herself incompetent. Accordingly, she enquired for the schoolmaster of the highest repute in the town, and placed her boy under his care as a day-scholar. By this arrangement, she enjoyed some of his company every day, and was able to continue her plan of religious instruction in some degree as formerly. She found, however, when her little pupil entered more into the world, and was made to learn most of his lessons in books the tendency of which was not religious, that she had a more difficult task in instructing him, than when all he heard was promotive of that which is right.

It is often asserted, that such and such a book is perfectly innocent, although its tendency is no way pious: but perhaps it may afterwards be found, that every book which is not written with a view, more or less, to the support of Christian morals on Christian principles, is so far from innocent, that it is decidedly hurtful. It was one of the maxims of Lycurgus, that every man must declare himself of one party or another, and that he who stands neuter, must be considered as an enemy to the state. And, to quote a higher authority to the same purport, our Lord says, "He that is not with me is against me; and he that gathereth not with me scattereth abroad." [Matt. xii. 30.]

Mrs. Mary Stephens had hitherto brought up her nephew with one simple decided view. She had directed his infant gaze to the Star of Bethlehem; and whenever it seemed to wander from that bright object, she had carefully endeavoured to restore its tendency, and had found some new resource to awaken its attention. She had cherished in the child a pure and simple state of feeling with regard to religion, which she had always represented as the only needful thing, to which every other ought to be entirely subservient. "Whether you eat, or whether you drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God," was the one single motive of conduct perpetually impressed on the boy.

Having therefore proceeded thus far with such decided simplicity and perfect success, she was very well able to judge of the effect upon the feelings of little Edmund, when, in the course of common education, ordinary motives of conduct were presented to his young mind. In order, however, if possible, to counteract the hurtful effects of the lessons he daily learned, she accustomed him, every evening, to shew his translations to her, or to construe his exercises in her presence; and she then endeavoured to explain to him where the heathen writers failed in their ideas of religion and morality, and pointed out in what manner Scripture treated the same subjects, and how it decided on the same points of morality.

Thus this excellent woman in some degree prevented her nephew from being corrupted by false sentiments and worldly instructions; notwithstanding which, she often had reason to lament those arbitrary decrees of the world by which the education of Christian children is so very far removed from Christian simplicity.

In the mean time, through the divine blessing on the pure instructions and conversation of his aunt, Edmund Stephens attained the age of fourteen without yielding to any of the temptations of a public school. Every Christian preceptor must be sensible, that when all that man can do for a pupil has been done, yet that all is so little, and so wholly incapable of effecting the requisite change of heart which must take place ere a soul can be received into glory, that we can hardly wonder if some should despair when they do not immediately see the blessing of God upon their labours. Nevertheless, those who have faith in Him who has said, I will pour my Spirit upon thy seed, and my blessing upon thine off-spring; and they shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the water-courses, [Isaiah xliv. 3, 4,] will not be weary of well-doing; but will persevere in planting and watering, doubting not but that the increase will be given in its due season.

Such, however, being the case, it should be a matter of peculiar thankfulness when a parent or teacher finds the divine blessing attending immediately upon his work. This was a favour especially bestowed upon Mrs. Mary Stephens; and her nephew, at fourteen years of age, displayed a decision of character not often attained by advanced Christians. Nevertheless, this excellent boy never pushed himself forward to public observation: his good qualities, therefore, passed unobserved, in general, by those about him; and if his masters and school-fellows thought of him at all, it was merely as of an harmless, inoffensive little fellow, who had nothing in him.

To be thought harmless and inoffensive, is, however, a matter much to be desired, although the world thinks little of it. It is what Christians should seek to be; and many greatly mar their usefulness by making themselves otherwise, either by over forwardness, or by a coarse and unamiable carriage. Edmund had been taught by his aunt, from his earliest childhood, that this world was not to be his home or his resting-place, and that he must, as a Christian, shun occasions of being praised or admired, or of bringing himself forward as an object of attention. On this principle he accordingly acted; and, in consequence, pursued his quiet course little regarded by any one.

Edmund had remained at school till his fourteenth year without forming any particular attachment; for there was so marked a difference between his general mode of thinking and acting and those of the other boys, that nothing like friendship had as yet grown between him and any individual among them: but at this time, a boy came to the school, a little older than himself, who had something in his general appearance which attracted Edmund, though he knew not wherefore.

This boy, by name Francis Parnel, was the son of a country curate. His father's family were esteemed pious, and Francis entered the school with the character of being a very religious boy; indeed, this character had been indiscreetly given of him by his father when he introduced him to the master in the presence of the other boys.

Whether Francis was or was not this pious boy at that time, we do not wish to decide; but certainly he wanted some of the best evidences of true religion. Although far from being a handsome or elegant boy, or even particularly clever, he had a high opinion of himself, and was acutely alive to every indignity which might be put upon him; nay, he was very apt to fancy some circumstance in the most common accident indicative of disrespect to himself. He was, in short, precisely such a character as the common run of schoolboys love to torment.

Young Parnel had been told by his father that he would be persecuted for his religion at school, but that he hoped he would stand firm, like the martyrs of old. From being thus indiscreetly addressed, the boy fell into two mistakes: one was, that he fancied himself to be a very advanced Christian; and the other, that every other boy in the school was a decided profligate, and that a violent persecution would infallibly break out against him as soon as he should evince his own decided Christian character. Agreeably, therefore, with these views of himself and of his schoolfellows, the first time it occurred to him that he ought to read his Bible, instead of quietly withdrawing to his usual place, and taking out his Bible without parade, he placed himself in a very public part of the room, and whenever any boy came near him, declared, in a determined and resolute manner, that he considered himself ill used in being thus frequently interrupted while reading the Scriptures.

This was indeed a spice of the same spirit as that which led some of the early Christians to the stake, when even their enemies would rather that they should have made their escape.

As might be expected, the spirit of persecution was soon excited against poor Francis to the utmost extent of his ambition, and he was made to undergo an incredible number of petty torments for one whole evening; all of which he endured with the patience of a martyr. But when these vexatious were renewed in the morning, poor Francis Parnel's Christian heroism wholly forsook him; and when Edmund Stephens arrived at school from his aunt's lodgings, he found the whole play-ground in an uproar, and Francis Parnel dealing out his blows in such right good earnest, that he had already endowed two or three of his schoolfellows with the marks of his prowess.

Edmund was not a little surprised to find the new corner (whom he had been taught to suppose was to set an example of every thing that was Christian-like) engaged in a warfare like this, and that with persons with whom he had scarcely spent twenty-four hours: but when he was made to understand the occasion of this furious contest, he was still more astonished; and particularly because he himself had been in the habit of carrying a Pocket-Bible, and using it publicly, ever since he came to the school, and had never met with any other symptom of persecution on that account, than now and then a significant glance or wink, given by one boy to another, with some kind of expression of mock commendation of Edmund Stephens's piety. Edmund was therefore much surprised to find the spirit of persecution suddenly grown to so formidable a height; neither could he help attributing it to the right cause, namely, the offensive manner of the persecuted party.

Edmund was, however, equally hurt by the little command which Francis Parnel seemed to have over himself, and by the open breaking out of profane expressions which this want of self-command in the young Christian had produced in the school; and by this scene he was suddenly and practically convinced of a truth which his aunt had often stated to him--that nothing so thoroughly and completely mars the influence of religion as the unsubdued passions of its protestors. Edmund, however, had no time to meditate on this subject; he now felt himself called upon to act, and to shew that part of his character which hitherto had not appeared, namely, courage and decision, of which few boys had so large a share. He walked up to the combatants, and seizing the arm of Francis with a firm grasp, he warded off all opponents with a strength which was found irresistible, saying, at the same time, with holy and invincible firmness, "I thought that you, Parnel, were a professor of the religion of the meek and humble Jesus! What then have you to do with combats of this kind?"

"And who are you?" returned Francis, with considerable agitation; "who are you, who take the name of Christ in this manner?"

"Edmund Stephens," replied the other: "and I require you either to give up your pretensions to religion, or to relinquish this mode of conduct."

While these few words were passing between Parnel and Stephens, the latter had to endure several blows from Parnel's adversaries; from which blows he only attempted to defend himself by keeping them off from his face, and by saying to the ringleader, "Let me alone, Johnson; you know that I never fight."

By this time the whole school were gathered round the three boys, and all with one accord called upon Johnson to let Edmund Stephens alone. And some of the nobler spirits among them said, "We dare to call any boy coward who attacks Stephens and his Bible; but as to Parnel and his religion, they are fair play. Parnel can give blow for blow with the best of us; he can use the same weapons as we do."

Parnel, who had by this time been brought somewhat to reason by the pleadings of Stephens, reddened violently on hearing these last contemptuous expressions concerning himself and his religion, and was about to break out again into some bitter invectives in return, when Edmund Stephens, who had never let his arm go, drew him from the crowd, and led him to a retired part of the play-ground. There he conversed with him very seriously upon his conduct. "You profess to be more than a nominal Christian, Parnel," said Edmund: "are you aware what such a profession requires of you, and how much injury you may do to the souls of your school-fellows by conduct so disgraceful, united with professions so high?"

Young Parnel endeavoured to excuse his conduct, which he well knew wanted excuse, by representing how much he had been provoked.

"Provoked!" repeated Stephens; "and did not you excite this provocation by your hot and irritable manner? Excuse my freedom, dear schoolfellow," added he, seeing the tears start in Parnel's eyes; "excuse me, Christian brother, and do not be offended, if I tell you that your religion wants the very corner-stone on which it should be built, and for want of which it cannot stand. Look less to Francis Parnel, and think less of him, and more of Christ who died for him; and you will then find fewer provocations and insults in the world, and you will be allowed to read your Bible and say your prayers without disturbance."

Edmund then took out his Pocket-Bible, which, by its worn and soiled appearance, indicated its having been long in constant use, and referred to several passages upon the subject of humility.--Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. A man's pride shall bring him low: but honour shall uphold the humble in spirit. [Prov. xvi. I8. xxix. 23.] For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones. [Isaiah lvii. I5.]

Edmund's pious discourse at length succeeded in composing the mind of young Parnel, and the two boys shortly afterwards entered the school-room together; where, in compliment to Edmund Stephens, Parnel was received by his schoolfellows as if nothing unpleasant had happened on his part: and being afterwards continually withheld by his humble friend from displaying his heroic spirit, he was allowed to read his Bible whenever he chose without further molestation. Francis Parnel had, however, conceived such a dislike to those boys who had expressed contempt of him and of his religion, that he never felt himself quite happy at school; and as he had attached himself very closely to Edmund Stephens, he became exceedingly anxious to become an inmate in Mrs. Mary Stephens's house, and attend the school as a day-scholar with Edmund. Accordingly, when the next holidays arrived, he made his wishes known to his father, and engaged him to ask this favour of Mrs. Mary Stephens.

This pious woman, whose sole object through life had been to do good rather than to consult her own feelings, was not inexorable to the entreaties of the father, or the wishes of the son; and, finding that it would not be unpleasant to Edmund, she allowed Francis to become a sharer of the little room and bed occupied by her nephew.

Things being thus arranged, after the Christmas holidays, Francis Parnel became an inmate of Mrs. Mary Stephens's house, and the constant companion of Edmund.

It now appeared, that Francis might be amiable, could he be brought to think less of himself and of the world, and to devote himself more entirely to the service of God. But the same error which pervades too many places of education in the Christian world had evidently been blended with the instructions that he had received. Mixed motives of action had been given to this boy, motives of action replete with spiritual death. He had been told that learning was necessary, not only for the elucidation of Scripture, (for which alone it ought to be valued,) but in order to advance him in his school, in the University, in society, and in the Church. He had also been taught that humility was requisite towards God, but that dignity of carriage and spirit were requisite from man to man; and while the character of the man Christ had been at times held up to him as the most perfect model of human excellence, the characters of heathens, as described by their own historians, had afforded the subject of his daily lessons.

Thus, in these and a thousand other instances, had contradictory motives of action been, either directly or indirectly, infused into the mind of this youth; in consequence of which, his conversation displayed a constant series of contradictions for whereas, through the divine mercy, some of the good seed had taken root and sprung up, the weeds and rubbish so choked them, that they could neither gain strength, nor bring forth fruit. And, in consequence, though Mrs. Mary Stephens believed that the root of the matter was in him, there was so much inconstancy and variableness in his character, that she feared be never would become a useful minister.

During the long winter evenings, after the boys were returned from school, Mrs. Mary Stephens always made a point of introducing such conversation as she thought best calculated to promote the spiritual good of the young people, both of whom were intended to become pastors of the flock of Christ; and on these occasions she used to point out the exceeding and awful responsibility of the ministerial character and functions. And, first, she explained to them that, as much as in man lay, the ministers of Christ were the appointed ministers of life; according to the words of the apostle, which saith, Who hath appointed us able ministers of the New Testament, not of the letter, but of the spirit: for the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life. [2 Cor. iii. 6.]

"Thus then," said she, "spiritual life and spiritual death are as certainly in the hands of the ministers of Christ, as the natural life is in the hands and under the command of the physician: and that minister, who, through an overweening love of self, through indolence, or any other motive, fails to deliver his message simply to his congregation, becomes as much the spiritual murderer of his people, as the man who in the days of famine withholds the public stores allotted by government to a starving population is the cause of their natural death. And this awful remark," continued she, "may not only be made in the case of ministers, but in that of parents and teachers, and of all persons in every situation of responsibility, or possessing any influence over any single individual of the human race. Those who, through selfishness, or the undue indulgence of any passion, be it pride, or be it ambition, or be it vanity, or be it sensuality, or be it what it will, if it in any way prevents their administering spiritual nourishment to those dependent on them, or over whom they have any influence from situation or other cause, become guilty, as much as in them lies, in a most awful sense, of the breach of that commandment which saith.--'Thou shalt do no murder.'

"But inasmuch," proceeded she, "as it may be said, that it lies not in the power of man to withhold spiritual life and light from his fellow-creatures, it being an accepted doctrine of the Church, and one upheld by Scripture and the very nature of things, that those who are to be saved were predestinated to salvation before the foundation of the world, according to the seventeenth article of the Church--'Predestination to life is the everlasting purpose of God, whereby (before the foundations of the world were laid) he hath constantly decreed by his counsel, secret to us, to deliver from curse and damnation those whom he hath chosen in Christ out of mankind;'--I answer, that if the salvation of the soul cannot be counteracted by the malice of man, neither is it possible for one individual, however resolute his hatred may be, to destroy, by death, the body of another, unless it is the will of God it should be so. For it is written in the book of Job, The days of man are determined, the number of his months are with thee. [Job xiv. 5.]

"Men, therefore, in either case, as ministers of life or of death, can be no more than instruments in the hands of the Almighty. To be instruments, therefore, of good is what we ought to seek; and though offences must come, we must recollect that woe is pronounced on that man by whom they shall come."

The excellent lady would then proceed to describe that state of mind which fits an individual for spiritual usefulness; and, though without intending it, precisely drew that character of which the world cannot appreciate the value.

And, first, she remarked, that a Christian teacher ought to have a deep sense of sin, which is absolutely necessary to his right estimation of the value of a Saviour. He that does not feel himself sick, will not require the aid of a physician, and he that has not felt his own sickness, will not know how to sympathize with another in the same situation.

"A man who would be useful," proceeded she, "as a Christian instructor, ought to have a very deep knowledge of Scripture, neither should he ever allow human learning to divert him from that one necessary study, though he will gladly and eagerly seek to discover and apply all the light which it may be able to reflect upon any obscure passage in the holy Word.

"The minister of Christ," added she, "should have no desire to be exalted upon earth, and no wish but for the general extension and stability of Christ's kingdom. He belongeth not to the kingdoms of the world, and has no part in them; and therefore, as the ancient Romans laboured for the exaltation of their city, willingly giving up their lives for its glory, so he, while exerting a similar spirit in a better cause, ought only to desire the prosperity of Christ's Church on earth, and wish alone that he might be employed in the promotion of this mighty work, if it were only in removing a little of the rubbish which encumbers the place of its foundations. He ought not to embroil himself with the petty discords of the day; but should make a point of taking every man by the hand who loves his Saviour and speaks in his name. And though he may be particularly attached to his own form of worship and peculiar household, yet he will not presume to mar the work, or weaken the influence, of any individual who gives evidence of his being on the side of the Lord, lest, haply, he should be found fighting against his God."

In this manner Mrs. Mary Stephens used to converse with these youths who were under her care, and she also took especial delight in giving them such views as prophecy would allow of the kingdom of Christ on earth, in that blessed period when the mountain of the Lord's house shall be established in the top of the mountains, and shall be exalted above the hills, and many nations shall flow unto it. [Micah iv. I.] It was her opinion, that were this unheeded doctrine of the millennium more studied, and received with a purer feeling of faith, it would prove a grand means of improving the motives of action of a young Christian. "A youth who has just finished his studies in some celebrated academy, or other place of education," she would often say, "is very apt to imagine that he knows all that is to be known, or at least that his acquirements put him upon a footing with age and experience; not being aware that there is no mode of education, however wisely arranged, no habits, however judiciously formed, and faithfully attended to, which can give the wisdom of maturity to young persons. Human learning is by no means found to produce this effect; and when the judgment is naturally weak, it is known often to have a contrary influence, as it has a frequent tendency to excite vanity. The state of mind, therefore, in which young people leave their studies is commonly an unfavourable one with respect to their well-doing as Christians; and it is often found that the mind of youth at this time is remarkably full of prejudices, and that the young individual is disposed to despise all conditions of men, all orders of government, and modes of society, which differ from certain views of perfection that he may have been led to embrace. He considers every man as a schismatic who does not worship God precisely in his own way, and counts every individual an ignoramus who has not passed through the same precise train of instruction as himself; neither can he believe that there may be other constitutions and modes of discipline, both in church and state, which may have some excellencies, though they differ from his own.

"By the sober part of young people such notions are commonly held; while by those who are otherwise, there is often cherished a mode of thinking directly contrary, and the young man, in the plenitude of his self-conceit, despises all existing institutions, and sighs for every novelty."

Such were the views which Mrs. Mary Stephens entertained of young people in general; and she would often say, that if such persons could be led to see from Scripture that a period is to come which, compared with the present age, will be as light to darkness--a period in which it will be proved that all human wisdom will be but as folly, and earthly pride no better than madness--they might, with the divine blessing, be brought thereby to open their eyes to the truth, and, leaving all things which are behind, to aspire only after that glory which is to be hereafter.--"But as long," she would add, "as Christians continue to close their eyes and ears to the glorious promises of Scripture with regard to Christ's kingdom on earth, and to fill their minds with the petty discords of the day, they cannot extend their views beyond the narrow views of this world, nor rise above a grovelling mode of thinking, by which their characters and conversation will be depressed, and the concerns of the Catholic Church proportionably injured."

Edmund and Francis had now spent nearly two years under the same roof, during which time their friendship seemed to have acquired such firmness and consistency as led those who knew them to hope it would never be disturbed.

Francis had apparently profited much by the holy retirement in which he had spent so many hours of these years, and the very spiritual conversation of Mrs. Stephens. But though his manner was warm, and at times devout, and though he might be urged to a participation in almost any act of piety and self-denial to which Edmund accustomed himself, yet now and then a degree of inconsistency was discernible in his conduct which grieved Mrs. Mary Stephens, and made her feel that he was not to be depended upon. He would sometimes let it appear that be hoped to be distinguished in the University for his learning and abilities; he sometimes would express a wish that he might rise in the Church, in order that he might do the more good; and he would now and then drop an expression by which he betrayed his hopes that when he had a family himself he should live in a more magnificent style than that in which his father did. Nevertheless, when urged upon these points, he would solemnly declare that the secret desire of his heart was to serve his God in simplicity, and to be separate from the world.

The young people had spent two winters together, and were looking forward to a third, when they were unexpectedly deprived of their pious old friend. Mrs. Mary Stephens was one morning found dead in her bed; and thus was this excellent woman suddenly removed from this world of trial into a state of glory.

Her loss was acutely felt by Edmund, to whom she had left all her little property, appointing Mr. Parnel as his guardian. Edmund found himself more attached than ever to Francis, from his affectionate behaviour on this sorrowful occasion; and therefore rejoiced the more when it was settled that the young men should be placed together under the care of a tutor till they were of a proper age to go to the University.

Edmund was not however altogether happy in his new situation. Independent of his grief for the loss of his aunt, he found almost every sentence he uttered in some degree ridiculed, either covertly or openly, by some of his tutor's family.

There are many people whom we believe to be pious, (for it would be hard to think otherwise,) whose opinions are of that mixed kind, between what we should call worldly and what is really right, that they cannot bear any plain, simple, straight-forward sentiments. In some persons, this is owing to a natural weakness and littleness of mind, which cannot grasp a great and glorious idea; in others, it is owing to a disputatious turn, which rejects every sentiment that at the first blush does not coincide with opinions already received; and sometimes, I fear, it is to be attributed to the secret wish of reconciling those things which cannot be reconciled, namely, earthly with heavenly sentiments.

It happened, that Edmund's tutor and all his family were precisely the kind of persons which I have described; and Edmund soon discovered that if he spoke at all while in their presence, he must be constantly subject to disputations. He therefore had recourse to silence, as being by far the less evil of the two: yet to live under a perpetual restraint was painful, and particularly so, as he saw his friend, after several violent contests, gradually sinking on many occasions into the ordinary way of thinking which prevailed in their tutor's family.

During the time that Edmund was with his tutor, he made considerable progress in that kind of knowledge requisite in the University, and was told that if he chose to exert himself, he might obtain some of the highest distinctions there bestowed. Whether this was the case or not still remains, however, to be shewn.

After a due time, Edmund and Francis removed to the University, but they were not both placed in the same college, as Mrs. Stephens, in her will, had named a certain hall as that to which she wished her nephew to be sent, on account of its head having a high character for piety, but which was not approved for Francis, as this hall was not generally esteemed in the world. On this account, therefore, the young men were separated, and saw very little of each other during their residence in college.

The hall at which Edmund was placed was not a situation in which he was likely to obtain much notice. He, however, in the mean time, passed through the University very quietly, and remained there till he was of age to be ordained, when a curacy became vacant in the very parish in which he had resided from a child. Edmund heard of this, and instantly wrote to solicit this curacy; and as he was able to procure every necessary testimony to his good character, the rector, who was very infirm, promised him the curacy, and gave him his title for ordination.

Edmund now left the University; and being ordained by the bishop of his own diocese, he immediately hastened to take possession of his charge.

In the mean time, I should say, that young Parnel had passed through the University with considerable éclat, had obtained several prizes, and, having received deacon's orders, was engaged as a tutor in a nobleman's family, about the time that Edmund entered on his curacy. The friends were therefore separated for a time; but they mutually retained a strong regard for each other.

As soon as Edmund Stephens had reached the town where his curacy was, he hastened, without loss of time, to pay his compliments to his rector, and afterwards, to obtain, if possible, the very apartments which had been occupied so many years by his aunt, and which were rendered dear to him by a thousand pleasing and pathetic recollections.

He heard with no small pleasure that the apartments had been unoccupied ever since his aunt's death, as the mistress of the house had resolved not to let them again. But when Mr. Edmund, whom she had known from a child, came to ask them from her, she could not refuse his request, and begged him to take possession of her own parlour, till the rooms were aired and duly prepared.

Twenty-four hours had scarcely elapsed after Edmund's arrival at the town, before he found himself settled in the very sitting-room so long occupied by his aunt, surrounded by the very furniture which she had been accustomed to use, the chair on which she had sat, the table on which she used to lay her work while he read to her, and the little stool which had served to support her feet.

Affected by all these objects, he could scarcely refrain from tears; but, sitting down, he sunk into a long and deep reverie.

During this period of abstraction, he called to mind the general tendency of the education which his aunt had given him, and he perceived, as at a glance, that its whole purport and object had been to fit him for the ministry of Christ on earth, and for the enjoyment of his kingdom in heaven; and, falling upon his knees, he solemnly and earnestly entreated that he might now be strengthened for the performance of those duties for which he had been so long preparing.

The prayers of this young man were heard, and he was indeed strengthened and assisted in a wonderful degree; so that he presently found himself engaged in such a round of duties, as left him no time either for company or any kind of study which had not some reference to his ministerial labours. His parish was exceedingly populous, being full of manufactories; and the houses of the lower classes were confusedly clustered together in narrow streets, blind alleys, and obscure courts. The young curate could expect no assistance whatever from his rector, who was paralytic, and nearly blind; neither had he any parishioners belonging to his church of such characters as could give him much assistance.

The first attempt of this young man was to acquire an idea of the numbers of his people, to make himself acquainted with the streets and alleys, and to begin, without loss of time, a course of visiting from house to house: and, as his fortune was easy, he also resolved to establish a rigid economy with regard to himself, and to devote all he could spare to the necessitous.

One of his first works was to hire a large house, and establish a Sunday and daily school; and because the church was far too small to admit, at once, one tenth part of the population, he added another service on a Sunday, and several others on the week days. He was happy in meeting with no opposition on the part of his rector, who had known him from a child, and being partial to him, was easily persuaded to yield to all his requests.

During his visits among his people, the young curate was presently informed that another denomination of Christians had established a chapel and schools in a remote district of his parish, in which their minister was labouring with considerable effect.

Edmund Stephens, in calculating the number of houses in his parish, and the time it would take to visit each, had already felt that his cure of souls was immense, and very far above the compass of one man's capacity, though he were to devote himself unceasingly to the work. He therefore felt it some relief to find that there was another labourer working in his great vineyard, and he resolved to make himself acquainted with this minister; and if he found that his opinions were such as in the main he could approve, he would offer him his friendship, hold out the right-hand of fellowship to him, and assure him, that between them there should be no other contest than a holy strife who should do most good, and win most souls to God. And thus he reasoned with himself:

"It is impossible for me to give individual attention to each of my parishioners, and yet, humanly speaking, some may be lost without this particular attention. This Christian minister, in another part of my parish, may be able to bestow that individual attention which I cannot always supply, and he may have a better method of instruction than I have. I know that he has more experience; but, granting he has only as good a method, how shall I presume to take upon me to deprive others of the benefit of his labours, when I perhaps have it not in my power to make it up to them by my own exertions? If I weaken the hands of a pious man, or stop his mouth, and thus hinder his usefulness, am I not, humanly speaking, accountable for the loss of any soul which may thereby perish for want of help, and thus become, as far as in me lies, a spiritual murderer?"

In this manner the young clergyman argued with himself: but as he considered also that there are some who dissent from our Church in points of such amazing consequence that true Christians can by no means extend their encouragement towards them, he determined to make himself quite sure that there was nothing of this kind in the minister in question; and having ascertained this point, he called upon him, and, opening his heart frankly to him, he asked his friendship, and gave him leave to do as much good as he possibly could in his parish.

The dissenting minister, who was a gentleman in manners and in education, and a person of true piety, was much touched by the frankness and simplicity of the young curate. He received his overtures with cordiality; and it not unfrequently happened, after this, that these servants of God would consult together, to bring to pass their little plans for the advancement of the glory of their common Master.

When Edmund Stephens had arrived at the proper age, he was admitted to priest's orders, and returned immediately to his labours of love, which he pursued with unabated ardour. And although he made several innovations on certain old customs, established, time immemorial, in the parish, yet on these occasions he either excited less animosity, or heard less of the anger he did excite, (which came nearly to the same thing,) than could possibly have been expected.

Through the divine blessing, he was particularly mindful of what his aunt had said to him on the necessity of keeping his own mind in a calm and heavenly state if he wished to do good; and in order to preserve this state of mind, he found that he must carefully observe several rules. One was, never to allow praise to reach his ears without cautiously guarding against those injurious effects that it is calculated to produce on his mind; because he found that, whenever he had taken praise to himself rather than carry it to the Lord, he immediately became acutely alive to blame, and more irritated against the person who had blamed him, than he had lately been pleased with him who had extolled him. On this account, when descending from his pulpit, he always carefully shunned such persons as were accustomed to meet him on these occasions with any complimentary expressions, and if he found it impossible to avoid such indiscreet friends, he never failed to declare to them, that he dared not to accept the honour which cometh from man. Another rule which this excellent young man was enabled to lay down for himself was, to keep his ears shut to the common reports and unmeaning tittle-tattle of the day; as he found that this unimportant and trifling gossip had a peculiar effect in lowering the standard of his thoughts, in producing listlessness in the exercise of his duty, and in loading his mind with that fear of the world which a minister ought above all dangers to avoid.

In consequence of the faithful observance of these rules, Edmund Stephens was enabled to preserve much composure of mind amidst a crooked and perverse generation, and was kept in a state of continued tranquillity, hidden, as it were, within the secret of the pavilion of his God: and being thus blessed with that peace which the world cannot give, he was constantly assisted in his endeavours to seek the mind of the Lord, and to bear in perpetual remembrance that sweet address of the Church to the Chief Shepherd which we find in the first chapter of the Canticles, and the seventh verse--Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions? Thus he continued to pursue his undeviating course of rectitude, walking in deep humility, and always giving the glory to God, till certain events took place, which I shall relate without further delay.

The town in which Edmund Stephens resided was one of those large manufacturing places which is continually receiving successive enlargements, and spreading its suburbs, its gardens, new rows, streets, squares, and crescents, over the adjacent country. The town had not formerly extended beyond the bounds of one parish, and this was the parish in which Edmund resided; a region of smoke and spinning-machines, containing many dark old houses, and intersected with narrow streets and miserable little alleys. But of late years, the new buildings had encroached upon another rectory, whose little modernized parsonage-house was now seen standing in a garden, between a square and a half-finished crescent.

This living had lately become vacant, and, through the exertions of old Mr. Parnel, it was procured for Francis, who, being recalled in all haste from abroad, had scarcely time to take priest's orders before it was necessary for him to hasten to-- to be inducted in his rectory.

Edmund Stephens heard of the success of his friend with unmingled pleasure, and anticipated such a renewal of their former intercourse as should render life even more sweet than he had already found it.

Edmund happened to be particularly engaged on the day that his friend was to be inducted, and was obliged to be out of town for some days afterwards; but immediately on his return he hastened to seek the companion of his youth, and having enquired for him at his parsonage, was informed by some workmen, who were engaged in the house, that he was to be found at a lodging-house in the neighbouring square, where he was to remain till all was ready at the parsonage for his reception.

As the parsonage had lately been occupied by a very large family, Edmund could not clearly understand how it was that Mr. Parnel was unable to find in it a corner fit to put his head in. As this, however, was no business of his, he presently lost the singular impression which this seeming nicety of his old companion had at first made upon his mind; and having found out the lodging-house where Mr. Parnel then was, and obtained admittance, he rushed up the stairs, and a moment afterwards had seized the hand of his friend, and was shaking it with an ardour which proved that his kind feelings towards him had met with no abatement from absence.

Edmund was not one of those persons who are keenly alive to every slight, and who possess, in consequence, the quickest perception of every shade and degree of cordiality or want of cordiality in the salutation of a friend; yet he could not but perceive, on this occasion, that there was a certain something in Mr. Parnel's reception of him which threw a damp over his heart. He, however, endeavoured to recover from this sudden chill, and forced himself to suppose that it was only the effect of fancy. He accordingly took the seat that was offered him, and began to express the delight he felt in being restored to one from whose society he had formerly enjoyed so much delight. He spoke of his aunt, and of many sweet hours spent in her society; and remarked, that he had never, since her death, met with a person so entirely above the world as she was, and, in consequence, so truly charming: to all which Mr. Parnel replied, with a degree of restraint which but too strongly confirmed his friend in his first apprehension, namely: that his old companion had lost much of the strength and ardour of his early feelings.

Mr. Parnel was a man who, from the inelegance of his figure, and the contour of his features, from a certain something in his mode of elocution, and a want of natural grace in his movements, was never intended to shine, as a public character; while Edmund Stephens was, on the contrary, one who, from the actual symmetry of his person, from the extraordinary spirituality of his mind, the sweetness of his temper, the warmth and vivacity of his feelings, and the peculiar graciousness and humility of his manner, might, had he been so inclined, have easily acquired all that celebrity as a popular speaker or preacher, to which a person less gifted as to outward advantages must have aspired in vain.

It was, however, one of the greatest misfortunes to Mr. Parnel, that he wished to be admired by the world; and it is probable that he had always been sensible of the natural advantages which Edmund had over him, and that this thorn had long rankled in his heart, though it seems he felt not the irritation of the fester, till on the occasion of the meeting of which we are now speaking, when he found himself, though a traveller, and, as the world would say, a fortunate man, suddenly and entirely eclipsed by a poor curate, whose least perfections, he was well aware, were those which were most visible to the world.

It was a remark of one of the finest Christian characters which has appeared in the present age, (to wit, the holy and heavenly Henry Martyn,) that the minister or teacher who would be blessed in the instructions he gives, must first seek the divine blessing on his own mind; and although the Articles of our Church form this decision, that in case of ungodly characters having authority in the ministration of the Word, yet, forasmuch as they do not the same in their own name, but in Christ's, and do minister by his commission and authority, it is lawful to use their ministry, [26th Article] nevertheless, it is very certain, that, humanly speaking, there is nothing which retards the progress of the Gospel so much as the remaining eruptions of sin among the rulers of the Church, and among all such persons as are employed in the work of instruction. Hence the importance of a proper regulation of the passions among professors, and especially of those deeply destructive and even murderous feelings which consist in the desire of exalting self, and seeking the favour of man rather than that of God.

Edmund had been but a short time with Mr. Parnel, before he was well aware that his former humble friend made pretensions to be a man of fashion; not that he was, indeed, a ridiculous pretender of the kind, although his claims were supported in a way which appeared to Edmund wholly inconsistent with the simplicity and dignity of the ministerial character. Nevertheless he trusted that all was right at the bottom, notwithstanding this little appearance of what he could not relish. He therefore accepted Mr. Parnel's invitation to dinner, and tried to hope that he was about to enjoy a delightful season with the friend of his heart.

"And so, Edmund," said Mr. Parnel, "you are still at the old lodgings!--still precisely where I first knew you! Do you not find them rather dark?"

"By no means," returned Edmund. "Those rooms seem to me the very regions of light and life; and I have more pleasure in contemplating the well-known Dutch tiles, than I should have in beholding the finest marble chimney-piece in Europe."

"The effect of an old association of ideas, my good fellow," returned Mr. Parnel, somewhat pompously. "The associations of our childhood are very powerful!"

"Yes," returned Edmund, "they are powerful, indeed; and I pray that mine may never be disturbed."

The conversation then took another turn. Mr. Parnel talked of his pupil; of his adventures abroad; of Naples, and Paris; of the English society he had fallen into in these cities: and hence made it appear that he had suffered a great deal in the cause of religion among his irreligious countrymen abroad.

Edmund thought that this was very probable, and said, that his friend had reason to give glory to God for the support which had been vouchsafed him under circumstances of so trying a nature.

Mr. Parnel then spoke of the extraordinary coincidences by which at so early an age he was placed in his present very responsible situation; and, with an air of perplexity, said, that he foresaw certain peculiar difficulties which he should have to encounter--difficulties of no ordinary description, and with which he felt himself quite overwhelmed.

"How so?" said Edmund. "Wherein does your situation differ from that of other ministers who have the charge of souls?"

Mr. Parnel fixed his eyes on Edmund with a stare of astonishment, and said, "Surely, my good friend, you do not think my situation a common one, comparing it only with your own! Consider how much greater my responsibility is than yours. You are acting only for another. I have no one to whom I can look up for advice and direction. If any thing is amiss, I alone am to be blamed; while you are protected beneath the wing of your superior, and if fault is found with you, he is to share in your condemnation."

"Remember," answered Edmund, "that my rector is a man of eighty, and quite past all concern for his people."

"It may be so," returned Mr. Parnel, "that is, you and I know it to be so; but the world only knows you, Mr. Stephens, as the assistant of Dr. Fieldhouse, and you are always supposed to be acting under his sanction."

Edmund bowed, not feeling disposed to speak; and Mr. Parnel having waited a moment for his reply, proceeded to this effect.--"You do not appear, Edmund, by any means to be aware of my difficulties. Permit me to state them to you, and you will then be better able to judge of my situation.

"It is, I trust, and ever has been, my wish, in my character of a spiritual teacher, to act with faithfulness--to fear no man, and to seek only the glory of God. Nevertheless, my knowledge of life has brought me to this conviction--that unless I can preserve the respect and affection of my people, and the good opinion of the world at large, my usefulness will be utterly marred.

"Now, when I consider the state of my parish; when I am made to understand that all the best families of the town, nay, indeed, all those of any consequence in our society, are included in it; when I am told that all my people are persons of affluence, and some sort of fashion, that they have never been in the habit of hearing the truth, and cannot be expected to hear it, is it possible that I should be free from apprehensions? And, moreover, when I have this assurance, that if I am more diligent and decided than my predecessor, I shall also incur the displeasure of the clergy of the diocese in a body, and perhaps come under the stigma of the bishop, is it possible for me, I ask, to be without uneasiness?"

"In the first place," returned Edmund, "I do not see wherefore you should fear your congregation more than I and others do. Are we not all aware that the Gospel is disgusting to the natural man? and that, when first heard, it will awaken all the angry passions of his nature? But have we not this assurance, that, if we are not weary of well-doing, all these difficulties shall disappear? For is not He that is with us stronger than he that is against us? And, in the second place, I would say, that I think you are judging very harshly of your superiors and brethren in the ministry, many of whom will admire and commend your diligence, and others will imitate you; and if you do not first throw down the gauntlet, most of the rest will let you alone. For the admiration and respect of one, at least, I can answer."

"Meaning yourself, Edmund?" replied Mr. Parnel. "Yes, I trust that I shall always possess and deserve your affection; but I am speaking of the higher orders, the beneficed clergy of the diocese. If I introduce any thing new, if I make any innovation into the old order of things, I shall certainly draw them all upon me. I am assured of it; and I hope that I am prepared, though I am fully aware of the singularly difficult and painful situation in which I stand."

"O, brother! brother!" said Edmund, rising up, and smiling, "you have gone through the University with éclat, you have made the grand tour of Europe, you are converted into a respectable rector; and yet you are precisely the same Francis Parnel who was at loggerheads with his schoolfellows on the second day of his establishment at school."

"What do you mean?" replied the other, reddening violently: "Explain yourself. You, at least, have a lively recollection of my schoolday follies. Come, explain yourself."

"Do not be offended, my good friend," subjoined Edmund: "I meant not to hurt your feelings; and yet I foresee, that you will not have been a year in this place, before you will be at daggers-drawing--to use a strong expression--with every order and denomination of persons in the town and neighbourhood."

"How so, Stephens?" said Mr. Parnel.

"In the first place," returned Edmund, "you will set the irreligious world against you; not so much by telling them the truth as it is in Jesus, as by informing them that you expect their hatred. You will bring the higher ranks of the clergy upon you by letting them know that you expect their displeasure, and that you consider them as the enemies of extraordinary seriousness; and you will undoubtedly hit upon some other method of making yourself equally disagreeable to what is called the low Church. I know that it is impossible to please all men: but surely there is a wide difference between a mean and shuffling conduct, and that which breathes universal defiance."

"Universal defiance!" repeated Mr. Parnel: "why, Edmund, surely you cannot suppose that I shall reveal those feelings to others which I have uttered only in confidence to the oldest friend I have in the world?"

"Not if you can help it," replied Edmund.

"Not if I can help it!" returned the other: "why, Stephens, do you suppose that I have no discretion whatever?"

"I think of you," said Edmund, "as I should of any other man who should allow himself in the like reflections. By dwelling so much and so incessantly on your own concerns, your own trials, the opinion of others respecting you, and the persecutions to which you may be liable, your mind contracts a soreness which wholly unfits you for that contact with society to which every man is exposed. On the slightest touch and the gentlest rub, being so situated, you will naturally start and wince. In every casual circumstance, you will see the fulfilment of some of your apprehensions, and you will naturally be led to betray your feelings where you should not; and thus, in the end all will come upon you which you now (permit me to say) so causelessly dread.

"And then, my Francis," added Edmund, his voice assuming that expression of noble pathos which it ever did on occasion of his tenderer feelings being excited, "and then, my Francis, then where will be that usefulness which we so often promised ourselves in our early days? How will the image of the Saviour appear in your deportment and shine in your countenance, when clouds of care and anxiety--worldly care and selfish anxiety--shall rest upon your brow? Recollect the description of the parish-priest in that beautiful poem of Goldsmith's:

"'At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place:
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway;
And fools, who came to scoff, rernain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile:
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd;
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd:
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven;
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head!'"

When Edmund had repeated this beautiful quotation, Mr. Parnel, instead of making any reply, remained quite silent; neither could his friend in any way define the expression of his countenance. He saw, indeed, that his words had made a strong impression; but whether that impression was a favourable one, he was at a loss to decide. However, as Edmund (in common with most persons who are raised by true religion above the selfish considerations which actuate the greater part of mankind) was not easily disconcerted when he believed he was doing right, he proceeded to express still plainer his sentiments relative to the character of a minister, paying little regard to the variation of Mr. Parnel's countenance; though, in order to give him time to recover himself, he was careful that his remarks should be of a more general nature than those which he had made before.

"I was very much struck," said Edmund, "with an observation which I lately met with, in a work of a clergyman of the present day, who has with the most unremitting assiduity devoted himself to the study of Scripture. This remark related to the conduct of Aaron and Miriam, when they reproved Moses on account of the Ethiopian woman, and thereby incurred the displeasure of the Almighty. Whatever might have been their motives for this sudden attack upon Moses, whose marriage had taken place so many years before, we cannot presume to say, though they were, evidently, unwarrantable, from the anger that the Almighty himself displayed on the occasion; but the punishment inflicted on Aaron and Miriam, and the consequence of this punishment, together with the remark made upon this consequence, was that which so forcibly struck me in the work to which I allude--'Behold, the sin of these two professors delayed the progress of all the host of Israel for seven days. Armed hosts and intervening seas could not retard them; but sin, that evil and accursed thing, did what all the powers of earth and hell could not have done. O professor! think how many may be retarded in their progress towards heaven by one sin of thine! Remember what our Lord has said--Woe unto the world because of offences! but woe, most of all, unto him by whom the offence cometh!'"

Edmund was still proceeding with his remarks, (for Mr. Parnel yet remained silent,) when they found that a carriage had stopped at the door; and, a moment afterwards, a Mr. Harrison, an elderly gentleman of considerable consequence in the neighbourhood, and who was supposed to be favourable to religion, was announced.

Mr. Harrison on entering, very cordially accosted the two young ministers; and, on his being seated, the conversation took a general turn, till the old gentleman asked Mr. Parnel why he did not find him in his parsonage-house.

This question, as Edmund feared, led to a recital of grievances; for Mr. Parnel being thereby led to speak of himself, could not stop when he had informed his visitor that his parsonage-house needed some repairs, but proceeded to other matters, till, to the amazement of Edmund, he began fully to describe his situation, and the difficulties attending it, in precisely the same manner to Mr. Harrison, as he had shortly done before to himself, expressing his apprehensions, that all the world would be upon him as soon as he should commence to deal sincerely with his people.

"You are mistaken, Sir," said Mr. Harrison; "the truth is not a new thing in this place:" adding, as he turned to Edmund, "our young friend here has not thus kept us in the dark; and I have every reason to think, that you will have more to fear from the indiscreet flatteries of your people, should you prove faithful to them, than from any other cause. But Mr. Stephens will tell you more of these matters than I can possibly do, for he has had three years' experience, during which neither doctrine nor reproof have been spared."

"Sir," returned Edmund, "I am perhaps the last man to be addressed on this subject: the days of faggots and stakes are gone by, and I hear very little of what is said of me."

"But your church, Sir," replied Mr. Harrison, "your church overflows!"

"It does, Sir," replied Edmund, seeming unable any longer to contain himself; "and since I must speak, I think it but just to my parishioners to say, that I have met with nothing but kindness and affection from them since my residence in the parish."

"And I might add," rejoined Mr. Harrison, in a low voice, addressing Mr. Parnel, "it would be strange if he had not: for never, surely, was a man more worthy of esteem."

It is not known whether Mr. Parnel heard the whole of this whisper; for before it was half finished, he turned to Edmund, and said, "Surely, Stephens, you do not mean to assert that the tongue of censure has in your parish never been moved against you?"

"I make no such assertion," replied Edmund "I only know that little, either of praise or blame, has hitherto reached my ears. I know that it is not by the sentence of an earthly tribunal that I must stand or fall; and I endeavour to perplex myself as little as possible with what the world may say, though I consider myself bound to receive any reproof given in an open manner either by friend or enemy."

"Certainly," returned Mr. Parnel, affecting to laugh, "you have found out a good method of preserving your self-complacency, my good fellow; a capital way this is, indeed, of retaining one's own good opinion--refusing to hear all that is said against one! Then, you do not know that you sadly lost your popularity among the clergy of the diocese on one particular occasion which I could name? Mr. Harrison knows what I mean: I heard of it when abroad; and it was almost the first thing which reached my ears when I arrived at this place."

Edmund looked at his watch. "At what hour do you dine, Parnel?" he asked. "You will excuse me: I have an engagement which will detain me about an hour--I will be with you again before your dinner." So saying, he bowed to Mr. Harrison, and left the room, his fine features being all in a glow as he took his departure; though when he returned at the end of the hour, and found his friend alone, this glow had subsided, leaving only such a bloom as might be attributed to health and exercise, while the usual serene and holy dignity of his countenance was conspicuous.

We do not presume to say what had been passing in the mind of Francis during this interval, but his reflections were surely of a salutary nature; for his friend no sooner appeared, than he held out his hand to him, and said, with much affection, "Edmund, I have offended you. You left me in displeasure: what did I say? what did I do?"

"O, Francis! dear Francis!" returned Edmund, "my friend and brother! we have spent many happy days together, many precious hours, in that blessed period of early youth which passed away under the gentle influence of my much-lamented aunt. There was a time we had not a secret hidden from each other; and I looked forward to your return as a circumstance which would add many sweets to my journey through life: but unless you will here, my brother, promise never to trouble me with any of those idle rumours respecting myself, my neighbours, and my people, to which you just now alluded, I must from this moment forego all those pleasures which I promised myself in your society. I had, indeed, hoped that at the death of either of us, the survivor might have been able to give the same reason for his grief as he did who lamented his Lycidas--

'For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.'

But if this must not be, I hope that I am prepared to acquiesce in the divine will: for I must not, I dare not, depart from the injunction of my Master, nor from the rule which I have been enabled to lay down for myself, never to allow my mind to be darkened and my usefulness marred by entering into the empty and idle tittle-tattle of the professing world."

"You are warm, Edmund," said Mr. Parnel.

"I am," returned Edmund. "My feelings are naturally strong, and my temper ardent: I know them to be so, and I know also what I suffered before this constitutional peculiarity could be brought under the influence of grace. But should not this operate as an additional motive for my endeavouring to keep myself in a state of tranquillity?"

"But, Edmund," remarked Mr. Parnel, "how can you ever know yourself, unless you hear what your enemies say of you?"

"The lashes of the tongue," returned Edmund, "are, doubtless, useful in correcting the foul offences of the impious world, and the admonitions of a faithful friend are never to be despised; but, assuredly, the true Christian should rather seek self-knowledge by communing with his God in secret, than by listening to the voice of the multitude."

Mr. Parnel urged the argument no further, but, giving his hand to his friend, exclaimed, "O, Edmund! you make me feel little in my own estimation. Would to God I could be as you are!"

Edmund was melted even to tears: but, as those persons who possess the most tender hearts generally take the greatest care to avoid a display of their feelings, he hastily brushed away these tokens of affection, and, as if by mutual consent, other and less interesting subjects engaged the conversation of the two ministers during the rest of the day; and Edmund, on returning home, tried to think that he had derived much satisfaction from this visit.

The dusk of evening had arrived by the time he reached his humble apartments. His little tea-equipage was set ready, and on the table by it there lay his Bible, his Concordance, and his pen and ink. A bright fire shed its enlivening glow through all the room. He drew his chair to the table, and, sitting down, looked around him with an indescribable feeling of gratitude for this peaceful asylum which was granted him from the contending passions of the world. "O my aunt!" he thought, "when shall I meet with a spirit like yours? I have been blessed with the acquaintance of many sincere Christians: but where shall I find one raised, like you, above the world, and while still in the flesh, dwelling, as it were, in the third heaven? How did your exalted and sanctified genius travel over the whole course of the Gospel scheme, from the creation of the world till the moment in which the dying Saviour on the cross cried out, 'It is finished !' How sweetly would you trace the Saviour through every type and shadow of the Mosaic dispensation! and how did your faith expatiate at large, and, as it were, at will, among the glorious scenes of prophecy amidst the regions of the restored paradise! O that those Christians who enjoyed your society on earth were blessed with a portion of your excellent spirit, and that they would resolve to banish those selfish feelings, their indulgence of which must render their attempts at usefulness abortive!"

The next morning, Mr. Parnel returned Edmund's visit. The sight of the old room, and the many well-known pieces of furniture, with the oriel step on which he had often lounged with his Edmund while they studied their lessons, seemed to awaken all the tender and affectionate feelings of Francis. He forgot for a short time the young rector, with all his wonderful perplexities and peculiar situations, and talked for a while only of Mrs. Mary Stephens, and the happy hours he had spent in her society.

Edmund's little dinner was brought upon the table, served in the plainest way which strict neatness would permit. Edmund insisted on Mr. Parnel's partaking of it with him, and consequently the two friends sat down together.

Of that of which the heart is full the mouth will speak: and Edmund inadvertently entered upon some of those views which his aunt had often set before them relative to the duty of ministers,--simple, holy, and scriptural views--and depicted with all the force and vivacity which piety and ardent love for the Christian cause could possibly inspire.

Mr. Parnel remarked that these views were, indeed, beautiful, and he also spoke of the effect which Mrs. Stephens's conversations had produced on his mind, both at the time they were uttered, and even long after.--"But, my dear brother," he added, "the impracticability of their being realized did not then appear to us; we did not then perceive that these beautiful images were the mere creations of an imagination heated by enthusiasm. A very slight acquaintance with the world must convince any man, that your good aunt's ideas of the character of the Christian minister are no more than a fancy picture."

Edmund underwent a sudden shock on hearing this remark; but controlling his feelings, he said, "How so?--the character is drawn from Scripture!"

To this assertion Francis Parnel made no reply; but flying from the particular point in question, he fell again into the discussion of his own peculiar duties, and of what would be expected and required of himself in particular: and it is remarkable, that during the whole of the time in which he was thus engaged, he never once seemed to consider that Edmund Stephens had held for some years a situation nearly similar to that in which he himself was placed, and that he might, therefore, probably be able to assist him with the results of his experience. Edmund, however, remembering the heat which had been excited in his bosom during his visit to Francis the day before, and thinking that he had already spoken his mind with sufficient plainness, was careful not to express himself with warmth on the present occasion, especially as he was then in his own house; and therefore, after vainly making two or three attempts to introduce a more profitable subject, he contented himself with sustaining only a very inferior part in a conversation in which, from experience and natural abilities, he was certainly entitled to take the lead. And thus passed the hours till Mr. Parnel took his leave.

Edmund once more felt relieved in being left alone, and presently found consolation in pouring out his feelings before the throne of grace: but whether his prayers for Francis Parnel were answered we shall leave our readers to judge, when they shall have finished the perusal of this short, yet, we trust, not unprofitable history.

From that time there was, for several mouths, but little intercourse between these two young men. Edmund, finding that, when they met, his friend was always so full of himself and his own concerns, that they could not converse either on equal or profitable terms, at length resolved to seek him out no longer, but to return to the steady performance of his own pastoral duties, which were so arranged as to leave him but a few hours daily for study. And, in the discharge of his several duties, he still took particular care to avoid all those encounters with worldly persons which might tend to interrupt the pious tranquillity of his own mind, feeling that his usefulness depended, humanly speaking, upon his own heart being habitually kept under the influence of Christian simplicity and holiness. He found, from close and constant observation, that whenever he addressed his people in a high or self-sufficient state of mind, his discourse, however eloquent, however filled with well-turned and finely polished periods, however rich in scriptural allusions and elegant applications, failed of its effect in reaching the heart; while discourses which seemed to want all these perfections, if proceeding from a broken and contrite spirit, appeared to excite feelings which the former had utterly failed in producing. He did not, either in one case or the other, attribute his success to his own eloquence; but he believed that a divine unction was frequently poured out upon him when he least expected it, and that when he was in an humble and lowly frame, a blessing wholly withheld at other times often attended his ministry; for God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble. [James iv. 6.]

These discoveries taught him to regard it as the indispensable duty of every teacher of the Gospel to live close to God; neither was he unmindful of an awful remark frequently made by his aunt respecting those persons who take upon themselves the charge of souls, whether in the capacity of ministers, schoolmasters, catechists, or writers: who, if they, either from indolence, carelessness, or the indulgence of selfish passions, neglect the duties which they have undertaken to fulfil, become, in fact, spiritual murderers, being manifest transgressors of the law which saith Thou shalt do no murder, and are, it is to be feared, more heavy offenders than the man who commanded the destruction of the babes of Bethlehem, inasmuch as he could destroy only the bodies of these innocents, whereas, they who, professing to dispense to their fellow men the bread of life, virtually withhold it from them, become as far as in them lies, the destroyers of the more noble part of man.

In this manner did this excellent young man reason with himself; and thus he continued his humble, quiet, and laborious course, with little interruption, for more than twelve months after the arrival of Mr. Parnel in the town.

The former friends, in the mean time, met but seldom; and when they did so, Mr. Parnel always pleaded want of time and the pressure of numerous important avocations as excuses for his not indulging himself so often as he said he could have wished in the company of Edmund. Yet neither want of time nor numerous avocations was the real cause of this estrangement. The busiest man must sometimes relax. And had Mr. Parnel thirsted after the society of his friend, he would certainly have found many occasions for enjoying it. But the truth was precisely this: Francis sighed after popularity, and he therefore could not endure to witness in Edmund those qualifications which procured him, unpretending as he was, that favour for which he himself longed,--but in vain. Mr. Stephens was endowed by nature with many of those advantages which attract admiration. His appearance was unusually prepossessing; his voice melodious, full, and agreeable; his elocution clear; his manner graceful; and his very simplicity particularly attractive. Mr. Parnel envied him in the possession of all these attractions; and the more so, because the possessor himself did not seem sensible of them: and, therefore, soon after his own arrival in the neighbourhood, he attempted to solace himself by endeavouring to find out something to the disadvantage of this man so generally admired.

The weakness of Mr. Parnel could not long be concealed from those about him; and as there was no want of idlers and busy-bodies who viewed Edmund with displeasure, because they regarded him as keeping himself too much aloof from their society, they presently put it into Mr. Parnel's head, that Mr. Stephens, notwithstanding his apparent humility, was no less eager for popularity than other men: and to this motive they attributed his apparent zeal for religion, his conciliatory manner towards other denominations of Christians, and his readiness to promote every good work which was proposed in the town.

Mr. Parnel's besetting sin was vanity, or, in other words, a kind of selfishness which would never let him be easy when he saw himself surpassed in any pursuit in which he desired to be foremost. It had from early youth been the object of his ambition to be a popular preacher, to become the leader in many good works, and to be as it were regarded as a father in Israel. Had his ambition taken any other direction, he might probably soon have detected the evil of these desires for self-exaltation; for with all his faults, (and these were, indeed, grievous,) there was still reason to think that the root of the matter was in him. But when his desires seemed to tend to an object apparently so laudable, he entertained no doubt of their propriety; and thus he became the slave of envy and of various other evil passions of a like dangerous tendency, without being aware that he was departing in the smallest degree from the strict line of Christian rectitude.

How little do those persons who fail to ascribe the honour of their good deeds to God, how little, indeed, do such persons even suspect the tendency of their conduct! how little are they aware of the murderous character of their desires after self-exaltation! and how far are they from allowing that these feelings, if freely indulged, would inevitably terminate in the dissolution of all order, and produce death and destruction under every modification! Having already made a remark to this effect, we return to Francis Parnel.

The selfish feelings before mentioned constantly became stronger in the breast of this young man, and were soon blended with, or rather gave the direction to, all his actions; so that he was never easy unless he fancied himself engrossing the whole attention of whatever company he might happen to be in. He approved of no good work that might be going forward within his sphere of action in which he himself was not a leader. If he could not be the first in conversation, he would seldom speak at all. And as Edmund was the man who was most likely to be held up by the world as his rival, he gradually cherished such an alienation from his former friend, as to proceed at length to counteract, at first in an underhand, and afterwards in a more open way, every public work which the other attempted to accomplish. But inasmuch as he would not confess his sentiments with respect to Edmund even to his own heart, he still retained something like the language of friendship towards him when they chanced to meet; and it never could be discovered by those who were most intimately acquainted with both parties, whether Edmund had or had not discovered that Mr. Parnel had ceased to feel for him as in former days.

Some months had passed during which these young ministers had not met, when, one morning, Mr. Parnel called on Mr. Stephens. The moment he entered the room, Edmund was aware that his former friend was in a state of high excitement, though on what account he did not know. For this excellent young man was so entirely raised above the clouds and tempests of this lower world, that he could scarcely conceive the state of irritation into which weaker minds are often roused by the petty cabals with which they are continually embroiled. It was, however, evident to him, that his friend was by some cause or other strongly affected; and he therefore attempted to restrain the breaking out of his disagreeable emotions by speaking on the most common and least interesting subjects that then occurred to him, affecting at the same time a certain cheerfulness and concern which at that moment he certainly did not feel. A forced vivacity never has an agreeable effect, at least, with those persons who have even the weakest penetration. Accordingly, Mr. Parnel seemed to be more irritated than pleased by Edmund's manner, and presently discovered his displeasure by saying, "Upon my word, Stephens, you possess a wonderful flow of spirits. But I came here to-day on purpose to have some serious conversation with you, and I really wish that you would grant me an attentive hearing for a short time."

"Most willingly," replied Edmund, seriously; "and if I can be of the least service"--"You are very good," returned Mr. Parnel, dryly: "but I have no particular occasion for your services at present. It is about your own affairs, Edmund, that I am desirous of speaking to you at this time."

"I shall hearken with interest," returned Edmund, "to any thing which a friend may say."

"What," returned Mr. Parnel, "even should that friend venture to repeat some things which may be said by persons not quite so much attached to you as the man who is now before you?"

"I shall not refuse to hear any thing that it may be right I should know," rejoined Edmund. "I confess, that I do not like to trouble myself much with what the busy world may say of me; but I shall, of course, attend to any thing with which my friend judges that I ought to be made acquainted."

"So far, so well," replied Mr. Parnel; "I am glad to find that you are willing to hear reason. And such being the case, I shall proceed without further preface with what I have to say."

Mr. Parnel then proceeded directly to introduce the business on account of which he had made the present visit to Edmund's lodgings, and began, without ceremony, to call his friend to account for such parts of his conduct as did not entirely coincide with his views of propriety and prudence. And, first, he blamed him for his intimacy with Mr. Barret, the dissenting minister of whom mention was before made, conceiving that he might justly do so, on the score of his not belonging to the Church as established in this kingdom.

"You cannot regret that he does not," replied Edmund, "more than I do, brother Parnel."

"Indeed!" said Parnel.

"Because," returned Edmund, "I am sorry that so valuable a man should not be altogether with us."

"You surprise me, Edmund," returned Mr. Parnel.

"Do you thoroughly understand the points on which we differ from Mr. Barret?" rejoined the other.

"I never had any conversation with the gentleman in question," replied Mr. Parnel; "and therefore cannot give you an answer."

"Permit me then to say," said Edmund, "that there is no one point essential to salvation in which you, and I and Mr. Barret, could not go hand-in-hand. This was a circumstance with which I made myself fully acquainted before I offered him the right-hand of fellowship. I have, also, every reason to believe, that this man, speaking of him as an individual, is a true servant and child of God, and I know him to be a laborious and successful preacher."

"All this may be strictly true," replied Mr. Parnel, coolly; "but as this man differs from us with respect to the great article of church-government, and, also, in lesser points, I am unable to understand, Edmund, how he can be a suitable companion or coadjutor with you, a clergyman of the Established Church."

"Stop," said Edmund, "and permit me to propose to you one question. What, I ask, should be the object of a minister, either of our Church or of any other denomination? to make proselytes to his own particular form of worship, or to win souls for the Church of Christ? If the former, then I confess that I am wrong; but if the latter, I think you will find it hard to convince me that I have acted amiss in giving my countenance to such a man as Mr. Barret."

Mr. Parnel made no reply, and Edmund went on to this effect.--"I will explain to you, my dear friend, the motives which at first led me to regard with a favourable and even a thankful feeling the residence of Mr. Barret in my parish. When first placed in this situation, I took great pains to ascertain the numbers and necessities of the souls under my care, and found that the former amounted to at least five thousand, and that among these vast multitudes, (multitudes indeed to be all subjected to the pastoral jurisdiction of one man,) there were few who, in a spiritual sense, were not blind, and naked, and poor, and miserable. Having made this calculation, I next proceeded to consider my own physical powers, as an individual, for supplying, as far as lay in the use of means, the amazing wants of these poor creatures. And shall I confess, that, after having long and painfully reflected on the subject, it was not without pleasure that I heard of such a fellow-labourer as Mr. Barret. I took some pains to ascertain the principles of this good man; and when I found that in all essential matters they were such as I could most heartily subscribe, I no longer hesitated to pay him a visit, to assure him of my co-operation in every good work that he might desire to perform, and, to say that I hoped no other contest would subsist between us than that of an emulation in doing what is right. And I have reason to think that the candour and liberality of my conduct have been the means, on several occasions, of strengthening the hands of Mr. Barret, and enabling him to effect more good than otherwise he could have done."

"But you do not mean to say that there are no points on which you and Mr. Barret disagree!" said Mr. Parnel.

"Certainly not," replied Edmund; "there are several: but they are all matters of minor importance, and such as we have often canvassed together in perfect good will."

"Upon my word, Mr. Stephens," returned Francis, "your modes of thinking are in many respects so very irregular, that I hardly know what to say about them. But I have done a friend's part in speaking my mind: and if you will not take warning, you must abide by the consequences."

"I am very willing so to do," replied Edmund: "though I cannot conceive what I have to fear."

"You are a young man, Mr. Stephens," returned the other, "and are only a curate."

"I know it," replied Edmund.

"Enough then," said Mr. Parnel; "and I hope that you have made up your mind to get no more than a curacy while you live."

"I have, I trust," said Edmund, "made up my mind to stand at my post, be it what it may; and if I feel that I dare not attempt to weaken the influence or tie the hands of a man whom I believe to be a better Christian, and certainly a far more experienced minister, than myself, you, my friend, will at least give me credit for my intentions!"

To this Mr. Parnel made no reply, but proceeded to attack his old friend on some other points, one of which was the irregular manner, as he pleased to call it, in which he arranged his services, having an additional service on a Sunday, and one or more on a week-day.

Edmund pleaded the smallness of his church, the size of his parish, and his wish to do as much good as was possible.

Francis Parnel again brought forward the plea of irregularity, and hinted that he feared the desire of distinction was the secret motive for these innovations.

Edmund replied, that no man had any thing to do with his motives, and that he considered himself answerable for them to the Searcher of hearts alone.

Mr. Parnel's answer was, that a man's motives were often more visible to his fellow-creatures than the individual himself supposed.

"Well, then," said Edmund, with some heat, "let every man look to his own heart."

"You are warm, Edmund," said Mr. Parnel, whose reasons for this interference with Mr. Stephens were then not understood by the latter, though they appeared afterwards, "you are warm. What reason can I possibly have for my sincerity but your real good?"

"None, undoubtedly," replied the unsuspicious Edmund; "and I am to blame to be so warm. But if you knew, if you had the smallest idea of the internal struggle which I underwent before I could resolve to sacrifice all earthly prospects at the shrine of duty, you would not thus endeavour to renew the contest in my mind.

"Do you, can you, suppose, Francis," added the young man, "that I am not fully aware of the sacrifice that I am making of all worldly advantages to the line of conduct I have been induced to pursue? But, before I put an end to this subject now, and I hope for ever, let me but propose this single question. Granting, my dear Francis, that you could have sufficient influence to persuade me to give up my weekly services and other unusual efforts, and that you could by any means silence the warning and instructive voice of my brother Christian, what, my dear friend, would you propose to gain by this victory, but an amazing weight of responsibility?--for I maintain," added the young man, recovering his habitual good-humour and vivacity, "that in so doing you bind yourself, as a man of principle, to make up, by your own proper exertions, all the deficiencies which you shall have thus occasioned not only in my labours, but in those, also, of my pious coadjutor."

Mr. Parnel was going to make some reply; but Edmund plainly told him that, if he pleased, they would call another cause.

Francis Parnel left Edmund's lodgings in no very good humour; and these young men did not meet again for several months. At the end of this period, Dr. Fieldhouse died; and the parishioners (without the knowledge of Edmund) applied in a body to the patron, to give the benefice to their beloved curate. It seems, however, that the living, which was in the gift of the father of the young nobleman with whom Mr. Parnel had travelled, had long been destined for the tutor; and, in less than a week after the death of the old rector, Edmund was informed that his former friend had been presented with it.

The benefice was a large and very valuable one, and a curate had always been kept; Edmund was warmly attached to his people, and was, he hoped, in the way of doing good: he therefore resolved not to leave his curacy, unless dismissed by his rector, although he feared that there might be some points on which they would not agree. He determined, however, to try submission and patience in those things about which his conscience was not concerned: and he made these resolutions from motives of piety only.

Mr. Parnel gave up his former living, which was but inconsiderable in point of emolument, and was inducted into his new one, before he gave any hints to Edmund concerning his intentions with respect to the curacy. In the mean time, there was in his own mind a violent contest on the subject. He knew how greatly his parishioners loved Mr. Stephens, for he had heard of their application in his favour; he was sensible, also, that Edmund was his superior in eloquence, in ability, and in a fine exterior; and he felt that he could not bear to be thus excelled in the very place where he wished to be the person of most consequence. In the mean time, the humble deportment of Edmund, who did not at all presume on his former friendship, left him nothing to complain of; he was also fully assured of his great usefulness. The struggle, therefore, in his mind was powerful: previous friendship and Christian feelings were engaged in a hard contest with vanity and selfishness. But the latter at length prevailed: and when Edmund called upon him at his new abode, he told him that he should have no occasion for his further services in the curacy.

Edmund was thunderstruck. He grew pale and then red. He had now been the nursing-father of these poor people for nearly five years; he loved many individuals, and was in return beloved by all who knew him; he had enjoyed many sweet seasons in their society; he had been present during many of their scenes of joy and sorrow, and had proved their comforter under affliction, their faithful friend in times of adversity, and prudent guide in seasons of prosperity. Between himself and many individuals of this parish there existed the strongest tie which is to be met with on earth: he had been made the spiritual father of many; and his children in Christ were ready, had it been necessary, to lay down their lives for him. But now, all these strong and tender ties were to be suddenly and forcibly broken. And by whom broken? By a friend, a brother. Edmund felt that within him which would not permit him to speak. He arose, bowed, walked into the hall, took up his hat, and hastened to his lodgings; where we shall leave him, to return to Mr. Parnel, who, as soon as his friend had retired, sat down to write to a young man, with whom he had become intimate at college, probably thinking that by stating his conduct in a fair light to another, he should be able to still the tumults of his own conscience.

In this letter, he pictured himself (according to his usual mode of speaking) as a person who had, throughout life, hitherto, been placed in circumstances peculiarly arduous. He represented himself as living in a populous manufacturing town, whose inhabitants consisted of persons generally occupied in trade, some of whom, having acquired large fortunes, had, in consequence, risen into higher life, though they were still influenced by the contracted views of their former condition. The general mass of the population he described, as consisting of zealous and hot-headed enthusiasts on the one hand, and on the other, of persons who knew as little of religion as the savages of the desert; nor did he fail to add, that during many months past it had been his painful lot to stand alone among these people as the only representative of true religion. Various were the fiery ordeals through which, according to his own account, he had had to pass, and numerous the scoffs and railleries which he had endured; and if he did not add that he had fought a good fight, it was, perhaps, because he was aware that it was not altogether graceful for a man to praise himself.

The latter part of this letter was, however, that which included the most important particulars, and was worded as follows.--"You have not forgotten Edmund Stephens, of--Hall, a fine looking fellow, and by no means a dull one. Do you know, that when I stepped into old Dr. Fieldhouse's place, I found Edmund in the curacy, in which he had been fixed ever since his ordination. You cannot but remember our former intimacy. I should have rejoiced to serve him. But there is a wildness, an enthusiasm, a contempt of order about him, which rendered it wholly impracticable for me to retain him in his situation: justice to my own character, justice to my own people, made it impossible. I had previously, as soon indeed as I had a hint that I was destined to succeed to the rectory, taken the precaution to reason with Edmund about his inconsistencies; but I was not attended to. I had, therefore, no alternative, when I came into possession, but to dismiss him. It gave me exquisite pain; it was, indeed, a severe trial to me. I can give you no idea of what I suffered on the occasion: for, after all, he is a good fellow, and I have known him long. I must do without a curate till Stephens is provided for elsewhere. In the mean time, be on the look out for me, for the duty will be too hard for me in the long run, though I shall probably be able to get on for some months to come," &c. &c.

When Mr. Parnel had dispatched this epistle, he still found himself so uneasy, that he rushed into company, and there endeavoured to obtain further relief by striving to make his story good among his worldly acquaintance. Nevertheless, although there were some present who seemed to approve of what he had done, poor Francis Parnel could find no peace, and he returned to his house more unhappy than ever. The conscience of this young man was not entirely silenced, and its whisperings during that evening, and as he lay awake on his bed, were such as he was hardly able to endure.

Several days passed, and Mr. Parnel heard no more of Edmund. He spent part of this time at his father's house in a distant part of the country; and when he returned home, he was prevented by his pride from enquiring after him till the afternoon, when his clerk came to give him notice of a funeral; at the same time adding that a neighbouring clergyman would have been obtained to perform the duty, had not the rector unexpectedly returned.

"Where is the curate then?" returned Mr. Parnel. "Why cannot Mr. Stephens attend? Is he gone out of town without informing me?"

"O, Sir!" exclaimed the clerk, "have you not heard? I greatly fear that we shall never see the blessed face of Mr. Stephens any more."

Mr. Parnel started, and felt as if an arrow had transfixed his heart. "What!" he said, "is Edmund gone?"

"Not yet, Sir," replied the clerk; "not yet, we hope."

Mr. Parnel demanded an explanation, and awaited it as he would the stroke of death.

"Sir," replied the clerk, "have you not heard that he broke a blood-vessel a few days since, and his life is despaired of?"

"Impossible!" said Mr. Parnel: "for who, then, has done the occasional duty during my absence?"

The clerk mentioned the name of the clergyman who had been provided to assist Mr. Stephens.

"Oh! my Edmund! my Edmund! Oh! my brother! my Edmund!" said Mr. Parnel, at that moment awakened from his long dream of vanity and selfishness, and suddenly recovering all the vigour of the Christian character, as his better feelings returning, rushed tumultuously into those channels from which his pride had forced them, "Oh! my brother! Oh! my Edmund!"

More he could not say. But he had taken his hat, and was hastening to the well-known lodgings, when his course being arrested by the funeral procession, he was compelled to endure the anguish of committing a human creature, though a stranger, to the dust, at the moment when his feelings were racked by the apprehension of soon witnessing the death of one whom he had formerly loved as a brother, and lately treated as an enemy.

The sad report was not without foundation. Edmund had indeed broken a blood-vessel, and there was little hope of his life.

After having received the notice of dismissal from his curacy, he had returned home in great agitation of mind, and shut himself up for a while in his own apartments, where he no doubt used the means appointed by the Almighty for obtaining consolation: for he was enabled to summon the family together at the usual hour; and while reading and praying with them, appeared to be so perfectly calm, that Mrs. Goodman, his landlady, who had known him from a child, and who had been in the habit of watching every change in his fine countenance with something like a mother's tenderness, entertained not the least apprehension that any thing had happened to disturb him. In the middle of the night, however, this good woman was called to his chamber, where she found him bathed in the blood which he had thrown from his stomach.

Edmund had never enjoyed confirmed health, although his complexion usually displayed a beautiful freshness; and more than once, when a child, his aunt had been alarmed by strong symptoms of this very complaint, the violence of which now threatened the speedy dissolution of his frame.

From the moment of this attack he had been unable to leave his bed, and was ordered to be kept in a state of the most undisturbed quiet.

The report that he had received a dismissal from his curacy only the very day before his illness, was soon spread abroad, and every one about him attributed the accident to the agitation of his mind on the occasion.

But when Mrs. Goodman, in her zeal, uttered her apprehensions before him, he checked her, and solemnly asserted it as his opinion, that it had nothing whatever to do with his illness, and that he also believed it to be the will of God, by the gentle means he was now using, so to loosen, by degrees, the ties that held him to earth, that he should speedily be set free from all mortal cares and sorrows. He then spoke of his entire, firm, and unchangeable confidence in Him who had given up his soul unto death in order that he might bring many sons to glory; and added, that he had a full assurance that the Lord had, through his free and unmerited grace, appointed him to eternal happiness, and that even before the world began: in consequence of which every thing had been so ordered and established for him, that his salvation had been begun, carried on, and completed by the almighty wisdom of God, in a manner which had in nowise depended upon himself. To this effect, and in this way he frequently expressed himself; while his heart, his soul, and spirit, seemed, as it were, already elevated to heaven.

Mr. Parnel arrived at Edmund's lodgings immediately after a new and dreadful alarm had been excited by a violent recurrence of the terrifying symptoms which had taken place a few nights before. Francis found the door of the house unfastened, the surgeon having passed through it in haste a moment before. He therefore entered without knocking, and, going up into the large room above stairs, he proceeded to Edmund's bed-room, which opened into this apartment, and which was well known to him as the chamber in which he had been his sleeping-companion in their early days. The door of this room was standing ajar. Francis gently pushed it open, and thereby unfolded to his sight a scene so heartrending, that he could never forget it. He saw his Edmund lying on the bed, supported on one side by the worthy Mr. Barret, while the surgeon and Mrs. Goodman stood on the other. The physiognomy of Edmund was already that of a dying man. His features were exceedingly pale and sunk, though the colour had not yet left his lips, and there was a faint hectic on his cheeks. His eyes were expressive of something more than composure; they beamed with hope, with love, with joy, as he lifted them up to Mr. Barret, who was gently administering some of those sweet portions of consolation with which the Holy Scriptures so richly abound for those who are made one with Christ. Mr. Parnel stood a moment, and then stepped forward, half irresolute; for whereas his love for Edmund drew him onward, the stings of remorse held him back.

At the noise he made every one looked that way. Mr. Barret and the physician expressed surprise; Mrs. Goodman's face flamed with displeasure, and she motioned to him to retire; but the countenance of Edmund brightened with pleasure. A stronger hectic flushed his cheek; his eye sparkled; he would have spoken, but wanting the power, he could only smile: and such a smile--so sweet, so tender, so full of forgiveness, and even of compassion, surely never appeared but on the face of a dying Christian, of one, in a word, whose affections were, already above!

On beholding this, Francis could contain himself no longer; but springing forwards, and falling on his knees by the bed-side, he implored the pardon of his friend in terms so warm, so animated, so affecting, that every one present trembled for the effect which they might produce on the dying Edmund.

No very serious effect, however, followed. Edmund was perhaps past that period when earthly scenes could produce any very powerful influence on his mind. A tear, however, trembled in his eye, as he extended his arms to his friend; and in the effort which he made for this purpose his head sunk upon the bosom of Mr. Parnel. "O my Edmund!" repeated Francis, as he clasped his friend to his heart, "can you forgive me? O restore me to your affection, wretch that I am! O, live, my Edmund, and not only the curacy, but the rectory shall be yours, if I have the power to procure it for you by my resignation: and God is my witness that I am now sincere."

Edmund sighed, but made no reply; for a momentary faintness had come over him, and the surgeon directed Mr. Parnel to release his head gently from his arm to the pillow. When restored to his place, Edmund uttered another deep sigh, and those around him almost feared that he was dying.

An awful silence now prevailed in the chamber for some minutes, occasionally interrupted by the smothered sobs of Mr. Parnel, during which interval the surgeon was feeling the pulse of his patient, Mrs. Goodman was bathing his temples with vinegar, and Mr. Barret was engaged in prayer.

After a short time, some slight colour returned to the cheeks of Edmund. He opened his eyes. He looked at Mr. Parnel with an expression of unutterable love, and, taking his hand, placed it within that of Mr. Barret, attempting at the same time to speak; but though his lips moved, no voice was heard.

"I understand you, ever-dear Edmund," said Mr. Parnel; "yes, my Edmund, I now understand you. Your wishes shall be attended to. Mr. Barret, will you accept the friendship of the first and chief of sinners?"

The venerable minister (for Mr. Barret was an old man) could make no reply; but the starting tear in his eye, and the cordial grasp with which he pressed the hand of the repentant young man, spoke more than volumes. And before we cease all mention of Mr Barret, we rejoice in being able to say, that the bond of Christian brotherhood formed at the bed-side of Edmund was never broken, and that Mr. Parnel was ever afterwards enabled to love and honour those virtues in the character of Mr. Barret which the eye of prejudice had hitherto prevented him from distinguishing, although they had been so frequently pointed out to him by Edmund.

We might dwell long, very long, on scenes such as we have just described; but at present we forbear, trusting that little more can be added to shew the power of religion as it appeared in the character of Edmund and in the repentance of Francis.

For some days, Mr. Parnel, who scarcely left the side of his dying friend, flattered himself that his disease would not, as others seemed to expect, prove fatal. He ardently longed for an opportunity of making up to his beloved friend the injuries he had done him; and now that it was no longer in his power, he would have given the half of his substance to procure for himself the support, the assistance, and the guidance of such a man as his Edmund. He wondered what could hitherto have blinded his eyes to the Christian excellencies of this friend; and he asked himself, when too late, this question--"For what did I barter the friendship of such a man as this?"

But the prayers of Mr. Parnel for his Edmund were not heard: he was not permitted to have the opportunity he so much desired, of making compensation to this beloved friend for the injuries he had done him.

In a very few days after Francis's first visit to the sick chamber of Edmund, the latter was removed far beyond the reach of all the injuries of earth and hell, having entered into that glory which had been the object of his desire from the earliest years of his childhood.

Mr. Parnel and Mr. Barret stood by Edmund till he breathed his last, and his soul was gently released from his body; they also followed his beloved remains to the grave in the parish church-yard, where they were deposited by the side of those of Mrs. Mary Stephens. Thousands of the parishioners of this excellent young pastor followed him to his last home; and to this day many of these persons cannot speak of him without tears.

But who lamented his loss as Francis Parnel did? When his departed friend was no more, he then became feelingly sensible of his numerous virtues, the review of which made him feel keenly, at the recollection of those evil passions which had induced him, as much as he could, to weaken the hands and counteract the efforts of this excellent young man. He also now perceived the exceeding sinfulness of that narrow and selfish spirit which induces the professor to obstruct and hinder the good works of others, regardless of the souls that may be lost through this pragmatical and cruel interference. Mr. Parnel now plainly understood and never afterwards lost sight of the drift of the many pious exhortations which Mrs. Mary Stephens had given, and particularly did his mind dwell on that sentiment so frequently and so variously expressed by her respecting the dreadful nature of selfish feelings of any kind, especially when indulged by professors. Neither did he longer question the fact, that these feelings, if pursued to their remotest consequences, must certainly produce murder in some form or other: for, is not the condition of every creature duly allotted and laid out for him by his Maker? and does not that man who indulges envious thoughts, who covets the fame, the honour, the credit, or the possessions of another, in fact desire injuriously to interfere with the existence of that other? and were his wishes granted him, would he not either wholly remove his rival out of his way or deprive him of those circumstances to which his existence owes its chief value? That this is the true character of worldly persons, do not the records of all past ages fully convince us? How many millions of the human race, who now lie low in the dust, were brought thither by the ambitious and envious feelings of their fellow-men! And although in the present state of society in this country the more open and atrocious forms of murder hide their diminished heads, yet it is to be feared that the seeds of murder still lurk in every heart, and that there is not a single individual existing who has not, at some time or other, indulged a murderous thought, or rejoiced in the misfortunes of a neighbour. But if those passions which lead to the invasion of our neighbour's property, and the destruction of the human body, appear so execrable, as to provoke even our detestation when we behold their operation in the characters and conduct of the openly profane, with what abhorrence must the searching eye of the Holy Creator contemplate the remaining power of these destructive sentiments, when they are allowed in any degree to operate in the breasts of professed believers! Would the camp of Israel have wandered so long in the wilderness, and the tabernacle of the Lord have made such a delay in the desert;--had the host of Israel continually marched forward in one mind;--had the strong endeavoured to support the weak, and the old to direct the young;--and had not discord subsisted even among the bearers of the sanctuary itself? would so many thousands have died before they saw the promised land?

Such were the reflections which habitually occupied the mind of Francis Parnel from the moment when he consigned his Edmund to the grave, until, at no very late period of life, he himself was also gathered to his people. Neither did these reflections of his solitary hours, directed, as they no doubt were, by the Holy Sprit, fail of producing such effects of a humble and holy walk through the remainder of his life, as caused him at his decease to be scarcely less regretted by his flock than Edmund had been before him.

And here we conclude this narrative, imploring our readers ever to remember, that he who forsakes the paths of humility is in the highway of offending, sooner or later, against that commandment which saith--"Thou shalt do no murder."

As the history of the two ministers had not occupied so long a time as several others which had previously been read by the lady of the manor, she indulged her young people, by allowing them to make a few comments on what they had just heard. Most of her juvenile auditors were vehement in their praises of Edmund; while others expressed their strong dislike to Mr. Parnel, though they said it rejoiced them to find that the death of his friend had produced so good an effect on him. Others spoke with seriousness on the view which had just been set before them of the nature of selfishness, and enlarged upon the sweet hope of being set free in a future state of being--freed from all selfish and angry passions; a sentiment in which their kind instructress most fully coincided. The evening was as usual finished with a prayer.

A PRAYER ON THE SUBJECT OF THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT

"O most blessed Lord God, who hast made of one blood all nations that dwell upon the face of the earth, and hast appointed unto all men the bounds of their habitation, bestow on us, thy humble servants, such a spirit of lowliness and contentment, as may enable us, on all occasions, and at all seasons, to be entirely submissive to thy blessed will, and perfectly resigned to thy fatherly pleasure, and ready, also, to fulfil all those duties which it may please thee to require of us, in whatever situation thou hast thought fit to place us. Remove from our hearts all envy, malice, and selfishness, by which we may be led to depart from that love of each other whereby thy servants are distinguished from the children of the Evil One. Let not, we beseech thee, any selfish desires of eminence and exaltation induce us to mar the usefulness of our neighbour, or to lament his superior excellence, in whatever way thou art pleased to employ him. Let not a contracted spirit prevent our rejoicing in that good, in the promotion of which we ourselves may not have been instrumental; and, especially, preserve us from that dreadful sin of excluding or withholding the light of life from any who may be ready to perish, by refusing our countenance to those who belong not to our own party, or who may have failed to court our favour.

"Preserve us, O heavenly Father, from spiritual pride, and from those high thoughts of self which are at variance with the love of our brethren, and which tempt us to sacrifice the everlasting welfare of our fellow-creatures to what we conceive to be our private interests, by which we are induced to the infliction of spiritual death, and brought in guilty of the murder of souls. As ministers or teachers, let us be contented, even though we might see ourselves excelled; and help us, as Moses did, to rejoice when others of our Lord's people are found among the prophets. Grant, that we may rather be desirous to use our single talent aright, than emulous to receive more talents; and expand our hearts with that most excellent grace of charity, which shall still flourish when faith and hope shall be no more, and which will be an essential constituent of our happiness when this earth shall be dissolved, and the heavens have passed away like a scroll. For charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail: whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.

"And now to Him who loved us ere yet the foundations of the world were laid,--to Him who prayed for his very enemies at the moment when he was suffering the anguish of the cross,--to Him whose gentle influences can overcome the most stubborn heart, and turn the murderous thoughts of man into those of universal love,--be all glory and honour, now and for ever, world without end. Amen."

SEVENTH COMMANDMENT--THOU SHALT NOT COMMIT ADULTERY

When the young people were once more assembled in the beloved apartment at the manor-house, the lady of the manor remarked, that the seventh commandment supplied the subject which was on that day to occupy their attention; and one of the young ladies, at her request, having repeated this commandment, she herself then proceeded to the following effect.-- "You are all, doubtless, aware, my dear young people, of the tendency of this commandment, and that it was given at once to enforce and inculcate the sanctity of marriage. But, as I am now addressing persons in well-regulated and polished society, I deem it here wholly unnecessary for me to enter into any particulars relative to such breaches of this rule of life as are too often committed by persons avowedly immoral; but I shall improve the present occasion by giving you some few rules and directions respecting your conduct in society as it regards your intercourse with persons of the other sex, which instructions, I trust, may prove advantageous to you, not only in this life, but in that state of being which is to come: inasmuch as, although in the resurrection we shall neither marry nor be given in marriage, but be as the angels that are in heaven, still, humanly speaking, we know not how our own future situations, as well as those of others over whom we may have influence, may be hereafter affected by our good or evil conduct in these respects.

"I have," observed the lady of the manor, "always considered, that those persons are greatly to be condemned who speak of matters relative to marriage in any other than a serious manner; and when I consider, also, how much of human happiness or misery depends on the propriety of the female character as it respects the other sex, I cannot help being surprised whenever any expression even of a playful, not to say a vain, tendency on subjects of this kind proceeds, in my hearing, from the mouths of persons who are counted either pious or prudent, I think I may venture to assert, that those young people are the most happy who are least occupied with subjects of this kind; but, inasmuch as such matters must, at one time or another, come under the consideration of every young person, and as I cannot but think that most of you have already heard these affairs spoken of either in a light or serious way, I have resolved on this occasion to present you with my views on these subjects. And having at this time before me a little narrative which contains much relative to our present purpose, I propose now to read it to you, my beloved young people, without further preface, hoping that you will find in the history of the amiable character which is there portrayed, an example which may prove beneficial in every trying circumstance which you may hereafter be called to encounter."

The lady of the manor then produced a manuscript, and read as follows.

THE HISTORY OF SOPHIA MORTIMER

In the southern parts of Yorkshire, there resided, a few years ago, a gentleman named Mortimer. He had, early in life, been married to an exceedingly lovely young woman, whose merits he, however, knew not how to appreciate, being himself but a coarse and ordinary character, while she was a woman of highly cultivated intellects. The marriage had on her part been forced from interested motives; and, hence, she, as is the case with most persons who act as she did, was not happy. But Mrs. Mortimer did not live long to feel her own unhappiness. Before the second year of her marriage was expired, she died, leaving one little girl, who inherited her mother's beauty. This little girl was named Sophia.

Mrs. Mortimer had a very intimate and dear friend, who was considerably older than herself, and who had lived with her from her infancy to the day of her marriage; and she, therefore, as a dying request, entreated her husband that this lady might be intrusted with the sole charge of little Sophia, until she should have attained at least her twentieth year. Mr. Mortimer had no particular regard for Mrs. Fortescue, (which was the name of this lady) but a man must be cruel indeed who, merely from prejudice, could deny the request of a dying wife; and as he had no stronger objection to make against Mrs. Fortescue, than that he did not like her, the old lady was accordingly sent for; and Mrs. Mortimer had the satisfaction, before her death, of seeing her infant in the arms of her friend, and received from her a solemn promise that she never would disregard the charge which she had been thus solemnly intrusted with.

Immediately after the funeral of Mrs. Mortimer, Mrs. Fortescue, who had no settled place of abode, consented to occupy two apartments at one end of Mr. Mortimer's large house, and from that period she became its constant inmate.

Little Sophie was not more than a year old when she was delivered up to Mrs. Fortescue, and, of course, she had no recollection of any time before that in which she began to regard this lady as a tender and beloved mother.

Shortly after his lady's death, Mr. Mortimer, having provided every thing necessary for the comfortable establishment of Mrs. Fortescue and his daughter, set off to York, where he took a house, and, soon afterwards, married a gay young widow, with three daughters, hoping to have a son added to his family; a circumstance which he earnestly desired because the whole of his property was entailed on the heir male, with the exception only of his lady's fortune, which devolved to her daughter, and which it was calculated would be about ten thousand pounds when Sophia came of age, after the expences of her education had been paid.

We shall leave Mr. Mortimer to enjoy himself with his new-married lady at York and in Town, whither he afterwards repaired, while we now return to little Sophia and Mrs. Fortescue in Yorkshire.

Mr. Mortimer's house was a very noble building--so much so, indeed, that its owner, whose second wife was very extravagant, had an income scarcely sufficient to occupy it in the style he wished, having some former debts not yet paid; and this was the real cause of his continuing, after his second marriage, to reside first at York and subsequently in London.

The present building consisted of an old house, to which, though itself sufficiently extensive to accommodate a large family, a number of new rooms in a very superior and costly style had been added. The old and new parts of this immense mansion were connected by a noble hall of the same height as the new portion of the building, and several long passages running in various directions. The apartments appropriated to little Sophia and her establishment were in the old part of the house, and consisted of a large room wainscoted with oak, and furnished with heavy old-fashioned chairs and sofas of damask, with window-curtains of the same material. Within this parlour was the bed-room in which Mrs. Fortescue slept; and beyond this room were two large light closets, one of which was appropriated to Sophia, and the other to Mrs. Cicely, a respectable servant, who had been Sophia's nurse, and was now become the waiting-maid of the old lady. From the parlour was one door which opened into this bed-room, another which conducted to the garden, and a third which served as an entrance into the long passage leading to the other parts of the house. An old housekeeper, two or three gardeners, a housemaid, an old butler, and a gamekeeper, were the only persons who occupied any other part of this vast building.

The situation of this house was exceedingly beautiful. It stood in the midst of a park, which was richly diversified with dark groves, waterfalls, shadowy glades, and sunny lawns; over which were scattered many deer, and a few herds of horned cattle. Immediately opposite that front of the house in which appeared the windows of the brown oak parlour already mentioned, was seen a broad gravel road, which, winding round a thick grove of trees, descended into a dell where a clear stream pursued its course, and was passable only in one place by a light iron bridge, the only approach to the house by the west. This winding path and bridge, and a handsome lodge built of white stone at the further end of the park, together with the various intervening groups of trees, and a range of blue hills on the very verge of the horizon, formed unitedly as elegant a landscape as any cultivated place in the kingdom could present to the eye.

We have now, I think, brought, as plainly as possible, before our reader, the scenes which lay extended before Sophia when first she began to be sensible of her existence. It is seldom that a little child asks itself who it is, or what may be its rank and situation in life; and Mrs. Fortescue, and, under her, the faithful Cicely, took care that nothing should ever be said to this little lady of the mansion-house which should make her conceive herself of more consequence than the poor children in the village school, whom she was sometimes carried to see. She was accustomed to call Mrs. Fortescue aunt, and was taught to admire and love the picture of her own mother, which the old lady had obtained permission to remove from its former situation over the drawing-room chimney-piece to the brown parlour.

Mrs. Fortescue loved to hear little Sophia, as soon as she began to lisp, call to this picture, and address it by the name of "Mamma! pretty mamma!" while the melancholy yet dovelike eyes of the beautiful portrait would seem to follow the lovely prattler in all her excursions round the ample apartment.

It is not the immediate purport of this little narrative to enter into a particular and comprehensive description of all that constitutes a Christian education. Those who are really acquainted with true religion will not deny that such an education, however, in inferior points, it may be modified according to the taste, feelings, and circumstances of those who conduct it, is, upon the whole, no other than a system of instruction that directly leads the pupil to the performance of Christian actions upon Christian principles, and which never admits for a single instant any other motive of conduct than a desire to please God.

Such was the nature of the education that was given by Mrs. Fortescue to Sophia Mortimer; neither did this pious woman fail daily, nay almost hourly, to implore the divine blessing upon her labours. And she had reason to believe that her prayers were heard: for as this little girl advanced in years, she evidenced a considerable degree of piety, and the fruits of the Spirit were discernible throughout the whole of her demeanour.

It is seldom found that so long a period of life passes so sweetly, so calmly, and so satisfactorily, as did the first sixteen years with Mrs. Fortescue, after she had undertaken the charge of Sophia. The only interruptions which she had met with to this delightful calm, were occasioned by one or two visits from Mr. Mortimer, unaccompanied by his lady, in the sporting seasons; at which times he had filled the house with roaring country squires, and had, also, considerably disturbed the delicate severity of Sophia's usual habits, by introducing her to his visitors, and setting her to ride upon his foot, which occasioned her sometimes to meet with an overthrow upon the carpet, which downfall was usually cheered by the roaring huzzas of the visitors. But as these interruptions to the usual routine of things were very rare and of short duration, they were not seriously injurious to the child; nevertheless, these visits, and some little attacks of illness, were the only troubles which Mrs. Fortescue experienced through this long course of years: although, had her occasional trials been considerably greater, they would have been amply compensated by the delight she enjoyed in contemplating the divine blessing attendant on her exertions, and in seeing the child of her heart growing up as one of the polished corners of the temple. When we consider the amazing number of accidents to which man is liable in this present state of being, and all the inward disorders occasioned by sin, we ought to cultivate a strong feeling of thankfulness at the close of every day, if we have passed that day in a state of tolerable calm, and freedom from pain. How much more then should we cherish the liveliest gratitude towards the Giver of all good gifts, when, on reviewing our past lives, we can recount, not only many peaceful days, but weeks, months, and years, in which we have known only petty troubles and trifling sorrows!

Had not Mrs. Fortescue possessed a faith which could not be shaken, she might indeed, as these years glided away, and the period approached when she must resign her interesting charge of Sophia, have had some uneasy thoughts; for she well knew that it was only in compliance with the promise which he had made, that Mr. Mortimer submitted to leave his daughter in her hands, and that he would certainly, when that promise should cease to be binding, remove Sophia from under her care, and pursue with her a course widely different from that followed in her education.

It is, indeed, true, that Mr. Mortimer had seemed to think less of his daughter since his second wife had brought him two sons; still, however, he had taken care to let the old lady know from time to time that he by no means approved of the retired and methodistical way in which she was bringing up his child.

But Mrs. Fortescue was not one of those persons who trouble themselves with approaching evils. To make the best of the present was her only care; and she, therefore, lost no opportunity of giving her dear child such lessons of wisdom as in her estimation might lead to her well-being, not only in the present life, but also in that which is to come.

There was a promise of exquisite external loveliness in Sophia. Her person was elegant; her movements were graceful; her features regular; her eyes dark and brilliant; and a bloom, varying with every change of feeling, delicately tinged her cheeks: and when Mrs. Fortescue looked on this lovely young creature, and considered that in case of her death she would be left without a single protecting friend, (for the coarseness of her father and the levity of her step-mother were too well known to allow her to hope any thing from them,) she felt it necessary that Sophia should be endued with more than common prudence, in order that she might be enabled to meet and sustain the trials which probably awaited her in a world where she was likely to be an object at once of admiration and envy.

Mrs. Fortescue well knew that unless the defence of her beloved pupil was of God, who saveth the upright, [Psalm vii. 10,] no earthly wisdom could preserve her; still, however, she judged it right to employ every appointed means, in order to fit her for those encounters with temptation to which she could not but be exposed. And with this view she frequently conversed with her on those subjects which may fairly be regarded as included within the general command--"Thou shalt not commit adultery:" which command, as interpreted by this excellent lady, embraced every obligation relative to the government of the affections.

And first, she explained to her that this and every other divine commandment has a literal or obvious, as well as a spiritual sense, and that this commandment so particular admitted of several subdivisions.

The commandment, she represented in the literal sense, as first signifying the prohibition of that crime which a married person commits, on forsaking a husband or wife, and forming a connexion with another individual; and, secondly, as forbidding that offence which is committed by those who indulge in the worship of idols, or who, forsaking the true God, adopt other objects of public or private adoration. And, in the spiritual sense, she explained it, as, first, prohibiting such wanderings of the affections in married persons as are pointed out by our Lord in the fifth chapter of St. Matthew, twenty-eighth verse;--Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery with her already in his heart;--and, secondly, as a denunciation of the divine displeasure against the admission of any created object to that place in the heart which ought only to belong to God.

Mrs. Fortescue then proceeded to point out to her youthful charge, that of these four subdivisions--viz. that which pointed out the sin of conjugal infidelity, that which forbade the commission of actual idolatry, that which forbade the wandering of the affections in married persons, and, finally, that which required the devotion of the first affections of the heart to God,--there was one only, namely the last, to which she desired to draw her attention, as being that alone with which a young person in her situation was immediately concerned; and as that, also, which, if it were duly attended to, would involve within itself the right performance not only of all the rest, but of every other duty which both the Law and the Gospel might require.

Mrs. Fortescue then proceeded to recite those passages of Scripture in which the Church, or the congregation of the redeemed among the Gentiles, is addressed as a wife chosen and beloved; selecting, amidst a thousand others in which this emblem is used in Scripture, that beautiful passage in Isaiah, which for sentiment and pathos exceeds all that was ever penned by unassisted human intellect--Fear not; for thou shalt not be ashamed, and shalt not remember the reproach of thy widowhood any more. For thy Maker is thine husband; the Lord of hosts is his name; and thy Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel: the God of the whole earth shall he be called. For the Lord hath called thee as a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit, and a wife of youth, when thou wast refused, saith thy God. [Isaiah liv. 4--6.] And then, she went on to point out other passages, in which the Lord addresses the Church in displeasure, and reproves her for her adulteries, or idolatrous regard towards other gods. And hence she took occasion to enforce the duty which is incumbent on every member of the Church of the redeemed, of so guarding and regulating the affections, that none shall have in the heart a place above Him to whom all love and gratitude is due. "Whosoever," she observed, "proceeds straight forward towards one exalted point, with his eyes ever directed to that point, will assuredly keep his body erect, and will advance with a firm step. He will comparatively disregard the trifling interruptions and occasional stumbling-blocks in his way. The former he will scarcely observe; and if the latter sometimes cause him to fall, he will rise and advance again ere yet the enemy will have observed that he has stumbled.

"So it is," continued she, "with every young person whose affections are fixed on things above. The world, to such a one, will lose half its enchantments, and the power of the enemy will be considerably weakened.

"Love thy God, my child," would this excellent woman always say; "allow no mortal to become his rival in thy affections, and I need give thee no other lesson of wisdom."

"But, dear aunt," Sophia would often reply, "how am I to love him? My heart is so cold and dead with respect to heavenly things, and my eyes and thoughts so busy about worldly matters."

On these occasions, the old lady generally repeated, though seldom in the same words, that comprehensive lesson which she had endeavoured, even from the earliest infancy of Sophia, to impress on her mind; viz, the lesson consisting of those solemn truths which make up the entire and perfect outline of religion: the nature and attributes of the Deity being the foundation of these truths, together with the mysterious doctrine of the three Persons in one God. From which fundamental instructions she led her pupil to consider the natural relation which subsisted between the Creator and his creatures ere sin had yet been conceived and brought forth by the father of lies, even by him who once shone foremost among the glorious hierarchies of heaven.

She taught her, moreover, that the origin of sin in the breast of the first offender, was a mystery which no mortal could either comprehend or explain; that, still, this truth was, however, revealed in Scripture, and, as the existence of sin could not now be questioned, nothing better remained to man than for him to receive the doctrine as unquestionably true, at the same time endeavouring, in the use of those means appointed by the Almighty, to secure his deliverance from its power in the present state, and its consequences in the world to come.

Neither did this holy instructress fail to point out those means appointed for man's recovery ere this fair creation had yet been called out of chaos; while she painted in glowing and animated colours, such as faith only can supply, that divine love by which the Father predestinated many sons to glory;--that infinite pity by which the Second Person of the Trinity was induced to undertake their ransom;--and those almighty operations of the Spirit by which the redeemed are progressively prepared for the glory provided for them. "I do not urge moral obligations on you, my child," would this excellent lady often say, "I do not encumber you with numerous prudential motives, in order to guard you against the temptations of life; but I entreat you, my beloved one, to seek that internal holiness which is the best and in fact the only preservative from the snares of Satan. For they that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles: they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint." [Isaiah xl. 31.]

In this manner did Mrs. Fortescue frequently instruct her beloved Sophia; and from time to time, fearing that she might perhaps fatigue her pupil by dwelling too long on subjects of this kind, she committed her thoughts to writing, and laid the little manuscript aside, proposing to make it a dying gift to her beloved pupil. But while Mrs. Fortescue thus laboured rightly to inform the mind of her charge, in reference to things of the first importance, she by no means neglected her education in inferior matters. She was herself well acquainted with music, was an excellent needle-woman, and had a general and accurate knowledge of geography and history, &c. possessing, at the same time, an acquaintance with such parts of English and French literature as are usually requisite for females in polished society.

In the acquirement of useful knowledge of various kinds, in pleasant excursions in the beautiful environs of the Hall, and in frequent visits to the poor, had many years of Sophia Mortimer's life now been spent, since Mrs. Fortescue had undertaken the charge of her education. And, having now entered on her eighteenth year, she was in many respects such as her adopted parent could desire.

At this period, Mrs. Fortescue became sensible of such a change in the state of her own health, and was aware of so many alarming symptoms, that she could not but feel assured, that her cares for her beloved Sophia must soon terminate.

Such feelings as these in the breasts of persons who have an habitual confidence in God, partake more of the tender sentiment of sorrow than that of bitterness and dismay. "I know my Sophia will be taken care of when I am no more," she would often say to herself: "I shall leave her with entire confidence in Him in whom the fatherless find mercy, and yet I know that I shall not part from her without some natural tears."

During this summer, however, the old lady had such an abiding impression that she must soon part from Sophia, that for many weeks she could hardly bear to have her out of her sight; and as Sophia's attachment was equal to her own, their enjoyment of each other's society became greater every day.

Many were the hours which they spent together this summer in different parts of the park and garden, sometimes reading, and at other times conversing; and Mrs. Fortescue seldom failed to direct both their reading and conversation to the promotion, as far as she was able, of the spiritual benefit of her beloved child.

As the days shortened, Mrs. Fortescue began to complain of such a diminution of strength as entirely precluded her from taking exercise, and which soon after confined her to her bed, where, at the expiration of a few months, she closed her blessed earthly career.

Long as Mrs. Fortescue had been ill, her death came rather unexpectedly on the inexperienced Sophia, and was the more severely felt by her, as her time, during several weeks just passed, had been exclusively devoted to attendance upon this excellent lady, who had supplied to her the place of a mother.

Immediately on Mrs. Fortescue's death, Sophia wrote to her father, in consequence of which, she, in a few days, received a formal letter of condolence from her step-mother, with an invitation from Mr. Mortimer and herself to come to them in Town; adding, that it was their intention, in the ensuing autumn, to visit Yorkshire, where they might probably make a long stay at the family mansion.

Sophia, whose spirits were greatly dejected, shrunk from the very idea of a journey to London. She therefore wrote again to her parents, requesting permission to remain alone in Yorkshire till the time appointed for their visit should arrive. Her request was immediately granted; and Sophia enjoyed the comfort of looking forward to six quiet months, during which she hoped that, by the divine blessing, she might be enabled still to follow those plans of life prescribed by her revered monitress. For this pious woman, though dead, yet spoke to her, not only through the medium of the manuscript already mentioned, which that excellent lady had, only a few hours before her death, put into the hands of her Sophia; but, also, by a thousand tender recollections and associations which occurred every moment to her mind.

Sophia, after Mrs. Fortescue's death, found a peculiar consolation, in doing every thing precisely in such a way and in such order as she thought would please her were she still alive. She arose at the hour formerly prescribed to her, she had her simple meals brought to her with the same regularity, she pursued the same objects of study, walked out at the old hours, and returned again at the same; and, since her late beloved governess was no longer present to hear her read and play, she encouraged her old servant before mentioned to bring her work into the parlour and sit by her, while she varied her lectures in order to suit the simple but pious taste of this respectable person.

There is a certain kind of grave and intelligent modesty, perfectly free from asperity or affectation, sometimes seen in young people, which, when it is natural, and the effect of a sober, thoughtful, and well-regulated mind, is extremely delightful, adding strikingly to beauty where beauty exists, and giving comeliness in cases where beauty is not found. This gravity naturally belonged to Sophia, and appeared to become her in no ordinary degree; and her smiles, when she did smile, were the more captivating, because they were not at hand on every light and foolish occasion, nor ready to offer themselves even without any occasion at all.

The remains of Mrs. Fortescue had now been laid in the grave nearly three months, and the grief of Sophia had acquired that soft character which time only can give to sorrow, when the eventful occurrences took place which I am now about to relate.

It was about the latter end of April, on one of those days in which nature seems to put forth all the charms with which poets have decked their Arcadia, when a poor old woman, from an adjoining parish, came to say, that a widow, who had lately come to lodge in a cottage beyond the furthest boundary of the park, was dying, and desired particularly to see Miss Mortimer.

When Sophia had seen the woman, and endeavoured to ascertain the exact situation of the cottage, she summoned Mrs. Cicely, who, since the death of Mrs. Fortescue, had been the constant companion of her walks, and hastened to obey the summons of the dying person.

As they walked, Sophia asked her companion many questions relative to this widow. These cottages, however, were not in the same parish with the Hall, but at a considerable distance, having the whole extent of the park, which was very large, between them. Mrs. Cicely, therefore, could give her no satisfactory information.

When Sophia and her attendant had reached the further end of the park, they entered into the turnpike-road by a flight of wooden steps, which were carried over the park-paling; and being got out into the road, they saw the cottages before them. Sophia requested her companion to go up to the first of them, and make enquiry for the dying person, while she herself would stand waiting at the garden-gate.

While Mrs. Cicely was gone into the cottage, a young gentleman in a clerical habit approached in a direction opposite to that which Sophia had come, and drew near the young lady just as Mrs. Cicely came out of the cottage complaining that she could learn nothing there for there were only children to be seen.

The gentleman then spoke, and bowing politely, said, "I presume I am now addressing Miss Mortimer?" adding, "if you will permit me, Madam, I will conduct you to the person you wish to see."

Sophia now looked up, and for the first time saw the gentleman, whose near approach she had not before observed. She saw, also, that he was young, was a clergyman, and had a remarkably pleasing countenance, added to a fine person and genteel air. The surprise rather heightened her colour; and as this gentleman was altogether unknown to her, she could not at once resolve what answer to make to this proposal.

The gentleman saw her embarrassment, and probably imagining its cause, he said, "My name is Edward Sackville, Madam; I am rector of this parish of Fairfield: and though I have never before had the honour of speaking to Miss Mortimer, yet perhaps my name, at least, may be known to her."

Sophia knew the name, and had always heard its owner spoken of in the highest terms by those who well understood the nature of true piety. Recovering herself, therefore, from her embarrassment, she thanked Mr. Sackville for his obliging offer; and, repeating to him the message she had received in the morning, asked him if he knew the poor widow from whom it came.

He replied, that he knew her history well, and that she was an object well deserving of the liveliest commiseration, and had once known better days, but had been reduced to the utmost need by inevitable misfortunes; to which he further added, that there would probably be a speedy end put to all her sufferings, as she could not live many days. He trusted that she possessed that firm confidence in her Saviour which was a sure promise that death would prove to her the beginning of everlasting joy.

Sophia then asked Mr. Sackville if he supposed the dying widow to be in want of pecuniary assistance.

To this he replied, that she perhaps might, indeed, have some wants of that kind, but that he felt assured there was some other motive for her requesting to see Miss Mortimer. He then told Sophia that this poor woman had one little girl whom she had hitherto educated with great tenderness; and that he thought it possible that it was in order to interest her in the behalf of this child, that she had expressed so strong a desire to see her.

The tears started in Sophia's eyes when she heard this conjecture; but she had no time to reply, for the party having been seen from the upper windows of the cottage, were now accosted by a decent elderly woman who was employed in nursing the dying person, and were led by her through the small kitchen into an inner chamber, where the invalid was stretched on a little couch. The poor woman exhibited all those evidences of approaching dissolution well understood by Sophia from her acquaintance with the similar scene which she had so lately witnessed.

The dying widow thus first attracted the attention of the young lady. But her eyes presently wandered from the pale countenance of the mother to the blooming and dimpled face of the little daughter--a child of about four years of age, who was sitting on the bed near the head of her parent, and looking upon her with an innocent expression of wonder and sorrow.

Mr. Sackville presented Miss Mortimer to the dying woman, addressing her at the same time in words of tenderness and sympathy. The poor widow thanked her for attending so soon to her request, and proceeded instantly, with all the eagerness of one who feared she might not have breath to utter that which lay nearest her heart, earnestly and humbly to implore her protection for her child.

"I have heard of you, Miss Mortimer, I have heard of you," she said; "I have been told that you are pious and tender-hearted. O hear the widow's prayer. Take my child, and see that she is brought up among pious persons."

The suddenness and vehemence of this address agitated Sophia. She looked alternately at the mother and at the child; and then, turning to Mr. Sackville, she said, "I am dependent on my father's pleasure; and should he, when he comes, disapprove of what I have done, what can I do?"

"In that case," replied Mr. Sackville, " I am ready, Miss Mortimer, to be your substitute."

The widow clung to these words. "Then you will take her under your care, Miss Mortimer? you will protect my little Annette?" she said; "you will see that she is piously brought up in her humble station? you will be a friend to her?" And thus she spoke, gasping for breath between every word.

"I will, I promise you I will," said Sophia, bursting into tears. "I will do all for your child which I possibly can. Make yourself easy on that account. I will love her. I will be kind to her. I promise you I will."

I shall not enter into further particulars of this scene in the cottage, nor describe the pious gratitude of the poor widow. Suffice it to say, that after Mr. Sackville had read the prayers for the sick, and Sophia had kissed the little Annette, they left the cottage.

Mr. Sackville accompanied Sophia only to the park gate, where he took leave of her in the most respectful manner, assuring her that he considered himself bound to relieve her from the charge of the child at any time when she might signify the slightest wish of the kind.

She thanked him; adding, however, with warmth, that she hoped she should never he compelled to give up an engagement into which she had entered with so much delight.

"And are you not cruel," said he, smiling, "to withhold from me even the smallest part of an employment in which you take so much pleasure? May we not consider ourselves as partners in this work of kindness?"

Sophia did not know what answer to make to this remark, or how to take these expressions, whether seriously or in jest. She therefore made no answer, but wished the young gentleman a good morning.

As Sophia was walking home, her thoughts were so deeply engaged by the scenes through which she had just passed, that she scarcely heard one word of a long story which Mrs. Cicely addressed to her on certain domestic subjects in which the old servant considered herself as being particularly well skilled; and she was not sorry, on her reaching home, to be left entirely to her own reflections.

What these reflections were it would be hard to describe; but this was certain, that she repeatedly called to memory, during the rest of the day, every word which Mr. Sackville had said to her. She also fancied that she had discovered a likeness between this young gentleman and an old portrait of the Duke of Monmouth, which hung in the great hall, and which she, when a little child, had been accustomed to admire.

So few had been the events which had varied the life of Sophia, that it were not to be wondered at if her thoughts were entirely engrossed by the circumstances of her walk this day; neither should it excite any surprise, though she did not immediately distinguish the agitation into which she was thrown by the prospect of her new and interesting undertaking from other feelings of a nature not to be indulged.

Sophia did not sleep quite so well as usual during the following night, and the next morning she thought of the Duke of Monmouth's picture. She immediately after breakfast, however, renewed her accustomed employment: but she had scarcely begun to feel herself interested in her engagements, before a servant came to say that a gentleman wished to speak with her.

"With me!" said Sophia, rising in haste.

The servant, who was an ignorant girl, and employed under the housekeeper merely to assist in cleaning and airing the house, answered, that she was sure he was a gentleman, from his appearance, and that he desired to see Miss Mortimer. "He now waits in the hall, Madam," she said.

"And why," said Sophia, "did you not take him into another room?"

She then called Cicely, and went to meet her visitor in the hall. It was Mr. Sackville, and he held in his hand the little Annette, who evidently appeared to have been crying severely, but now had ceased from shedding tears, probably from wonder at her new situation, and the various extraordinary objects about her.

Before Sophia had time to speak to the child, Mr. Sackville, addressing himself to her in a manner indicative of much feeling, presented her with the little girl, saying, "Miss Mortimer, I have brought you a little orphan. Her poor mother died during the night; and I found the child, this morning, weeping at the foot of the bed on which the corpse of her parent was laid."

Sophia was much affected by this description; and as she looked upon the child, and recollected that she herself had also been left at a very early age without a mother, she could not refrain from tears.

Mr. Sackville was evidently touched by the tokens of sympathy that escaped Sophia on this occasion, though he made no remark on the subject, but merely assured Miss Mortimer, that if, upon reflection, she had found it would not be in her power to provide for the child, he was ready to take her in his hand to his own house.

Sophia politely objected to this proposal, but thanked Mr. Sackville for the generosity of his offer. She then would have taken the hand of Annette, but the little girl shrank from her as a stranger, clinging to Mr. Sackville, as the person with whom she was best acquainted.

The reluctance of the child caused Mr. Sackville to lengthen his visit; and while he lingered, he endeavoured, in a manner which Sophia thought peculiarly tender and condescending, to reconcile the little weeping orphan to her new situation. At length, Mr. Sackville found it necessary to take his leave; although there was a something in his manner which shewed that he did not go without reluctance.

After he went from the door, Sophia, standing in the hall with the little Annette, was left in a state of mind of such mingled pain and pleasure as she had never before experienced. Mr. Sackville had gone some distance from the house before she recollected herself sufficiently to consider that, if he should happen to look back, it might seem strange to him to see her standing where he had left her. She therefore suddenly raised up the little ragged orphan in her arms, who was once more weeping bitterly on finding herself again left with a stranger, and hastened into her own parlour, where she mingled her tears with those of the child.

How long this pair might have continued weeping together, had they not been interrupted by the careful Mrs. Cicely, is not known; but she, suddenly appearing, produced a complete suit of infant's clothes lying across her arm, which habiliments she had drawn from some deep hoard or repository of her own, such as may generally be found in the possession of elderly housekeepers and ladies' maids; her other hand being armed with a formidable apparatus of combs and brushes, and other implements of the same description: while the housemaid followed her up, with a tub filled with warm water, and a large piece of soap.

The little girl, though once kept neat by a tender mother, now too evidently bore the symptoms of long neglect, and Mrs. Cicely's plans of lustration were, therefore, the more needful. When, however, the good woman would have separated the child from Sophia, the little creature, now in total despair at this third change of companions, set up a roar which made every chamber and passage in the old hall ring and resound again. Sophia had no idea of carrying this contest to any purpose, and was about to take the child up again on her lap, when Mrs. Cicely, seizing the little rebel by main force, carried her off into that quarter of the offices in which she had purposed to carry on her operations, leaving her young mistress to meditate at her leisure on the events of the last twenty-four hours.

It was more than an hour before Mrs. Cicely again appeared. The good old servant's eyes on this occasion were beaming with delight and triumph. In her arms she carried the little orphan, whose infant charms now appeared in all the lustre of perfect cleanliness. Her pretty flaxen curls, newly combed and arranged, were parted on her forehead, and hung in ringlets over her delicate cheeks and fair neck. The tears, forgot as soon as shed, had given way to the sunshine of delight; for in her hand she carried a piece of bread-and-butter, over which Mrs. Cicely had sprinkled a little sugar: and, as Mrs. Cicely set her down at the door, she ran up to Sophia, and, stroking down her clean frock, called on her young protectress to look at her nice dress.

Sophia was not now afraid of returning her infant caresses; and as she clasped her in her arms, she entered into discourse with Mrs. Cicely respecting all the arrangements which she intended should be made with regard to Annette.

And now, what a bustle was excited! for young people are pleased with a bustle: and much experience and regulation of the mind is necessary, before we can learn to practise this injunction of our blessed Saviour--Let not thy left-hand know what thy right-hand doeth. [Matt. vi. 3.] Through the advice and direction, however, of Mrs. Cicely, every thing was settled respecting Annette before the evening. Mrs. Doiley, an old servant of the family, who now resided in the lodge at the park-gate, was sent for, and engaged to take Annette at all such times when Sophia might find it impossible to attend to her. As Mrs. Doiley was a superior person, who had no children, and was exceedingly kind and attentive to the poor in the adjacent village, Sophia did not doubt that the little orphan would be happy with her whenever she might be compelled to devolve this charge upon her, notwithstanding certain little symptoms of fretfulness which sometimes appeared in the old lady's face.

Mrs. Cicely had convinced Sophia, that Annette ought to be dressed plainly, and early accustomed to such little services as might keep alive in her mind ideas which were suitable with her real situation in life. Agreeably therefore with this plan, the materials which were to be procured for her clothes were to be quite plain, and one of the servants from the Hall was dispatched to the next market-town to make the purchases.

As Sophia expected her father and step-mother at the Hall in a few weeks, she yielded to Mrs. Cicely's advice, and sent the little girl every evening to sleep at Mrs. Doiley's, employing a decent labourer, who came from the village to the Hall at an early hour every morning and returned every evening, to carry her backwards and forwards.

These matters being duly arranged, and the little girl's clothes cut out, Sophia found great delight in her new charge; and had she not been guarded by a few hints now and then from Mrs. Cicely, she would undoubtedly have injured the child by allowing her to find herself of too much consequence with her.

Sophia had enquired the day and the hour of the poor widow's funeral, which was to take place in the parish in which she had died. It was her intention that the little orphan should attend it; and as Mrs. Cicely wished to be also present, one of the men-servants undertook to carry Annette to the church of Fairfield while the old housekeeper walked by his side. The little girl was dressed in neat mourning: and when her new clothes were put on, and the man stood waiting to take her up in his arms, she came smiling to Sophia, full of glee at the idea of going out, and utterly unconscious of the purport of this excursion.

The little creature had now been four days with her new friends, from whom she had received so much kindness, and had found so much comfort, that she was now quite at ease, and the remembrance of former objects of affection, and of former afflictions, were passing away swift as the shadows of the morning.

The gay delight of the little Annette met with no interruption during their walk; and she had much to say about the deer in the park: and as it was not needful for the party to pass the cottage in which the widow had died, the little orphan seemed not to connect any thing that was passing in the church-yard with the memory of her mother, until the people were about to lower the coffin into the grave; on which she suddenly shrieked, ran forwards, and endeavoured to clasp the coffin with her infant arms, calling on her mother in the most beseeching and moving accents. Every one was affected: and as the child could not easily be appeased, Mr. Sackville, as soon as the service was concluded, took her in his arms, and carried her to his house, having invited Mrs. Cicely and the man-servant to accompany her.

Mr. Sackville resided close by the church; in an old-fashioned and respectable parsonage-house standing in a garden abounding with fruit and flowers. He honoured Mrs. Cicely with an invitation into his parlour, and requested her to preside at his tea-table while he endeavoured to amuse the little child by such little devices as his own affectionate feelings suggested. After tea, he went into his garden, and brought from thence a nosegay of the choicest flowers, which he requested Mrs. Cicely to deliver to Miss Mortimer with his most respectful compliments.

When the party returned, the gay flowers were delivered to Miss Mortimer; and Mrs. Cicely, being much pleased by the polite manner in which she had been received, was induced to depart in some degree from her usual discretion in expressing her admiration of Mr. Sackville, to which opinions Sophia attended with a ready ear. And when Mrs. Cicely added that he was as well-looking as he was good and pleasing, Sophia asked her if she had ever particularly observed the picture which hung over the marble slab in the entrance hall, adding that she thought it bore a very striking resemblance to Mr. Sackville.

Now as Mrs. Cicely had often been employed in shewing the Hall to strangers, and had received many half-crowns and five shillings on such occasions, it was not to be supposed but that she could tell the names and some little of the histories of the best portraits which ornamented the walls of Mortimer-Hall. She was therefore somewhat surprised to be asked by Sophia whether she had ever observed this picture, which was counted the finest in the house: and turning round therefore somewhat quickly, she said, "Why, dear Miss Mortimer, surely you can't suppose that I have forgotten the handsome Duke of Monmouth! Why, he was one of the finest looking men, I have been told, who ever wore a boot, or carried. a sword. And, now you speak of it, Mr. Sackville is like him, only making allowance for the black coat."

Nothing further was then said on this subject; and good Mrs. Cicely walked out into her own domain, utterly unconscious of the indiscretions of which she had been guilty: and as Sophia from that time seldom mentioned Mr. Sackville to Mrs Cicely, the good woman was not induced to make any observations which might lead her to think that she had contributed in the smallest degree to excite in the mind of the young lady (whom she loved with something like maternal tenderness) any feelings which might tend to render her unhappy.

And in this place I cannot refrain from paying my tribute of respect to that class of persons, one or more of whom may, I trust, be found in every long-established and worthy family of consequence in England, Scotland, and Ireland. I mean, that class of faithful servants who, having lived long in a family, and seen the births and watched the infancy of children, are become, as it were, incorporated with the family itself, and have no interest more warm, more tender, and more sincere, than the well-being of those whom they serve. Sometimes, indeed, such persons may err in their judgment; and may, on some occasions, injure where they wish to benefit. But, notwithstanding the little flaws which are sometimes found in such characters, it cannot be questioned that the children of a family owe something like filial duty to these old and faithful servants of their parents, and that the comfort of their declining years should be the object of their tenderest care.

From the day of the funeral for more than a fortnight Sophia was left in the undisturbed enjoyment of her little plaything. The child was pretty, and remarkably engaging, and soon made it appear that she had received from her mother ideas which proved that the poor woman had been accustomed to what is called better life. With what glee did the little prattler appear in the morning at the foot of Sophia's bed! and how sweet were her gentle salutations when summoned to return in the evening! "I am coming to-morrow," she would say, "very early. You will let me come to-morrow, lady, will you not?" This was constantly her question, till by experience she became more assured of her being allowed to come back the next day.

One evening, Sophia having been obliged to send Annette to Mrs. Doiley's rather earlier than usual, as the little girl was standing at the door of the lodge, Mr. Sackville happened to come by; and immediately recognizing her, he dismounted, for he was on horseback, when, entering the lodge, he discoursed awhile with the child, and, during the conversation, told her, that she was the happiest little girl he knew, for she had the loveliest and best mamma in the whole world.

It is not to be supposed that Annette remembered these words so as to convey them with any consistency to Sophia; but Mrs. Doiley made an errand to the Hall, the next morning, for the very purpose, and failed not when there to repeat them in a manner which by no means deducted from their force.

Simple and unimportant as this little circumstance may appear, it was not without its effect on the mind of Sophia. From the first moment that she had seen Mr. Sackville, his superiority to all the young men who had hitherto come under her observation was sensibly felt by her; and all that she had since heard of him tended only to strengthen her prepossessions in his favour. But it was not till Mrs. Doiley had repeated this speech which he had made to Annette, that the young lady whom it so highly commended became sensible of the extent of her partiality for this young man; neither was she, till this moment, aware that the time was come which called upon her to prove whether she was indeed a worthy pupil of the excellent Mrs. Fortescue, or whether she had hitherto been merely a professor of religion, while, in fact, her heart remained estranged from her God.

She felt that it was, indeed, a painful moment when she first saw how far her mind and heart had already been allowed to wander from that object of supreme regard, on which Mrs. Fortescue so long continually laboured to fix them; and when, on her first looking inwardly, she could not but see how powerfully certain thoughts relative to a young man and a stranger had lately occupied her mind, and mingled themselves, more or less, with all her duties, but especially with those very acts of love and tenderness which she had shewn to the poor orphan.

What a casting-down of any high thoughts of self, which she might possibly have entertained and cherished, respecting her kindness to this little deserted one, was it, when the convictions of the Spirit, flashing on her conscience as the light from above on the jewels of the breast-plate, led her to see how much of self, how much of earthly feeling, how much of the desire of appearing interesting and worthy in the eyes of the only man who had ever yet attracted her attention or pleased her fancy, had united and mixed itself, as poison, with this her sweetest work of charity.

O how humbling, how degrading, in her own judgment, were these reflections! and how did they constrain her to turn away with secret anguish from the voice of every one who would have commended her for what she had already done, or might intend to do, for Annette.

While looking on this little fair creature, she would often say to herself, "Yes, little lovely one, you do deserve to be loved for yourself alone: and I will love you for yourself alone, the Almighty helping me, through evil report and good report. I desire to love you; and I will pray that my motives with regard to you may be purified and rendered wholly independent of all earthly feelings. But, alas! while in this sinful body, who can hope to be pure? who can hope to be clean? who can wash himself from his secret sins?"

It was at this period that Sophia, for the first time, consulted the little manuscript left by Mrs. Fortescue: for, by the advice of this excellent woman, it was not to be opened till the young lady found herself in need of such directions as a prudent, pious, and delicate maternal friend alone could give.

The few first sheets of this manuscript contained certain tender expressions of love and affection; and then proceeded to the following effect.--"I have requested you, my child, not to open this little volume till you actually stand in need of my advice relative to subjects on which, from the delicacy of your feelings, you would not easily be induced to speak to another. I therefore may now suppose myself to be addressing you at the crisis when you feel that some danger exists, lest your affections should be unduly influenced by an earthly object. Under the best circumstances, and in case of an affection which is reciprocal and authorized by parents, there is undoubtedly room to fear that the heart may be drawn downwards, and that the more spiritual affections may be regarded only as secondary to those whose sources and objects are upon earth; nevertheless, it is certain, that the more those affections to the creature (which are authorized and legitimatized by divine and human sanctions) are connected with duty, and confessed to the world, the less liable are they to withdraw the mind from God. The danger then to be apprehended for the spiritual welfare of a young person, in the formation of earthly connexions, is not at the period when the affection is authorized and acknowledged, or when love becomes a duty, as after marriage, but at that crisis when the heart is looking out of itself for happiness; when the imagination is busied either with the real or fancied perfections of the comparative stranger; and when all the anxious and ambitious feelings of the mind propel the individual to endeavour to look into futurity, and to influence her own fortune. This then is the time in which the young female should be most on her guard, and here is the trial of her faith,--if that grace be in her possession. To cast on God all her concern about her future settlements should be the object of her endeavours. In this case, as in every other, the Christian should be ready to adopt that most difficult of all sentiments, 'Thy will, O God, be done!' It is true, that in her own strength she will never be able to put up that prayer; yet in the strength of her God she may and can do it. And having so done, with what dignity and ease will she be enabled to tread the thorny mazes of life, divesting herself of a thousand cares which continually perplex and enervate those persons who will not make God their confidence. 'I am ready, O my God, to be what thou hast ordained,' should be the language of every female heart. 'I cast my cares upon thee; and I desire never more, of myself, to resume the burden of them. Whether single or married, I desire to be thine; and I would wish never, without thy guidance, to take a single step, either to the right or the left, by which I might by any means influence my own lot.'

"And now, my beloved Sophia, let us but suppose what effect a secret and sincere devotion of this nature to the Almighty, would have on the carriage of any young woman. What modesty, what simplicity, what ease and artlessness, would be the result of such a state of mind! Would not faith of this kind impart a polish to the manners, and shed over the general character a lustre and a loveliness, which the most laboured artificial education would in vain attempt to imitate?"

Sophia meditated long and closely on these passages cited from the manuscript; and thus, having fully found out what line of duty to pursue, under her present circumstances, she resolved, with the divine help, to set herself more earnestly than ever to the furtherance of her own improvement, and of that of Annette; to think as seldom as possible of Mr. Sackville; and to endeavour to forget her little difficulties by active, cheerful, and useful employment.

She wrote to her father, stating what she had done respecting Annette, and promising that the child should never be a burden to him. In answer to which, he returned a few lines, intimating, that he considered her adoption of the child as a whim, which would pass away in a very short time, and which was not worthy of his notice either one way or other: for he concluded his letter with this expression--"Amuse yourself as you like, child; but don't plague me with your pets, whether they may be monkeys, lap-dogs, or beggars' brats."

Sophia was very thankful for this consent or acquiescence with her will, however inelegantly it was signified, and she secretly determined to keep Annette, as much as possible, out of her father's sight.

Towards the end of the fifth month after the death of the excellent Mrs. Fortescue, Sophia received a letter from her step-mother, informing her that it was the intention of the family to be in Yorkshire in less than a month. The letter was concluded with many strong expressions of regard, which Sophia could not well comprehend, as this very affectionate step-mother had sometimes allowed a whole year to pass away without taking any notice of her even by a letter. Reflecting, however, on the duty which she owed to her father's wife, she resolved that she would endeavour, if possible, to love her and her daughters. Still, she could not but regret, that her happy days hitherto spent in retirement must now in a short time come to an end; and she wept to think that, in all probability, she would be compelled to diminish, in a great measure, her attentions towards her beloved Annette. The very thoughts of this were so painful to her, that she would often take the little girl into her arms, and give way for a long time to her sorrow.

The summer was gone, and autumn had considerably advanced, when a coach full of female servants arrived at the Hall, to prepare every thing for the proper reception of the family.

Sophia still kept possession of her own apartments, and pursued her own simple and unostentatious plans, always admitting her little Annette by the glass door which opened on the lawn, being herself, as usual, constantly attended by Mrs. Cicely. But, remote as her rooms were from the rest of the house, many unusual sounds of loud voices and slamming doors reached her ears, which disturbances she deemed, too truly, but the precursors of a more general interruption of her repose.

During this interval, Sophia received a message, through Mrs. Doiley, from Mr. Sackville, urging her, in very polite terms, if she found the charge of little Annette likely to be at all inconvenient to her, to commit her to his care, assuring her that he would be ready to give her up again whenever she might require it.

There was something so kind and considerate in the feeling which must have dictated this message, that Sophia felt herself greatly obliged to the young gentleman for it. She, however, declined his kind offer; adding, that, at present, she foresaw no inconvenience whatever, likely to arise from her little charge, but that, in case any difficulty should occur, she would not fail to apply to Mr. Sackville.

On the morning of the day fixed for the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, and the three Misses Clifford, the daughters of the latter, Sophia spent, as usual, several hours in instructing her little Annette, and she was still engaged in this agreeable task, when she saw several outriders approaching through the park, followed immediately by a sociable, and a travelling-post-chaise. Sophia started, changed colour, and, calling Mrs. Cicely, she begged her to stay in her room and attend to her little Annette; "For now," added she, bursting into tears, "now--now--I can do no more for her."

"Nay, my dear young lady," said Mrs. Cicely, who was as much afraid of innovations as her young mistress could possibly be, "do not be so much alarmed. We shall not, surely, be interrupted in these rooms, which you may say have been yours ever since my poor lady died! And if they do but leave these to us, we shall then do vastly well. And I am sure I shall never go out to trouble any of them, if they will let me alone here."

By this time, the gay train of equipages had reached the house, and were wheeling round to the front door. A moment afterwards, the shrill voices of the fashionable young ladies were re-echoed through the long passages; while Sophia, in visible agitation, kissed Annette, who was prevented from following her by Mrs. Cicely, and hastened to meet her parents. In a few moments, she found herself in her father's arms.

Mr. Mortimer's expressions of admiration and affection at the sight of his daughter were loud, and, like himself, of the coarsest sort: for although he was something of a man of the world, yet perhaps few persons were gifted with a smaller number of refined notions. Mrs. Mortimer's reception of Sophia was not, at least apparently, less warm than that of her father; neither were her daughters behindhand in their expressions of regard, although the beauty and simply elegant carriage of Sophia were by no means calculated to give them pleasure.

As soon as the first compliments had passed on both sides, Sophia had leisure to contemplate her newly-arrived relations, who were all busy in counting the packages they had brought with them, and giving various orders respecting them; after which, they proceeded to the dining-room, where a cold collation was prepared.

Mrs. Mortimer had been very handsome, and still, though near her sixtieth year, was, with the assistance of rouge and false hair, what the world called a fine woman, though such a figure as a serious Christian would contemplate with many bitter feelings. For what can be so lamentable, as to see one who, in the natural course of things, must soon resign this world, and enter into a new and eternal state of everlasting joy or sorrow, clinging closely to temporal things, and adorning, with all the vain and deceitful decorations which fashion can supply, that body which must in a short time be food for worms?

Mrs. Mortimer had had, by her first husband, six children, three only of whom were living. Her eldest daughter, Catharine, was at this time nearer forty than thirty years of age. She had never possessed any part of her mother's beauty excepting a tall and commanding figure, which of late had been spreading rather too much into the en bon point. Her face was large and broad, naturally very pale, and slightly marked by the smallpox, her large eyes were of a grey colour, her mouth was extremely small, and her nostrils were wide; the whole forming a very unpleasing assemblage of features. Notwithstanding which, a fashionable mode of dress, a quantity of rouge, an amazing degree of effrontery of manner, and a knack at repartee, rendered her generally acceptable in society, particularly as she was able to conceal under the cloak of entire openness and unblushing assurance, a character extremely artificial and designing. But though this lady's passion was ambition, she now had sense to discover, that her own person was not such as to warrant any hopes of her advancing the family dignity by a high marriage in propria persona. Her present object, therefore, was to establish her two younger sisters: and for this purpose, in conjunction with her mother, she had made several skilful manœuvres, and had actually got at this time in her web a foolish young baronet, who had professed some regard for Miss Juliana Clifford when in Town, and who was even expected that very evening at the Hall: for the sapient mother and daughter judged that they should here be able to bring the whole artillery of Miss Juliana's charms to bear more directly upon him than in London, where he was subject to the attacks of other mothers and daughters, as cold-hearted, ambitious, and cunning, as themselves. Judge, then, if you can, what must have been the dismay of these ladies, when they discovered that the wilds of Yorkshire contained in Sophia a more powerful rival than any that they had had to fear in St. James's. However, nothing was to be done but to put a good face on the business: for which reason, Miss Clifford lavished on Sophia no small portion of compliments and caresses, by which she hoped, in time, to gain her confidence, and obtain from her an avowal of her most secret inclinations. What use she meant to make of such an avowal (could she obtain it) will hereafter appear.

In my description of the family party which now took possession of Mortimer-Hall, I have said nothing of Mrs. Mortimer's younger daughters, and for the plain reason, that there was little to be said about them. They, indeed, were passably good-looking, but, through affecting much delicacy, they were ready unreservedly to lend themselves to the ambitious and worldly views of their mother and sister. Strangely mixed as was this party, it was thought necessary by each individual to appear well with the rest. Yet there were certain feelings between Mrs. Mortimer and her daughters, who formed one party, and Sophia, who stood alone, which both parties were willing to conceal, but which they would still have found considerable difficulty in doing, had it not been for the boisterous humour of Mr. Mortimer, who could hardly restrain his triumph on finding his wife's daughters so entirely eclipsed by his own.

"Why, Sophia," he exclaimed, as he cut a succession of enormous slices from a monstrous round of beef which stood before him, "you would do credit to the head of any man's table! A prince need not be ashamed of such a companion to share his throne with him. Believe me, I never thought that old dame Fortescue would ever have made so much of you as she has done. Upon my word, you credit the old girl's management. But what! what's that long face? O! I must not talk of your old governess, I see. Well, well, then, I won't. Come, child, look up, and don't pipe and whine. However, I am glad to see you, and that's the plain truth. Give me your hand, child: I don't know that I have seen any thing I have liked so well, these twenty years."

"Twenty years, Mr. Mortimer!" said Miss Clifford, laughing; "you forget how many times during the last twenty years you have looked at me!"

"And at my bay mare, too," said Mr. Mortimer: "and yet, I still stand to what I first said. Sophia here pleases me as well as--nay, even better than any thing I have seen these twenty years." And he confirmed his assertion with an oath, which made Sophia's ears tingle and her heart sink.

The conversation was then forced into another channel by Mrs. Mortimer, who declared that if she remained at the Hall, she must absolutely have the dining-room newly furnished--an observation to which Mr. Mortimer only replied by a shrill whistle, at the same time throwing the contents of a plate of beef on the floor-cloth, causing a violent contention among half-a-dozen or more dogs, that had followed the party into the room.

When the travellers had appeased their hunger, it was proposed that they should explore the house, and settle what apartments they might choose to occupy. Immediately they were all in motion: and Sophia, availing herself of the confusion which ensued, approached her father, and took his hand, just as he was leaving the dining-room, and, raising it at the same time to her lips, she told him that she had a favour to ask.

"And so," said he, turning good-humouredly round, "you are already presuming on your pretty face to wheedle and coax me. But I tell you, Miss, that I will refuse you whatever you are going to ask."

"Then, dear father," said Sophia, "will you please to turn me and Mrs. Cicely out of the brown parlour and the rooms within it?"

"No," said the good-humoured Squire, "no, I will not, saucy one!" And as he spoke, he chucked her under the chin. "You sha'n't have your way, I promise you. The brown parlour is good enough for such as you; and there you shall stay: so don't be coaxing me."

"But I will," said Sophia, again kissing his hand, and receiving at the same time a cordial embrace from him.

"What's all this?" said Miss Clifford, looking back. "What is little Miss about now? Come, come; I must look into these matters."

"Secrets in all families, Miss Clifford!" said the Squire; "and some you must not look into."

Miss Clifford laughed, hit her step-father a tap on the back, and secretly resolved that she would have a watchful eye over both the father and daughter.

The examination of the house was the more speedily concluded, as the baronet already mentioned, and his friend Captain Dalrymple, were expected at dinner; and Sophia was not sorry when she was dismissed from her attendance, and permitted to return to her own apartments, which, with the offices, were the only parts of the house that Mrs. Mortimer and her daughters had not inspected.

She returned, however, to her own rooms, full of joy, in the persuasion that she should not be turned out of her favourite asylum. And she found Mrs. Cicely so ready to participate in her satisfaction, that the good old woman even requested permission to take her meals in her closet, or in one corner of the parlour, in order that she might be left the more to herself. Sophia joyfully acquiesced in this proposal: and as Cicely's services were to be devoted wholly to her, both the maid and the mistress began to hope that they should still enjoy much peace and comfort during those intervals in which Sophia might not be required to join the family.

As some hours yet remained before dinner, which was to be ready at six o'clock, Sophia gave her little Annette another lesson. She also read to her a little story from the Scripture, and prayed with her. And then, having, with Mrs. Cicely's help, arranged her simple dress, she left Annette to drink tea with the old servant, and, giving the child a kiss, she repaired to the drawing-room, where the family were by this time assembled.

Sophia now, for the first time since her recollection, entered a room superbly lighted with patent lamps and wax candles, and found herself introduced to such a scene of fashionable life as she had hitherto only known through the description of Mrs. Fortescue.

In the drawing-room were several sofas, on one of which, in a remote part of the room, sat Miss Juliana, lolling apparently at her ease, and discoursing with a young gentleman who sat by her, and whom Sophia supposed to be Sir James Horton. Miss Clifford was standing with her back to the fire, talking to Mr. Mortimer. And Mrs. Mortimer and her younger daughter, seated on another sofa, were engaged in a very animated conversation with Captain Dalrymple, who stood before them.

Sophia had been a little surprised at the dashing mode of dress of these ladies when she had seen them in the morning, and she had trembled lest any authority should be used to compel her to adopt the short petticoat, the showy half-boot, and the blowsy head-dress, on which she had looked with such disgust. But what were these in comparison of the bare shoulders, the naked arms, and thin silk stockings, which now met her eye? The postures, too, of all the females, accorded so little with her old-fashioned ideas of decorum, that she stood at the door, not knowing which party she was to join, or by whom she was to take her place.

Her entrance was not, however, unobserved: and all admired, though some not without bitter envy, her modest dress, her gentle aspect, and her sweet expression of humility and innocence.

Her father was the first who spoke. "What! my sweet Sophia!" said he, as he went to meet her; "my little elegant peasant! Give me your hand, and let me lead you to your mother." So saying, he conducted her to Mrs. Mortimer, who made room for her near herself, with a parading kind of alacrity, by which she endeavoured to conceal her inward mortification.

The ceremony of introducing the two gentlemen to Sophia had scarcely taken place, before the dinner was announced: and Mrs. Mortimer, taking Sophia fondly by the arm, told them that they should not separate her from her newly-found child. And thus, by a skilful manœuvre, she left the baronet with her own daughter.

Nothing particular happened at dinner. Sophia, seated between Mrs. Mortimer and Miss Clifford, was nearly concealed from Sir James, who was entirely engrossed by the two younger Miss Cliffords. And the Captain, being devoted to the sports of the field and the pleasures of the table, was so entirely in his element in the society and at the board of Mr. Mortimer, that he never lifted his eye from his plate, nor devoted his faculty of hearing to the remarks of any other person present than those of the jolly Squire himself.

The ladies sat the usual time after dinner, and then withdrew; when Sophia, full of joy at being able to make her escape, retired to her own apartments, where she found Annette asleep in Mrs. Cicely's bed, and the good woman herself at work by the bed-room fire.

"Miss Mortimer," said she, "I have kept Annette tonight, because I was so dull without you. O, my dear lady, that we could but call back the happy days that we spent together before this company came!"

Sophia made no answer; for she felt her heart rise to her throat, and she was also much afraid of saying too much: for, surely, (she thought,) my father was at liberty to marry again; and who can dispute his right to come to his own house?

Sophia sat down by Cicely, and read to her a few chapters in the Bible, till she was called to tea; when, begging the good woman to go to bed, and not wait for her, if she should be late, she took her neat work-bag, and returned to the drawing-room.

Sophia, on opening the door, became fully aware that the ladies, who had not yet been joined by the gentlemen, were engaged in some very warm discussion; for although the contents of their elegant work-boxes were spread before them, yet these were wholly disregarded, and they were (to use a common yet expressive proverb) all putting their heads together over the table, and speaking with great vehemence. As Sophia, however, advanced into the room, every head was suddenly drawn back, and an immediate silence followed, which would have appeared even more awkward than it did, if the never-blushing Miss Clifford had not turned to Sophia, and begged her, if she could, to solve their difficulties. "Can you tell us, dear Miss Mortimer," she said, "how far we are from York?--for my sisters will insist upon it that it is fifty miles, and I am as obstinately determined that it shall be only forty: and here we are, at ten miles' distance, quarrelling with each other about this knotty point, and resolved not to budge an inch to come to an accommodation."

Sophia smiled, but was not, however, quite such a novice as to suppose that all the heat and anxiety that she had seen manifested, and which were indicated both by voice and countenance, were engaged about no other object than the distance of Mortimer-Hall from York. Nevertheless, supposing that it was not any business of hers to look further into this matter, she sat down and took out her work, which happened to be a frock for Annette, it never having occurred to her that such an employment could possibly give occasion for any comments. Works of charity, however, being less common some years ago than they are now, it was not to be supposed that the little garment would pass unobserved, or that Miss Clifford would lose this opportunity of indulging in her favourite style of remark, which consisted of a kind of drawling and stupid commendation, concealing, at the same time, real disapprobation.

"How I do love Christian boldness!" said she. "I do love to see people who are not afraid of letting the world behold their good works: for such a sight so rarely occurs. Most people are afraid of having their charitable actions known. It is well, my dear Miss Mortimer, that you, at least, have not this defect of character; and I trust that we shall be enabled to profit by your example."

"Surely, Miss Clifford," said Sophia, blushing, "you forget that we are here only a family party, with the exception of one or two gentlemen, who are come to see my father. And men, in general, do not trouble themselves with ladies' needlework."

"True, my dear," said Miss Clifford, drawing up her small mouth to a point: "very prudently observed: I had forgotten."

Sophia smiled, (for she could not help it,) though vexed, and answered, playfully, "Well, when I have done my plain work, you shall teach me some of this fine embroidery, and then I shall be fitter to sit in company; but in the mean time I must finish what I have to do:" and she continued to stitch with her usual quiet and elegant diligence.

The remarks on the unfortunate frock having apparently produced no sensations, another subject was presently called by Miss Clifford, though with such seeming ease, that it had not the air of being lugged in by the head and shoulders, as it surely would have appeared, had it been brought forward by a less skilful manœuverer. This subject was one that too frequently engages the conversation of young women whose minds are not right towards God,--namely, those unsanctified wanderings of the affections and fancy which are falsely ennobled by the general name of love.

Miss Clifford, having rallied both her sisters by turns on these topics, suddenly turned round to Sophia, and staring her full in the face, exclaimed, "And now, my pretty shepherdess, it behoves me to look a little after you. Are there no Strephons nor Colins in these fair wilds? Come, now, be a good girl, and tell me who it is that bears away most hearts in this place. Who is the favourite shepherd in the Arcadia which surrounds Mortimer-Hall? There can be no question respecting the shepherdess, as I presume that my little Sophia here has not many rivals among the Yorkshire damsels?"

Sophia looked up for a moment, on hearing this address, and replied, with a smile, that she knew of no shepherds in that neighbourhood, but one who belonged to her father, and who, being very old and rheumatic, always wore a Welsh wig under his hat.

"Monstrous!" said Miss Clifford; "it is almost as shocking to see a shepherd in a wig, as a shepherdess in a bell-hoop. But, my dear little sister," added she, with a laugh, "if you have no shepherds hereabouts, certainly, this sweet retirement must contain some favourite friend, whose name you would not now mention for all the world, but on whom, however, it is your chief delight to meditate when walking alone, and when you sit in silence, guiding your needle, as you may now be doing, in the favourite parlour, when the moon is shining, and the owls hooting, as I suppose they sometimes do in the neighbourhood of Mortimer-Hall."

"For shame, Kate," said Mrs. Mortimer, "you make your sister Sophia blush. She is not used to your saucy ways."

"Why, now you mention it, Ma'am," said Miss Clifford, holding up her quizzing-glass to her eye, (for this young lady was short-sighted when she chose to be so,) "I really do perceive that my little Sophia is blushing. Why, my dear Miss Mortimer," she added, "have I actually put you out of countenance? have I really made you blush?"

"Yes," replied Sophia, looking up; "but not for myself."

"Witty, upon my word," exclaimed Miss Clifford, and she again drew up her mouth into the form of a round O, from which position it suddenly relaxed, and the lady, bursting into a loud laugh, added, "Upon my word, my little Sophia Mortimer, you are the prettiest demure little thing I have seen for these hundred years; and the best of it is, you would have us think that you have never yet beheld the man you could like, and that for your part you have a much more sincere affection for old Mrs. Cicely and Mr. Perry the butler, than for any young gentleman you ever saw in your life, or ever are likely to see, and so forth. But let me tell you, my little girl, you will not get any credit here for all your pretty little pretensions."

"I make no pretensions," replied Sophia, modestly, "I don't presume to be either wiser or better than my neighbours; but as I think that the truth is always best spoken among friends, I will confess that it is my wish never to be joked upon subjects of this kind. It was the request of poor Mrs. Fortescue that I would never speak of these concerns, unless in a serious manner, and when necessary: and as I have now no occasion, either to speak or even to think of them, I should be sorry, when I have neither cause nor temptation to do so, to neglect the injunctions of this my maternal friend."

"O," said Miss Clifford, drawing up her mouth, and protracting the exclamation to a ridiculous length, "indeed! I beg pardon. I am sorry. Had I known so much before, I trust that I should have been more prudent. I would have died rather than have touched this tender subject with so rude a hand. To some persons I know that the affairs of the heart are matters of great importance. Perhaps they were so to Mrs. Fortescue; perhaps they are so to you. You may depend in future, my dear Miss Mortimer, on my forbearance; only excuse me this once:" saying which, she held out her hand to her new sister, at the same time assuming an expression of the ridiculous pathetic, at which Sophia could hardly refrain from smiling, though she experienced so strong a sentiment of distaste as wholly deprived her of the power of being amused by those peculiarities in Miss Clifford which few could look upon without mirth.

When the gentlemen appeared in the drawing-room, the conversation of course took another turn. Mr. Mortimer was in high and boisterous spirits, and the Captain was ready to second him in all his humours; the baronet being the only quiet person of the party, the young gentleman having swallowed a sufficient quantity of liquor to make him more than commonly stupid.

After tea, Mr. Mortimer called for music, and asked Sophia to play.

Sophia could play, and sing also, with considerable taste; but it was sacred music to which her attention had been chiefly directed, and she was, therefore, unprepared for any thing of a lighter sort. She stated this difficulty to her step-mother; when Mr. Mortimer observing her whisper, and desiring that her whisper might be repeated aloud, a burst of laughter from the good Squire himself, with certain fainter expressions of merriment from the young ladies, was the immediate consequence: while the father, clapping his daughter on the back in a manner something similar to that with which he would have caressed his favourite horse, bade her look up, saying, that she need only put herself under the tuition of Catharine Clifford, and she would teach her to sing to many new tunes.

"And would you wish me to learn all the tunes which Miss Clifford might be able to teach me?" said Sophia, turning to her father, and speaking in a low tone.

"You are a sly rogue, in spite of that little demure face of yours," replied the father, with a loud laugh.

"Ay, ay, Miss Catharine, you may look: but I'll match my Sophia against you any day, deep as you may be!"

"Deep!" repeated Miss Clifford, being, for once, more out of countenance than she wished to be thought.

In the mean time, as Sophia could not, with advantage, shew off her musical talents to the present party, Miss Juliana and her younger sister were led in triumph to the piano-forte; while Mr. Mortimer, who hated every thing relative to music beyond a hunting song, settled himself to sleep in a corner of the sofa near Sophia, leaving the Captain (as the baronet was not wide awake) to the severe duties of extolling the Italian airs and recitatives, which he detested even more heartily than they really deserved.

While things were in this train, Miss Clifford and her mother left the room, Mr. Mortimer presently snored aloud, and the baronet began to rouse himself: while Sophia was lost in meditations, which turned first upon the characters of her newly-introduced relations; secondly, on the conversation which had passed before tea; and thirdly, by, a natural connexion, on that forbidden subject of thought which for some time she had so successfully avoided, namely, the various supposed or real excellencies of Mr. Sackville, and the peculiar resemblance which he bore to the portrait of the handsome and gallant Duke of Monmouth.

Thus had evil communications in some degree commenced their baneful operations on the heart of this young lady, and had rendered her power of resistance against that which was evil, less than usually strong. For worthy and estimable as Mr. Sackville was, his excellencies were as yet nothing to Sophia, neither did she know that they ever would be. He had hitherto made no avowal of regard for her, and she knew not that he would ever do so; nor was she sure that if such an avowal were even to be made, it would be sanctioned by her father. She had, therefore, every reason that both religion and prudence could suggest, to restrain her thoughts from this object; and hitherto she had been in a great measure enabled to keep her mind in a proper state, and to cast every care on her God: but, as I before remarked, the light society into which she had fallen already had an injurious influence in lowering the hitherto high tone of her moral feelings, and thus rendering her more susceptible of temptation.

More than half an hour had passed in this manner, during which the baronet had first yawned, then stretched, then shook himself, then kicked the dogs from before the fire-place, then got out of his chair, then stood where the dogs had been, with his back to the rest of the room, then turned round with his back to the fire, then looked at one and another of the company present, and, lastly, lounged to an empty chair beside Sophia, where he began to play with her scissars, which lay on the table.

Sophia was indulging her own thoughts, as I before hinted; and though she had certainly seen Sir James move, she was scarcely sensible that he had settled himself so near her. Having twisted the scissars round his little finger for some time, the young man at length ventured to speak, and to ask the young lady if she had ever been in London.

At the sound of his voice so near her, Sophia started, and was obliged to ask him to repeat his question, before she knew what to answer.

"You were never in Town, I think, Miss Mortimer?" said Sir James.

"I believe not, Sir," replied Sophia.

"Not within your recollection?" said the other.

"No, Sir," returned Sophia.

"Then you were there in infancy?" said the baronet.

"No, Sir," said Sophia.

"Then you were never in London at any time?" subjoined the other.

"Never, Sir," replied Sophia.

"Indeed," said the baronet, "I thought so."

"Sir!" said Sophia, trying to rouse herself to something like attention.

"I really did think," said the baronet, lisping, and trying to look sentimental, "I really did think, that you had never been in Town."

"What answer am I to make to this?" thought Sophia. "Does he mean to be polite, or merely to laugh at me?" And as she could not decide on this point, she did not venture any reply.

"London spoils the complexion," said Sir James.

"I have heard so," replied Sophia.

"I am sure you have not been in any place to spoil your complexion," remarked the baronet, making a violent effort to utter the most civil thing that he had ever ventured to address to a lady in his life; and as Sophia was wholly unprepared with any answer, it was some moments before his faculties were enabled to recover the equilibrium from which they had been violently thrown by this unusual effort. A cessation of conversation therefore ensued for a few seconds, which interval was interrupted only by the hard breathing of the sleeping Squire, and the pathetic quaverings of Miss Juliana's voice. At length, the baronet spoke again. "You are working for the poor, I see, Miss Mortimer. I like to see ladies work for the poor. My sisters are often employed in that way."

These last were the only sentences which the baronet had uttered that had pleased Sophia. She accordingly looked up and smiled.

Sir James thought her smile very sweet, and was thinking how he might deserve such another, when Miss Clifford, who had returned into the room a minute before, and had been closely considering this tête-à-tête between Miss Mortimer and Sir James, thought proper to call upon the young gentleman to play with her at backgammon: soon after which, Sophia took occasion to beg permission of her mother to withdraw; a favour which was readily granted her by Mrs. Mortimer, who begged that she would always consider herself at liberty to retire whenever it was agreeable to her.

As Sophia had gone to rest at a later hour than usual, she awoke later the next morning; and the first thing she beheld, on opening her eyes, was her little Annette, sitting by her bed-side, working with her needle. This was a consolatory sight to her, and seemed at once to banish all uneasy thoughts. She arose in haste, and endeavoured to make the best of her time in instructing the child till called to breakfast.

It was apparent, when the family party met again, that the eyes of Sir James were more frequently directed towards Sophia than to Miss Juliana, though there was nothing in his conduct relative to either of these young ladies which was by any means particular. His slight preference of Sophia, however, was quite sufficient to alarm Mrs. Mortimer and Miss Clifford; and immediately after breakfast, these ladies had a private conference upon the subject, in which the latter told her mother that she had a scheme in her head by which she hoped to avert the danger which threatened them.

Miss Clifford was one of those women who, being herself destitute of any idea of the state of mind of a pious young person, could not suppose it possible for any young woman to have attained the age of eighteen without having formed some attachment, and who, therefore, felt convinced that Sophia must have some object of preference in the country. She, consequently, determined to divert her attention from the baronet by bringing this person before her, and encouraging the connexion either openly or clandestinely, whichever might be judged by herself or her mother most prudent. But the difficulty was, to find out this person, particularly as Sophia was not to be bantered upon the subject of love. Miss Clifford was, however, too good a politician to be deterred from her purpose by a trifling obstacle; and she, therefore, when Sophia appeared in the drawing-room after dinner, accordingly began her operations. "And now, my dear Miss Mortimer," said she, "as you have lived all your life in this country, do tell us who are our neighbours. And first, who lives at the large white house on the top of the hill? and who at the new brick house on the road between this place and the last stage? Are there any young people in either of these mansions?"

Sophia answered all and each of these enquiries with such perfect ease and simplicity, that, although questioned and cross-questioned again and again, she betrayed no indication by which Miss Clifford could draw any conclusions whatever.

When the gentlemen came in, the subject was continued, and Mr. Mortimer very unsuspectingly lent his assistance to Miss Clifford in her enquiries. "And who lives at the Old Hills now?" said Mr. Mortimer; "and who at the Barn Elms? and what family is now at Horsford?"

Sophia answered all these questions to the best of her power, and thus every thing went on quite smoothly till Mr. Mortimer asked, "And who is rector of Fairfield at this time?"

"Fairfield!" repeated Sophia, as if she had never heard of such a place before.

Miss Clifford then fixed her grey eyes on Sophia, and Mr. Mortimer replied, "Why, child, don't you know the parish at the higher end of the park? The rector was a very old man when I was last in this neighbourhood. Is he living still?"

"No," said Sophia.

"And pray," said Miss Clifford, in a drawling, stupid voice, "who holds the living now?"

"A Mr. Sackville," said Sophia, using her needle with particular diligence.

"Sackville!" repeated Miss Clifford, in the same stupid voice, "I think I remember him at York:--an elderly man is he not, and remarkably plain?"

"No," said Sophia, but speaking as if something choked her, "no, not particularly old."

"Well, I do not know that he was so very old," subjoined Miss Clifford; "but features particularly ordinary make a person look older than he is."

Sophia was busy with her needle, and unusually shortsighted: she was, therefore, obliged to look close to her work.

"Mrs. Mortimer," said Miss Clifford, addressing her mother, "you remember Mr. Sackville at York; a remarkably plain man, but very agreeable. We must cultivate his acquaintance. I only beg, Juliana and Harriet, that you will not fall in love with him."

"But how do we know," said Mr. Mortimer, "that the rector of Fairfield is the same Sackville you knew at York? Have you seen him, Sophia? Is his appearance so remarkable as these ladies say? Is he any ways an odd-looking man?"

"No, Sir," said Sophia, "I believe not."

"Is he an agreeable man, Miss Mortimer?" asked Miss Clifford. "Our Mr. Sackville was an agreeable man: what is yours?"

"I have seen very little of him, Miss Clifford," replied Sophia, gravely.

"But one may sometimes form no incorrect opinion of a person from one or two interviews," returned Miss Clifford, looking exceedingly hard in Sophia's face; and then suddenly and abruptly introducing another subject, being perfectly satisfied of all she wanted to know upon this.

The next day being Sunday, the family appeared at church, and on the Monday following, many of the neighbouring gentry paid their respects to them at the Hall. None of these guests were, however, seen by Sophia, as she had walked out, after breakfast, with Mrs. Cicely and Annette, on an errand which took her to a considerable distance.

Among these visitors was Mr. Sackville, who had for once broken his resolution of never seeking any acquaintance beyond his parish, in order to pay his compliments to Mr. Mortimer. What his motive might have been, he perhaps hardly understood himself: but Miss Clifford, who was confirmed in her suspicions by his appearance, suggested to Mrs. Mortimer, that she could not do better than invite him to dinner, and thus provide at once an admirer for Sophia, and convince the baronet, by ocular demonstration, that he had no chance with her.

The invitation was accordingly given and accepted for the next day; when the unsuspecting Sophia was not a little astonished, on her entering the drawing-room, to find Mr. Sackville conversing with her step-mother.

During the evening, every arrangement was made by the manœuvering mother and daughter to throw these young people in each other's way; and Mr. Sackville seemed so well pleased with the opportunities thus given him of conversing with Sophia, that every hour seemed but a moment to him.

Although Sophia's manner was perfectly modest and artless, yet it was sufficiently evident, to such observers as she had about her, that her feelings for Mr. Sackville were very different from those that she discovered towards Sir James. Nothing, however, passed between this young lady and gentleman but what was lovely, holy, and of good report. They first talked of Annette, and Sophia repeated many little anecdotes relative to her which she thought interesting; and such was the warmth with which she expatiated on this subject, that, without observing it, she had drawn upon herself the eyes of many in the room, who had never before seen her so animated. Mr. Sackville then described some particularly beautiful flowers which he had in his garden, at the same time promising Sophia some roots and seeds of them; and he afterwards gave her an account of some persons who had lately died in his parish in a very happy manner.

When Mr. Sackville took his leave this evening, which he evidently did with considerable reluctance, Miss Clifford afforded him an opportunity of coming again by requesting the loan of a new publication which he had accidentally mentioned.

As this narrative has unavoidably extended itself to some length, I shall not increase its bulk by describing either the various means which Miss Clifford, in connexion with her mother, employed to bring Mr. Sackville continually to the Hall, or the various methods which she took to keep alive the remembrance of him in the mind of Sophia in his absence.

"How could you think," said she one day to Sophia, "of calling Mr. Sackville a plain man? In my opinion he is remarkably handsome."

"I do not remember having mentioned the subject," replied Sophia, colouring deeply.

"Then I am, indeed, mistaken," said Miss Clifford. "I am sure I thought you had affirmed as much." And then, because Sophia would not allow herself to be addressed on such matters, this talkative lady proceeded to warn her sister Harriet, in Sophia's hearing, against falling in love with him, saying, that handsome men were always vain, and adding, that she was sure he had some design in coming so frequently to the Hall.

In the mean time several weeks had passed, while the baronet evidently betrayed an increasing preference for Sophia, and more and more uneasiness in the presence of Mr. Sackville, of whose advantages of person and manner he seemed perfectly sensible.

Mr. Mortimer at first did not appear to know what was going forward in his family; and Miss Clifford hoped he would continue in ignorance. But on Sir James becoming more open and decided in his attentions to Sophia, her father began to think that it would be her own fault if his daughter did not become Lady Horton. The idea pleased him: and, from that time, he endeavoured to promote the connexion to the utmost of his power. His attention being thus drawn to what was passing, he was not long in observing that Sophia, though always modest and dignified in her manner, betrayed a much greater degree of pleasure in being addressed by Mr. Sackville, than by Sir James; and, in consequence of this discovery, he did every thing short of absolutely forbidding him the house to discourage Mr. Sackville's visits.

While all these things were taking place, Sophia found reason to lament the loss of that peace of mind of which she had once enjoyed so large a share, although her retired apartment and her little Annette were still as dear to her as ever. She now remembered with anguish the days when her heart had been sincerely and continually devoted to her God; when it was her highest pleasure to read her Bible, to dwell upon the merits of her Saviour, and to seek the presence of the Holy Spirit. But now she found that a mere earthly passion was acquiring a growing influence over her mind; and that this passion was constantly fed either by the presence of the favoured object, or by her hearing him continually spoken of. She was at this time made sensibly to experience what Mrs. Fortescue had often told her, that the young woman who allows the encroachment of any passion which has not received the sanction of duty, utterly destroys her peace for the time being, if not for ever. "But are there no means," said she, "of overcoming this evil? Shall I patiently submit to be the slave of feeling? No, no," she added, "I will consult my late beloved Mrs. Fortescue's book, and I shall no doubt be directed to what will supply a remedy for my present uneasy state."

Sophia did as she resolved. She read over, again and again, the little manuscript left by her deceased instructress; and, thus, was she led, under the divine blessing, to a sincere and hearty repentance, to a renewed devotion of herself to God, and to a more active and lively exercise of her various duties.

Sophia now endeavoured to give less of her company to the Miss Cliffords, and more time to her Bible, her general improvement, and her attentions to the little Annette.

But while these things were passing in the mind of Sophia, and she was gradually recovering her mental vigour, Sir James, being hurt by a hint purposely given him by Miss Clifford, respecting Sophia, who she pretended cherished an invincible dislike to him, took himself off without making the offer expected by Mr. Mortimer; at which, the angry father declared that he would shortly leave Yorkshire, and take his whole family to Bath, in order, he said, to separate his daughter from the young man to whom he too plainly saw she was attached.

It was a severe blow to Sophia, when she was informed of this proposed visit to Bath, and she tried to persuade herself that all her sorrow on this occasion arose from her reluctance to leave Annette: for she had come to the conclusion, that she thought no more of Mr. Sackville but as of a friend, with whom she might probably have no further conversation. But it was necessary, on account of Annette, that Mr. Sackville should know of this intended journey; and although Sophia very properly objected to entering into an epistolary communication with him on the subject, the matter might, however, easily have been settled through the medium of Mrs. Cicely: yet Sophia chose rather to fancy that there were some objections to so simple a mode of arranging this knotty point, which she supposed could be managed by nothing less than a personal interview with the party concerned; and therefore, as Mr. Sackville did not, as formerly, now come to the Hall, she allowed day after day to pass without making the requisite communication, or forming any arrangement for the comfort of the child while she herself was to be absent.

In the mean time, the engaging little creature wrapped herself more and more closely about the heart of her protectress, and the child's entire freedom from apprehension respecting the approaching separation daily increased the sadness of Sophia. "O my little Annette!" would she often say within herself, "must I leave you? and will nobody love you, and bear with you, and please you, as I do? Cicely must go with me, and I know that Mrs. Doiley is sometimes cross with you; and then you will have no one to whom you may tell your little sorrows, or who will wipe your weeping eyes. Ah, little orphan, I shall often think of you when far far away."

Such were the reflections of Sophia; in spite of which she still hesitated to allow Mrs. Cicely to acquaint Mr. Sackville with her concern about the child, though the good woman was very willing to convey to him any message which her lady might wish to send.

Such was the state of things, when, one fine clear morning in December, Sophia went out to walk in a remote and retired part of the park, holding Annette by the hand; and, lost in melancholy reflection, having passed the more open part of the inclosure, they turned into a path leading to a deep dell or dingle, that was shaded in the summer season by the thick foliage of many trees which grew on its sloping sides. At the further end of this dell was a waterfall, which, tumbling from the higher grounds, fell dashing and foaming into the depths of the glen. At the present season of the year, the trees were leafless, and the full glare of day shot into the very bottom of the valley. The cold, however, had been severe; and the feeble December sun which now appeared in the vaporous sky had not sufficient power to dissolve the hoar frost which spangled every bough and spray, and rendered the moss of the unfrequented pathway short and crisp beneath the foot. Many long and brilliant icicles were hanging like cones of crystal from the rocky sides of the cascade, and the whole scene of the dingle was not now as beautiful as it would appear in the heats of summer, inasmuch, only, as the ideas which it suggested were less promising of enjoyment in the open air.

"Look, dear Ma'am," said little Annette, pointing her finger to the cascade, "look at those long pieces of glass which hang down by the brook: look how bright they are! May not I carry some of them home?"

"Not now," said Sophia: "it is wet and cold; we cannot get down to the side of the water."

"Then we will come again by and by," said Annette. "When the winter is gone, we will come and fetch them, shall we not, Ma'am?"

"Come again, my little Annette!" returned Sophia. "Ah, little girl, they will be gone before the summer comes, and gone perhaps with them may be all your happy days--melted away, possibly, like those sparkling icicles before the rays of the summer sun. For O, my child," she added, "I shall then be far beyond the reach of your infant cry, and your gentle calls for my notice and protection." This exclamation was made by Sophia, as she stood near a tree under which there was a bench placed in such a situation as to command a view of the waterfall: and so acute were the feelings of this young lady at the moment, that she sunk upon the bench, and throwing her arms round the neck of the little girl, burst into an agony of tears.

Little Annette had not yet formed any idea of the cause of Sophia's distress; but she well knew that tears were in general the tokens of sorrow, and she instantly took up her little muslin apron to wipe her lady's cheeks, while her own sparkling eyes became suffused with crystalline drops.

At this moment Sophia heard an approaching step, which, from the hardness of the frosty ground, resounded, as it came nearer, more plainly through the valley. She started, and looked up; and before she had time to change her attitude, Mr. Sackville appeared before her.

This retired dingle was no common haunt of the young clergyman's: but he had happened to pass through it that morning, as a shorter road to a house on the other side of the country, where he had been paying a visit.

At the sight of Sophia and Annette, his cheeks became suffused with a sudden glow of pleasure; but when, on a second glance, he perceived the traces of sorrow on their features, his own countenance instantly changed, and, as it were, reflected the uneasiness which theirs expressed, just as the clear mirror of some glassy lake reflects the variations which every passing cloud or vapour occasions in the heavens above.

"Miss Mortimer," he said, "can it be Miss Mortimer? But why these signs of sorrow?" And coming up more closely to her, "My dear Miss Mortimer," he added, "how is it that I see you thus uneasy? what has happened? can I do any thing for you? have you met with any accident? is all well at the Hall? can I assist you? how can I serve you?"

Sophia endeavoured to wipe away her tears, to look more cheerful, and to command her voice so that she might at least speak with composure; but failing after several efforts, the tears again gushed forth, and she laid her head on the shoulder of Annette, whom she had taken upon her lap.

Mr. Sackville then, in his alarm, addressed the child, and begged her to tell him what was the matter. From Annette, however, he could get no satisfaction: and becoming more alarmed, he grasped Sophia's hand, and entreated her to relieve his anxiety.

Sophia, being quite ashamed of her weakness, endeavoured to rouse herself. She looked up, and said "I am afraid, Sir, that you will think me very silly--very much to blame: but,--" and she hesitated.

"Think you silly, dear Miss Mortimer!" rejoined Mr. Sackville; "O how little you know my heart. But, I beseech you, set me at ease. Let me know the occasion of these tears. Something, I feel persuaded, has greatly afflicted you: and you will make me miserable, indeed, if you send me away in this state of anxiety. I beseech you, tell me the worst. Is it what I apprehend? Is it what I most dread? Are you going to leave the country?"

"Yes, Sir," stammered Sophia; "yes, Sir, I am going; and my heart is almost broken-because--because of little Annette."

"And you are going with Sir James Horton?" asked Mr. Sackville, suddenly turning quite pale.

"With Sir James Horton!" replied Sophia, reddening violently, "with Sir James Horton! No, never, never, while I live."

Mr. Sackville seemed to breathe again, and his colour returned. He tried to make some apology for the strange question he had asked; but made such blundering work of it, that he found it would be best to leave all apologies alone, as they only served to make Sophia the more sensible of the singularity of the question he had so unwarily put.

"What could make you think of Sir James Horton, Mr. Sackville?" asked Sophia, as soon as she could recover her speech. "He is nothing to me, nor me to him. He has left us some days: and when he was here, he had nothing to say to me; he was not my acquaintance."

"I am most sincerely rejoiced to hear this," said Mr. Sackville.

"And wherefore, Sir?" asked Sophia, whose astonishment increased every moment. "Do you dislike Sir James?"

"No," said Mr. Sackville, "not exactly; but--I am glad that he is gone."

Sophia looked earnestly at him; and then, turning to Annette, heaved a deep sigh, and wiped away another tear.

"But you are unhappy, ever dear Miss Mortimer," said Mr. Sackville; "and you are still shedding tears. You are going from this place, you say. Let me entreat you to explain the cause of all this. O how many, many sorrowful hearts you will leave behind you: and none, none more sad than mine!"

Being thus urged, Sophia informed Mr. Sackville of the intended journey to Bath, and her consequent separation from Annette, which must ensue.

It was not Mr. Sackville alone who was affected by this explanation: for Annette now, for the first time, comprehended the evil with which she was threatened; on which, throwing her arms more closely round Sophia's neck, she burst forth into such bitter cries that for a few minutes neither Sophia nor Mr. Sackville could appease her.

Annette, when thoroughly excited, was violent; though it was but seldom that occasions of such excitation occurred; and it is certain that this poor little orphan had already had experience enough of the unkindness of the world, to give her a rational dread of being left again with strangers. "You shall not go from me, Ma'am," she said; "no, never, never. I will not live with Mrs. Doiley; I will stay with you."

"You shall come to me," said Mr. Sackville; "I will take care of you, my dear Annette, till Miss Mortimer returns, and you shall not live with Mrs. Doiley."

Annette was silenced by this promise; for, next to Sophia, she best liked Mr. Sackville: and Sophia looked up to the young gentleman with such an expression of tearful gratitude as he prized more highly than any words she could have uttered.

"Make yourself easy on Annette's account, my dear Miss Mortimer," said Mr. Sackville; "I promise her my best services. Poor though they are, and far inferior to yours, you well know that I consider myself bound by every consideration capable of influencing a human creature, to be the guardian of this little girl. When you can no longer give her your personal attention, I will take her to my house, and place her in safe and careful hands. But must you go?" he added. "Well, if it must be so, it is my duty to submit. Will you, however, come back, and make us happy?"

"I hope so," replied Sophia, faintly.

"No, you never will," returned Mr. Sackville, sorrowfully: "you will be too much loved and valued. Never, till this moment, was I ever induced to wish that I was more than the humble rector of Fairfield."

Sophia was silent; and her head was bowed on the neck of Annette.

"I cannot suppose," said Mr. Sackville, "that a young lady of your rank, and fortune, and various advantages, would condescend to think of one so humble as I am; and yet I have sometimes almost ventured to hope that you would not altogether despise me. Your tastes are so simple, your pursuits so adapted to a retired and domestic life, that I have at times even presumed to think that my humble situation, were there no other objection, might not entirely preclude all hope on my side."

This was plain speaking, and such as Sophia could no longer misunderstand; but she had some difficulty in giving her answer, merely from the want of the power of utterance, not from any hesitation about what she ought to say. At length, however, she spoke, and said, that it was her fixed resolution never to enter into any engagement without her father's approbation, and that being so very young, she would wish Mr. Sackville to allow her time for consideration: adding, that every proposal of this kind must henceforward come to her through her father, and that she believed it would be best that the affair should be dropped for the present.

It is not necessary that I should now repeat what Mr. Sackville added further to Sophia. Suffice it to observe, that the few words which the young lady said in reply were of such a nature as to convince him that he possessed her esteem, and, indeed, more of her regard than it was consistent with those principles of delicacy which had been impressed on her mind, for her to avow. Had he doubted this even a moment before, he must, however, have been convinced of it by the deeply sorrowful expression of her countenance when she took leave of him.

We do not presume to describe the state of Sophia's feelings as she returned home. What had passed had certainly tended in some degree to relieve her mind of its anxiety respecting Annette: neither was it by any means a painful discovery to her to find that she was, confessedly, so dear not only to the best but to the most pleasing young man she had ever known. But, on the other hand, she was not without some uneasy thoughts, arising from the conviction that her father's views for her were far higher than a union with the rector of Fairfield; while her uneasiness was increased by the additional persuasion that if she allowed herself to take a single devious step in this affair, she could not, and, in fact, she dared not, to expect the divine blessing upon it. In meditations of this nature, Sophia occupied the remainder of the afternoon; and was scarcely come to any resolution before she was called to dinner.

During the meal, she was full of thought and perplexity; but suddenly, the course that she ought to pursue seemed to be clearly laid open before her mind, and she immediately resolved to seize the very first occasion to attempt that which she now thought it right to do.

It happened, that there was no stranger present this day at the Hall; and when the family party removed from the dining-table, and were seated round the fire, as soon as the servants had left the room, she began to carry her purposes into effect.

"I have been in the park this morning," said she; "I went to see the old cascade, and I think I never saw it look so beautiful." She then added some incoherencies about icicles, liquid diamonds, and hoar frost; looking, however, so little like an icicle herself, while speaking, that Miss Clifford began to prick up her ears, and open her eyes.

"Humph!" said the Squire, as, raising his glass of port to the candle, he looked through the ruby-coloured liquor with one eye, while the other was closed.

"I met Mr. Sackville in the dingle," proceeded Sophia, resolved at once to speak out.

"You did!" said the Squire, setting down his glass, and looking in high displeasure. "By appointment, I presume?"

"No, Sir," returned Sophia, "by accident."

"A very common accident, I reckon?" said the father.

"No, Sir," answered his daughter; "I never met Mr. Sackville in the park before."

"Where, then, were you used to meet him?" asked the Squire.

"I never saw him but twice," replied Sophia, "till he came here, by invitation, to dinner."

Miss Clifford drew up her mouth, and looked as if she would have said, "That's false."

"Well," said Mr. Mortimer, breathing short, "and what passed between you and the young man?"

"We first spoke of the little girl, Sir, of whom you allowed me to take charge; and Mr. Sackville undertook to provide for her during my absence."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Mortimer, holding in his indignation with no small difficulty; "and so, you and Mr. Sackville are in partnership in this concern! A pretty prudent arrangement, truly!"

"Pathetic and tender, at least," said Miss Clifford; "quite romantic!"

Sophia's heart was beating violently; but she was strengthened by the hope, nay, the assurance, that she was doing right: and thus she was enabled to give a straight-forward and simple statement of her first accidental meeting with Mr. Sackville, and of the engagements into which they were then drawn.

The Squire puffed, and swelled, and swallowed a bumper. And Miss Clifford, laughing outright, said, "Pretty enough! The opening scene of a romance! O for the pen of a Richardson, to work up this beautiful commencement into some sentimental denouement!"

"And so," said the Squire, "you first talked of your mutual protegee!--and then, what else? what was the next subject?"

"Mr. Sackville," replied Sophia, "said, that he regretted--that he was sorry--that--that I was going to Bath."

"Did he so?" said the Squire. "And did he not ask you to stay behind, and assist him in taking care of the beggar's brat?"

"Not exactly, Sir," replied Sophia, trembling; "but something to that purpose."

Every eye was now opened wide, and fixed on Sophia.

"And what might be your answer to all this?"

"I referred him to you, Sir; because I am resolved never to accept any offer without your consent."

"And you are now come to ask it, I presume?" said the Squire.

"No, Sir," replied Sophia; "I have nothing to ask of you but a continuance of your affection, of which I should have felt myself unworthy had I attempted to conceal, either from you or my mother, what had passed this morning."

Mr. Mortimer looked at his daughter for a moment, as if he knew not whether to be pleased or displeased with her straight-forward manner. At length, displeasure prevailing, he broke forth with a voice as loud as if he had been calling a pack of hounds from a false scent, and wished Mr. Sackville every misfortune which a vindictive or passionate man commonly desires to imprecate upon the object of his resentful feelings; and, at the same time, rising from his chair, he turned his back to the fire, kicking his dogs, and holding his sides with his hands.

"And so," said he, recovering from the first burst of passion, "you did not tell the young man that he was a presumptuous fool, but made a courtesy, and thanked him for his good opinion of you. Was it not so?"

Sophia made no answer: on which, he turned shortly round to her, raised his fist as if he would have struck her, and bending his face down to hers, "Tell me, I say; do you like the man? Say you do, and I renounce you. Why don't you speak?"

"What, Sir," said Sophia, gently, "and be renounced by my father! Surely, no man living ought to be so dear to me as my father."

"You are an artful hussy," said the Squire, with abating displeasure. "But remember, child, that you don't deceive me. I hate deceit: and it would break my heart to be deceived by my child."

"No, my father, no," said Sophia, bursting into tears, and throwing herself on his neck, "no, I will never deceive you (the Almighty helping me) nor any one here present. I own that I respect and--and--esteem Mr. Sackville; but I should hate myself, if I could be guilty of any thing like art on his, or, indeed, on any account; and this was my motive for entering upon this subject in the present company."

The Squire returned the embrace of his daughter with even more than his usual warmth, exclaiming, "You are a good girl, Sophia; and I am proud of my girl; and I do believe every word you utter: and that's more than ever I would say of any other woman under the sun."

"Under the sun!" said Miss Clifford, laughing. "That would be saying a great deal, had you been speaking at noonday."

"At noonday!" said the Squire, letting go his hold of Sophia, and turning to the other, "what do you mean by that?"

"Why, is not the sun above us all at noonday, papa?" said the young lady, in an affectedly childish accent; "and is it not below us all at midnight? And so, as it happens, there are none of your dear connexions under the sun precisely at this moment."

"Why, there now," replied the Squire; "what is this but one of your feminine fetches and roundabouts? I am sure that my good girl here would never have had such a crooked thought as that you have just uttered. But," added he, "as I stand here, whether under or over the sun I know not, nor care; and as my name is Cockspur Mortimer, she shall not have the parson: and here I am, ready to stand to it. So go to your room, girl, wipe your eyes and smooth your brow, and let me never again hear the name of Sackville as long as I live and breathe."

So saying, he popped himself down in his chair, bade Sophia ring for a pipe, and looked, at the same time, towards the door, and then at his wife, as much as to say, "You had best now be going to your own quarters."

It was with a heart comparatively easy, that Sophia returned to her room. She felt that she had been enabled to do right; and she was now further enabled to commit the entire affair respecting Mr. Sackville into the hands of God, being well assured that all would be ordered for the best. And here was an exercise of faith; an exercise of a kind, to which many, if not all persons are called, at some stage of their youthful progress. Happy, then, thrice happy, are those whose religious feelings are such as Sophia Mortimer's;--who are enabled to bring their faith to bear on matters of this kind;--and who, instead of repining, either at the necessary or unnecessary restraints to which they may be subject in their parents' houses, are led to be habitually thankful for the blessings and comforts they actually enjoy, and are supported in their endeavours to throw their cares upon their God.

In the mean time, Mrs. Mortimer and her daughters being assembled in a room into which Sophia had no access, were engaged in conversing on what had just taken place, and in discussing the character of the young lady.

Miss Juliana and Miss Harriet seemed disposed to think that she wanted sense; but Mrs. Mortimer was rather inclined to the opinion that it was not sense which she wanted so much as experience and knowledge of the world. "She certainly is attached to Mr. Sackville," said she, "and he to her; and they both wish the match. I therefore cannot conceive what could have been her motive for breaking the matter so abruptly to her father, and arming him, as it were, against herself: for she could not have expected from him any other answer to the proposal, than that which he gave her."

While the rest were speaking, Miss Clifford looked unutterable things; and when she had heard every opinion, she burst out to the following effect.--"Indeed," said she, "I wonder at you all; yet not so much at my sisters, as at you, Mrs. Mortimer. If Sophia Mortimer is a fool, I am one; and if she is a simple, undesigning character, so am I. No; depend upon it, she is as deep as the grave, and does nothing without design. There are no characters so profoundly artful as those who conceal their art under the semblance of truth. Depend upon it, Sophy knows the length and breadth of her father's finger, better than either you or I do: and, notwithstanding his storming and raving as he did, I do not think she could have taken a wiser step towards the promotion of her end, than what she did this evening. The Squire loves an open, straight-forward manner; and Sophia knows that he does, and she acted accordingly. She was well prepared for his bluster, and armed against it. And I think I never saw a prettier piece of acting in my life, than the scene between the roaring country Squire--the good-hearted John Bull--and the pretty, modest, blushing daughter."

"Kate," said Mrs. Mortimer, "you are a naughty one. 'Set a thief to catch a thief!'--is there not some such proverb? But I will not have you take such liberties with my husband, your honoured father. I won't have him called a roaring country Squire."

"Well, then, I won't repeat the words again, my dear mother," replied the daughter.--And so saying, the ladies adjourned to the drawing-room, and called for coffee.

I have said nothing of Mr. Mortimer's sons, and my readers may suppose that they therefore occupied but little of their father's attention; but the truth is, that they were at school near London, and were not to come home during the Christmas holidays, because their parents had engaged that they should spend them with Mrs. Mortimer's sister, a lady who lived near Windsor. Sophia was therefore obliged to postpone the pleasure she had promised herself of becoming acquainted with her brothers.

From the eventful day of which I have given so full a description, until that fixed for the journey to Bath, was only one short fortnight, during which every thing passed smoothly between Mr. Mortimer and his daughter. Nevertheless, Sophia felt herself still uneasy, on account of her little Annette; particularly as the child still continued to weep bitterly whenever the journey was spoken of.--"Oh, Ma'am, dear Ma'am," the child would often say, "my mother is dead, and you are going away. What will become of little Annette?"

"I hope that I shall come again," Sophia would answer: "and then we shall be so happy." And, on these occasions, she would try to direct the thoughts of the child to that great Being who is the Father of the fatherless.

As soon as the precise day for their journey was ascertained, Sophia sent Mrs. Cicely to Mr. Sackville, to give him information of the decision. And this she did without any attempt at secrecy: at once telling Mrs. Mortimer what she had done, and her motive for so doing.

Mrs. Cicely, however, came back in very low spirits, informing Sophia that Mr. Sackville was very ill, and, in consequence, confined to his bed.

Here was new cause of trouble to Sophia: and the several days previous to her journey were, therefore, very unhappy ones to her; though she endeavoured to bring her mind to all that might happen.

At length, the dreaded morning came; and the sociable and the travelling-carriage were driven up to the door.

Sophia breakfasted in her own room, with Annette; and Mrs. Doiley was in readiness to take the child, in case no message should be brought from Mr. Sackville. One only consolation at this time offered itself to Sophia: and that was, that her father, followed by his groom, had gone forward at daydawn, and would not be present to be irritated by the tears she could not repress.

At length, she was informed that the ladies were ready; and, giving a last sad look at the brown oak parlour, she proceeded into the great hall, followed by the sobbing child, whom Mrs. Doiley in vain attempted to hold back.

The ladies were already in the sociable, and Sophia was kissing her beloved Annette for the last time, when Mr. Sackville himself, having passed the carriages, entered at the great door, and approached the weeping pair. He looked exceedingly pale, and was evidently much dejected; but the joy which both Sophia and Annette expressed at beholding him brought back the colour to his cheeks.

"O! Mr. Sackville," said Sophia, "are you, at length, come? and are you better?" And then, scarcely knowing what she did, she extended her hand to him, adding, "I shall be happy now I have seen you again, and you appear so much recovered. To your hands I commend my little Annette. You will bear with her, and you will love her. You must indeed love her. She is worthy of your affection, and you can hardly conceive how dear she is to me."

"If she is dear to you, beloved Miss Mortimer," he said, "she must be so to me. She shall never know what it is to want a friend as long as I live." And as he gently strove to draw the little girl from Sophia, he added, "O, could I but hope that you would sometimes think of us when far away, I should be the happiest of human beings."

Sophia said nothing; but the sad expression of her modest eye spoke more than words could have expressed.

Mr. Sackville then led her to the carriage, but neither of them spoke. A new flood of tears gushed from the eyes of Sophia as she gave her parting look to Annette and Mr. Sackville; and then, covering her eyes with her handkerchief, she felt truly thankful that this scene had discovered no more to her step-mother and sisters than what they previously knew, and that, although they might charge her with folly, they could not condemn her for deceit.

The carriages now moved off, and in such a direction that the house and park continued in view for some time; and as Sophia looked back for the last time, she saw Mr. Sackville, at a considerable distance, conducting little Annette across that part of the open lawn which led them towards Fairfield. She heaved a deep sigh, wiped away the fast-flowing tears, and now, for the first time in her life, heartily acquiesced in Job's declaration, that Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards.

The journey to Bath was performed in three days, and the change of scene had a considerable effect in tranquillizing the mind of Sophia.

Mr. Mortimer had taken the precaution to secure a handsome house in the upper part of the city; and Sophia was exceedingly well pleased to have a small room appropriated to herself, with a light closet for her servant. "And now," said Mrs. Cicely, (who was much pleased with this arrangement,) while she was attending Sophia, "had we but our little Annette here, we might be tolerably happy."

Sophia sighed, and answered, "Annette would be a great comfort; but this place can never be like our beloved home."

Sophia had not, for some days past, been able to comprehend the state of her father's feelings towards her, for he had dealt largely in a kind of enigmatical phraseology, to this purport--"Never mind, Sophy, my dear: when we get you among us in Bath, we shall put all things to rights; and then we shall forget all our odd ways, and be more like other people:" these expressions being either followed up by an oath, or some sporting term, to which Sophia could attach no meaning whatever. The truth is, that Mr. Mortimer admired his daughter very much, and loved her more; but there was a something in her character which made him uneasy, because he thought it too serious; and he feared that her simple, Christian state of mind might stand in the way of her advancing herself in marriage. He flattered himself, therefore, when she was removed from the place of her education, and introduced into a gay society, that her prejudices would give way without any trouble: he was, therefore, not a little surprised, when, on the morning after their arrival in Bath, the public balls being made the subject of discourse, Sophia, with much simplicity, asserted, that, as she did not know how to dance, she, of course, could have no share in these amusements.

This declaration seemed to startle the whole party, but especially Mr. Mortimer, who, having left the management of his daughter's education to Mrs. Fortescue, had never conceived it possible that she should have omitted an accomplishment which he considered so essential as that of dancing. He set down a dish of tea which, at that moment, he was just raising to his lips, and blamed Mrs. Fortescue for this negligence with a vehemence which made the tears start in the eyes of Sophia: she, however, said nothing, till her father asked his wife whether she thought it might not still be possible to repair this injury by procuring a dancing-master for Sophia.

Before Mrs. Mortimer could reply, Sophia calmly remarked, that she hoped her father would excuse what she was about to say, but that she thought it best at once to confess that it was impossible for her to partake of any of the amusements which are commonly followed in the world; adding, that the principles in which she had been brought up were so entirely opposite to every thing of the kind, that if she entered into any of them, it would be at the expence of subverting the whole system of her education.

This remark excited such general amazement throughout the party, that for a few moments no one spoke. At length, Mr. Mortimer, looking at her with smothered indignation, said, "Why, surely you do not mean to say that you will not go wherever I and your mother choose that you should?"

Sophia was silent, and looked down.

He repeated his question in coarser language, and a louder voice.

Sophia replied, "I know my duty to my earthly father, and I know that his authority is inferior only to that of my heavenly Father."

"Amazing assurance! and that from you, Sophia?" said Mr. Mortimer, his lip quivering with rage.

Sophia trembled, but made no answer.

He repeated her name several times over, and asked her if she did not mean to reply when spoken to.

She looked up, and said, "Sir!"

"Repeat to me," he said, "your late bold assertion: repeat it, and then leave this house, and let me never see you more."

Sophia still remained silent; and Mr. Mortimer breaking out with increasing violence, his lady interfered, endeavouring to soothe him and to reason with Sophia, who, however, she secretly hoped might prove unpersuadable: for she could, by no means, endure the idea of being obliged to carry with her into every society, one whose superior beauty and attractions could not fail of totally eclipsing the charms of her own daughters.

Sophia replied to her mother's reasonings with much temper and sweetness; alleging, that the strict Christian principles in which she had been educated put it entirely out of her power to enter into any of the public pleasures of the world with satisfaction.

Mr. Mortimer, however, was not in a humour to bear these reasonings. He called his daughter a Methodist, and expressed a hope that Mrs. Fortescue might be already tasting the punishment of her hypocrisy.

On hearing this, Sophia, who, notwithstanding her assumed composure, had, no doubt, been violently agitated during the whole debate, burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed so violently, that Miss Clifford, who pretty well knew all her mother's secret thoughts on this occasion, took her by the hand, and led her out into the next room, where she contrived to soothe and console her, and in some degree to restore her tranquillity; although, when left alone, Sophia could not, on reflection, discover whether her comforter approved or disapproved of what she had said to her father.

In the mean time, Mr. Mortimer had expressed himself with so much violence against his daughter for her obstinacy, and against poor Mrs. Fortescue for the methodistical and queer education which, he said, she had given her, that Mrs. Mortimer was obliged, in order to soothe him, to promise to take the matter on herself; and she expressed her assurance, that she should soon be able to bring the young lady to reason--this lady being well aware, from long experience, that it was always more easy to manage her husband by seeming to acquiesce in his opinions than by openly opposing them.

When Mr. Mortimer had received this assurance from his wife, he went out, and proceeded to the pump-room, in order to discover, from the book which is kept there, whom of his friends he was likely to meet with in Bath. The first person he met in the public room was Sir James Horton. Mr. Mortimer did not expect to see this gentleman, and was therefore the better pleased.

The baronet enquired after the ladies of the family, particularly mentioning Sophia.

At the sound of her name, Mr. Mortimer's anger was again aroused, and he gave Sir James an account of the contest he had had with her in the morning at breakfast.

"Comical enough," said the baronet; "but I do not know whether I don't like her the better for it. And I'll tell you what, Mr. Mortimer," added he, looking sagacious, "I don't know whether I am not half of Miss Sophia's opinion myself: for I really think that it would be almost as well if the young ladies in these days were not quite so fond of dancing in public, and those kind of things."

"And is that your real opinion?" said Mr. Mortimer.

"Upon my word it is," replied Sir James; "and I'll tell you what, too, I have heard other young men say the same."

This conversation went a great way towards soothing the mind of Mr. Mortimer, who did not part from the baronet till he had engaged him to dinner; an invitation which the other was glad to accept, being pretty well assured that he should not meet Sophia elsewhere than at her father's house.

Sophia, in the mean time, had returned to her own room, where she spent the greater part of the morning in reflecting on what had passed; and though she felt satisfied that the thing that she had done was in itself right, she still deplored the mode in which she had done it, charging herself with abruptness, want of respect in manner, and a variety of other failures, by which she felt herself condemned.

Thus must every sincere Christian find reason more or less to lament a large mixture of depravity blended with even his best actions, and be ready, in his most triumphant moments, to complain, "When I would do good, evil is present with me."

When the hour of dinner arrived, Sophia went trembling into the presence of her father. What then must have been her amazement to find him in perfect good-humour, and her old acquaintance, Sir James Horton, by his side!

As Sophia had never regarded this gentleman in any other light than that of a common acquaintance, she received him graciously; and thus good-humour seemed to be restored to the whole party.

From that day, several weeks passed in a dull round of nothings. Sophia was, indeed, never asked to go out, but then, as Sir James continually visited at the house, she found herself constantly engaged in conversation with him, at home, if conversation it could be called; for, though he always sat by her after tea, he seldom ventured to say any thing, and she as seldom lifted up her eyes from her work. She saw less of the three Miss Cliffords than when in the country, as they were out every evening; but Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer remained much at home, and received Sir James and other friends at their house. Sophia spent her mornings in her own room, with Mrs. Cicely, to whom she often read, and with whom she talked much of Annette, and of the poor people she used to visit, but seldom mentioned Mr. Sackville's name.

At Christmas, she made up a box for Annette, containing a variety of clothes made by her own hand, and a five-pound bill; all of which she sent off by a servant of the family, who was returning into Yorkshire. In answer to which, she received a letter, written by the old housekeeper at the Hall, containing Mr. Sackville's thanks, and several little anecdotes of Annette, who had, she said, been to see her several times.

Sophia, on reading this letter, could not help shedding tears; and from that time, and for several successive days, she frequently indulged in thoughts about Mortimer-Hall and Fairfield, meditating on these things in bed, and forming imaginary plans of happiness, from which neither Annette nor Mr. Sackville were, of course, excluded: and to these thoughts she continued to give way, knowing at the same time that she was doing wrong, till dissatisfaction with herself, and with every one about her, was the consequence. She fancied that her relations and connexions possessed qualities even more unpleasant than they really did.

Mrs. Mortimer, though wholly a worldly character, had never been unkind to Sophia, nor interfered with her in the execution of any of her plans; and though Sophia, had she known her motives, would perhaps not have owed her many thanks for her forbearance, yet, judging from appearance, she had no reason to be dissatisfied with her step-mother, and, to say the truth, she had never felt herself very uneasy with her, till at this period in which she had yielded in secret to self-pleasing. As to Mr. Mortimer, he was precisely the same as he had always been, and as Sophia had always known him to be; yet it was not till now that she began to experience, from his coarseness, a kind of disgust which a daughter ought by no means to acknowledge to herself, and a sentiment of displeasure at his second marriage, although that step was certainly justifiable. Once or twice, about this time, Mrs. Cicely enquired if she was unwell; and, one day, on her coming up from breakfast in a very disconsolate mood, the old servant asked her if any thing particular had happened that had affected her spirits. "Surely my dear Madam," she said, "you have had no bad news out of Yorkshire?"

"No," replied Sophia, sighing; "but I hate this Bath: and Mrs. Mortimer looks so coolly upon me: and my father is so rough: he gets worse and worse every day."

Mrs. Cicely looked hard at her young mistress, and then said, "Why, surely, my dear young lady, you are not expecting to find heaven upon earth?"

"Not at Bath," replied Sophia, fretfully.

"Nor any where else," returned Mrs. Cicely. "If you do, Miss, you will be sadly disappointed. There are troubles in every situation of life; and I hope that you will not be one of those young ladies who make more than they need, by supposing that they are not well used, because their parents and friends have something else to do than to think of them, and be always striving to look pleasant and make themselves agreeable to them."

"Cicely!" said Sophia, looking at her with astonishment.

"Perhaps I am too bold," returned the old servant. "But, my dear Miss Mortimer, you cannot have forgotten that I was your nurse, that I closed the eyes of your dear mother, and that I enjoyed the privilege of being present whenever that best of women, good Mrs. Fortescue, gave you your lessons; and though I never pretended to understand many things which she taught you, yet, when she gave you religious instructions, grace was given me to comprehend a great deal of them. And thus some light was put into my mind which otherwise I should not have had; and by this light, my dear Miss Mortimer, I am led to see that it is sinful to give way to fretful and uneasy tempers, especially when we consider that this life is but a passing state, and, as the Pilgrim's Progress explains it, but a road or pathway to a better world. To be sure, my dear young lady, you have some trials; but can you not leave your cares on God? Do, my beloved Miss Mortimer, make the trial."

While Mrs. Cicely spoke, Sophia stood swelling, partly with anger, and partly with grief; and when the old servant was silent, the young lady walked out of the room, and down into the drawing-room, where, at that hour, she expected to be alone. A book was lying on the sofa-table. She took it up, and her eyes ran over some pages, but she knew not a word she read. She had never before felt so wretched; she had never hated herself so thoroughly, or esteemed Cicely so much. At length, unable to bear her own reflections any longer, she dashed down the book, ran up to her own room, fell on her knees before Cicely, threw her arms round her neck, and, bursting into tears, acknowledged all her faults, and even went so far as to beg her pardon.

The worthy old servant clasped her young mistress again and again to her bosom, made a thousand apologies for having spoken so freely, and for some moments wept without restraint over the darling of her heart.

This little incident had the most blessed effect on Sophia in restoring the equilibrium of her mind. Her father had allowed her music and drawing-masters: she now set her whole heart to improve by them. She employed Cicely to find out poor people, whom she relieved from her pocket-money, buying and making clothes for the needy. She cast aside all amusing books which had not a decidedly religious tendency, for there are certain states of mind when these act like poison on the feelings. She read the Bible, and the commentators upon it, aloud to Mrs. Cicely; and so wholly occupied all her powers both of mind and body, that she fell asleep the moment she laid her head on her pillow, and ceased for a length of time from all speculations on her future plans of life.

In the mean time, while Sophia was endeavouring to think as little as possible of Fairfield, any further than as it was connected with the interest she took in Annette, Miss Clifford, who had not been a careless observer of the manœuvres of the baronet, dull as they were, was not inattentive to the good policy of keeping up the remembrance of Mr. Sackville in the mind of Sophia: not that she ever addressed her directly on the subject of her regard for this young gentleman; still, she was never at a loss for some occasion, either of speaking of him to her sisters in Sophia's presence, or alluding to something which must necessarily bring him to that young lady's recollection.

And here we have an additional proof of that which every well-meaning young lady must already have discovered--that there is often much more danger to be apprehended from indiscreet or designing persons of their own sex, than from their intercourse with the other. A young woman of correct views will seldom find it difficult to check the forwardness of any person who calls himself a gentleman: but she will find it to be by no means so easy to silence the poisonous insinuations of a female companion, or to shut her ears against those evil communications which corrupt good manners, too often proceeding from persons of her own sex.

In the mean time, the tardy baronet had made up his mind to ask Mr. Mortimer for his daughter, which, one morning, as the two gentlemen were walking together to the pump-room, he accordingly did, with as little ceremony as he would have ordered a new pair of boots; never having dreamed of the possibility of his being refused.

The father received the overture with the greatest satisfaction; for Sir James was not only very rich, but of a rank to make his daughter a titled lady: besides which, he cherished the idea of outwitting Miss Clifford, with whose desires respecting Sir James he was better acquainted than he wished to have it thought. Accordingly, he gave the baronet every encouragement, and returned home in high glee, which he evidenced by kicking up an uproar among his dogs, as soon as ever he had set his foot within the doors of his temporary dwelling.

The communication respecting Sir James's offer was made immediately to Sophia, and the young lady was told at the same time, by her father, that he expected her acquiescence, and would hear of no denial.

It cannot be said that Sophia had never thought of Sir James in the character in which he was now offered to her, for it must be remembered, that Mr. Sackville had suggested this idea in the glen. But Sir James had evinced so little interest in any conversation he had ever held with her, that she had been led to consider Mr. Sackville's alarm on his account to be altogether without foundation, and she therefore received the communication with unfeigned surprise: neither was it till after she was in some degree recovered from this amazement, that she could find words wherein to state her objections to Sir James in language at once sufficiently gentle and decisive to use in the presence of her father.

The Squire at first heard her with some degree of patience; but when he found that she was not to be brought over to his purpose by any arguments which he could urge, he broke out into such a storm of indignation, that Sophia was almost ready to faint with terror. Still, however, she adhered to her first declaration, and maintained her resolution never to accept of Sir James.

"What," said the Squire, "because you mean to have the parson? Now hear my words:" and, walking close to her, he held up his clenched hand before her face--"You sha'n't have him,--that you sha'n't. If I ever hear of your thinking about him again, I'll take you out to live in my dog-kennel."

"I promised you, Sir," replied Sophia, "when in Yorkshire, that I never would marry him but with your approbation; neither will I carry on any intercourse with him unknown to you. I will also endeavour to think as little of him as possible, and I never willingly mention his name. But while I feel a distinguishing preference for him, I must persist in refusing every other man who may honour me with his notice."

"Distinguishing preference!" repeated the Squire; "what fool's language is that? Can't you speak out at once? Say that you like the man, and you won't have any other man, and then I shall understand you, and know how to deal with you." And he raised his hat again, with such a threatening aspect, that Sophia retreated to the door, trembling from head to foot.

On seeing this, the Squire burst forth again; and so loud were his menaces, that Mrs. Mortimer, who had been listening at the key-hole, thought proper now to come in. And as she opened the door, Sophia glided by her, and escaped to her own room.

Sophia never knew what then passed between her father and mother, for she was not called down till evening, when she found her father in a state of highly sullen displeasure; and the rest of the family looking more or less uneasy. Mrs. Mortimer, however, was the only one who accosted her with any kindness when she came into the room; but as this lady seldom betrayed her real feelings, Sophia was left in a state of uncertainty respecting her sentiments on the late transaction.

From that time, Sir James was never more mentioned to Sophia, and his visits were discontinued, though he was known to be still in Bath, and was often seen by the Miss Cliffords.

Sophia had hoped that her father's sullen humour towards herself would have cleared up after a few days: but this was by no means the case. The Squire continued to retain his displeasure against her, and often allowed his anger to break out in a very coarse and unseemly manner; insomuch, that the young lady herself began, after a while, to feel offended, and to yield to dissatisfaction in her turn; forgetting that unreasonableness in a parent is no excuse for want of a cheerful acquiescence on the part of a daughter.

About this time, to add to Sophia's discomfort, Mrs. Cicely was taken ill; and, as Mr. Mortimer's groom was going back into Yorkshire, it was deemed advisable that she should return with him, Mr. Mortimer having taken it into his head that she encouraged Sophia in her attachment to Mr. Sackville. Mrs. Cicely was therefore sent to Mortimer-Hall, and another servant was provided for the disconsolate Sophia. Mr. Mortimer, also, either from irritation of mind, or from being deprived of his usual exercise, became unwell; and as Mrs. Mortimer had her particular reasons for not wishing to go far from Bath, nothing would serve him but he would go to the Hot-Wells; with which arrangement she complied, leaving her daughters with a certain old dowager lady of quality, her acquaintance, in the house in Bath, which had been taken for six months, four only of which were expired.

It was with a sorrowful heart that Sophia left Bath, to accompany her parents to the Hot-Wells; for she looked forward to nothing but melancholy in the society of her incensed father.

Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer had taken their lodgings on St. Vincent's Parade, in a situation which commanded a view of the river and the beautiful rocks called St. Vincent's Rocks, near the Well-House and small crescent adjoining it. The scene was lovely; but it wanted both the rural simplicity of the environs of Mortimer-Hall, and the magnificent gaiety of the more fashionable parts of the City of Bath.

There had now subsisted a coldness between Sophia and her father for several weeks; in consequence of which, she avoided his presence as much as possible, seldom seeing him but at meals, and habitually spending the rest of her sad hours alone, not even having her old and faithful servant with whom to converse.

Spring was now advancing apace. The flowers were budding, the hedges becoming green, and many young lambs were sporting on the heights. Such sights and sounds were but too well calculated to recall to the mind of Sophia, as she walked solitarily under the rocks, or climbed the steeps which led to the Downs, the remembrance of her happy early days: and though, in these walks, she met many persons, yet all were equally unknown to her; and she often experienced that peculiarly sad sensation, of feeling herself alone in the midst of a crowd.

At this time, every thing around poor Sophia apparently conspired to prepare her mind for the indulgence of those dissatisfied and melancholy feelings, which such persons as deal in works of fancy commonly dignify by the name of love,--a sentiment, which they delight to trace through all its windings and modifications, and to describe as irresistible. These feelings, in fact, did for a short time powerfully influence the mind of Sophia on her first arrival at the Hot-Wells; when looking round on the beautiful objects of nature, with which that place abounds, she remembered her native woods and her little Annette, her thoughts, at the same time, dwelling much on one whom it was more dangerous to think of than ever, because she had solemnly bound herself never to form any connexion with him without the approbation of her father, and there was little room for the hope that this approbation would ever be given. But after awhile, although she had no human guide at hand, that Holy and Blessed Spirit, whose secret influence is equally above all human wisdom and control, made her sensible that this state of mind was not such as that religion which requires the devotion of the whole heart of God could by any means justify. She was, therefore, once again induced to make a strong effort to overcome her feelings; she applied herself once more to the little book of directions left her by Mrs. Fortescue, and was particularly struck by this expression--"What is commonly called love, is a selfish feeling, and frequently shuts up the heart of the person under its influence from every object but the one by which it is particularly excited: therefore, when love of this kind seizes the mind, it generally leads to the neglect of our duties, and perhaps, under superior motives, it could not better be contended with than by an immediate, consistent, and persevering attention to these duties, which should be persisted in till love has lost its power, and the heart is restored to peace."

"But what duties have I here," said Sophia, "in the pursuit of which I might divert these sad thoughts? Where is my little Annette? where are my poor people? where is my harpsichord? or my little school?" Here she burst into tears; but, quickly checking these rebellious thoughts, she, on again considering her situation, said to herself, "I have a Saviour whom I may seek, and to whom I may unite myself; a heavenly Father, whom, through my Saviour, I may dare to love; and a promised assistant and comforter in the Holy Spirit, to whom I may freely open my heart. And by these shall I not, on earnestly praying, be led to see my duty, and to overcome these morbid feelings, by which I am rendered at once miserable and useless?"

From that day, Sophia strove earnestly to check these dangerous feelings; not allowing herself to indulge in the use of any kind of book or employment which could either strengthen or encourage them.

She committed to memory many hymns and texts of Scripture, besides daily reading with care such portions of the Sacred Volume as suited her present situation. She was earnest in prayer, and employed the remainder of her leisure in working for the poor, and other innocent occupations. By degrees her mind recovered its strength, and she became sensible that its late state had been far from right. She also now saw what she wondered that she had not sooner discovered--that her silent acquiescence in her father's coldness had by no means proceeded, as she had supposed, from a humble state of mind, but, on the contrary, from pride and sullenness. Prompted by this conviction, she now endeavoured, without loss of time, to alter her conduct; to seek the society of her father and mother, and to pay them every little attention in her power. Her advances were not ill received by her mother, who was at this time particularly pleased with her for having refused the baronet, and Sophia now found much assistance from her in restoring her father's good-humour.

She had still much to bear from the coarseness and irritability of her father; notwithstanding which, she gained upon him so much, that, at length, he began to joke with her, and that, sometimes, before visitors, upon her rejection of Sir James, and her contempt of titles and fortune: and he once or twice even went so far as to wish Mr. Sackville had but a little more of the good things of this world, for his daughter's sake.

"My dear father," Sophia would sometimes answer on these occasions, "I desire to have grace to think of none of these persons; but to be kept in that state of mind in which I may be ready at all times to acquiesce in any thing that Providence may have appointed for me."

A loud laugh, or some coarse expression, was the general reply to a remark of this kind, from Mr. Mortimer; and Mrs. Mortimer usually expressed her doubt of the sincerity of young ladies when they made professions of this kind, with a gentle hint that she thought it might be quite as well if her dear Sophia were not so anxious to conceal from her friends her real sentiments.

Notwithstanding Sophia's conviction that she did not possess the entire confidence of her parents, she still felt that, during the latter part of her residence at the Hot-Wells, she had succeeded in making herself agreeable to them; and, sensible that she was thus in the way of duty, she became daily more cheerful.

While things were going on with Sophia in the manner which I have described, the Miss Cliffords remained at Bath, and were managing their affairs quite as successfully as they could have wished. Sir James had, indeed, taken flight; but Miss Juliana was addressed by a gouty old lord, and had every prospect of having the honour of being his third wife; and Miss Harriet was in the high-road of becoming the lady of a certain Nawaub or old Civilian from the East Indies, who was reported to have more rupees than wit. These were circumstances which greatly elevated the spirits of Mrs. Mortimer, and made her, therefore, vastly better company than she would otherwise have been.

And now, the month of March was gone, and April was come in, with her wreaths of hawthorn, her violets, her primroses, and her mildest zephyrs. Sophia, as I before remarked, had been seeking, for some time, entirely to resign her own will to that of her heavenly Father, and had, in consequence, been blessed with a considerable degree of peace, when certain circumstances, which I shall hasten to relate, successively took place.

It is at this time, I imagine, scarcely necessary to tell my reader, that, if Sophia had found it difficult to avoid thinking of Mr. Sackville, this good young man had also the same difficulty to encounter with regard to her. That he respected and loved her more than any other young lady he had ever known, was very certain; but whether it was right for him to indulge this affection he knew not, as he had every reason to believe that his addresses would not be approved by her father. He, too, had, therefore, endeavoured to put the affair into the hands of Providence, with an entire resignation of his own will.

The winter, however, passed with him in, at least, an uneasy manner: for, although he was at home, and had many consolations, and many interesting duties; yet he was more than once troubled by reports respecting Sophia, and was almost afraid that Sir James might in the end carry away from him that prize which he valued more than all that the world could give him besides. In the month of April, however, a sudden and unexpected change was made in his prospects by the death of a distant relation, who bequeathed to him a property in the funds, fully worth three hundred a year, with various articles of household furniture, plate and linen.

Mr. Sackville, although the next heir to this person, had never built upon receiving any thing from him, as he was a humorist, and it was, therefore, supposed would have found some other objects to whom to bequeath his property. The young gentleman was, consequently, the more surprised when made acquainted with this increase of his fortune. And now, finding himself in possession of at least seven hundred a year, over and above his pretty parsonage and glebe, he resolved to take courage, and, without loss of time, to make known his wishes respecting Sophia to her father. With this view, therefore, he put on his best coat, and took his seat in a coach which was to convey him to the Hot-Wells.

It may be supposed that he found the journey long, and his progress slow, towards the haven of his wishes: he, at length, however, arrived at Bristol; but it being near midnight when he got there, he was obliged to bear his suspense till the morning. In situations of this kind, a mind chastened by habitual piety will be more than any other under the influence of self-control: nevertheless, there are occasions in which the heart, though lifted up in constant prayer, is unable to express itself in words; and this was one of those seasons with Mr. Sackville. During his walk from Bristol to the Wells, he heard and saw nothing but the servant of the inn, whom he had engaged to guide him along the intricate labyrinths of new and old buildings through which he must needs approach the precincts of the Hot-Wells in the shortest way.

By this time, Sophia had entirely won back the good graces of her father, and she was pouring out his coffee, and sweetening it to his taste, in the breakfast-room, at the moment when the Yorkshire footman came into the room, and, with a countenance full of satisfaction, announced the name of Sackville.

"Sackville!" repeated the Squire, with one of his usual rough expressions.

"Yes, Sir," said the servant, "Mr. Sackville from Fairfield. It is Mr. Sackville, to be sure."

All that was in Sophia's hand fell from it at that moment; and it was well that it was not her father's dish of coffee, instead of a silver spoon full of soft sugar.

In the mean time, Mr. Sackville was introduced, and kindly received by Mrs. Mortimer; while the Squire, though he begged him to sit down and take some breakfast, had not quite made up his mind what sort of humour he meant to be in for the next twenty-four hours.

Whether Mr. Sackville spoke to Sophia, or whether she made any answer, no one present could have ascertained: but certain it was, that, unless Mrs. Mortimer had exerted herself, nothing could have been more embarrassing than the scene which, on this occasion, was witnessed at the breakfast-table; and if Sophia did not burn her mouth with a scalding dish of tea, it was because she swallowed down the liquor so hastily, that her lips escaped while her throat was almost on fire.

At length, this troublesome breakfasting was over, and Mr. Sackville requested a private audience with Mr. Mortimer, which was afforded him by Mrs. Mortimer taking her daughter out of the room.

I do not mean to enter into the particulars of the conversation between these two gentlemen. Suffice it to say, that Mr. Mortimer's mind for a short time hung in doubt between the pleasure of making his daughter happy, and the chance of seeing her a titled lady. At length, the recollection of Sophia's late sweet and amiable deportment obtained a triumph over his ambition, and he permitted Mr. Sackville to endeavour to obtain his daughter's approbation. "But I will tell you what, young man," added he, in his boisterous way; "I should be heartily glad if I thought there was no chance of your succeeding."

Those persons who have read the former part of this story will, of course, have no expectation that Mr. Sackville would meet with a repulse from Sophia: on the contrary, he met with all the encouragement which the most perfect modesty would admit; and, after a few days' residence at the Hot-Wells, he returned, to prepare his humble dwelling for his lovely bride.

It had been suspected by the inhabitants of Fairfield and its neighbourhood, for what purpose his journey to the Hot-Wells was undertaken; and when he returned home with a smiling countenance, and began to add some simple decorations to his house and garden, what had before been a mere matter of conjecture now became a certainty, and a cause of great rejoicings throughout the parish.

Mr. Mortimer had presented Mr. Sackville with two hundred pounds, desiring him to add two convenient rooms to his house; and this improvement was commenced with all possible expedition, as Sophia's father declared that he would not part with his daughter till they were finished.

In a few months, this work was accomplished, at least, as far as was possible till the walls were sufficiently dry to admit of interior ornaments; and every thing within and without being set in order, Mr. Sackville prepared himself for a journey into the south, in order to bring back his beloved Sophia.

On the day of his departure, having previously given all requisite orders to his man-servant and housekeeper, who had hitherto performed a variety of offices, but who now was to be relieved by one assistant, he turned to the little Annette, when, taking her in his arms and kissing her, he said, "And now, my beloved Annette, I am going away for a little time; but I hope to come back very soon, and bring you a mother, from whom I hope you never may be parted while you stand in need of a mother's care."

The child clasped her arms round his neck, and, pressing her damask cheek to his, exclaimed, "No, no, Sir, no, no: I do not want a mother; but I want my own dear, dear Miss Mortimer."

"Sweet child!" he replied, "I hope and trust your wish may be granted: and I will write to you the day before I come home; and you shall put on your best frock, and be ready to run to meet us, when we get out of our carriage."

Annette smiled, but wept again when Mr. Sackville tore himself from her arms.

Mr. Mortimer's family had left their houses in Bath and at the Hot-Wells, and were at a watering-place on the Devonshire coast. Mr. Sackville had therefore a long journey: but his impatience was rewarded in the end by a sight of his beloved and smiling Sophia. He found her in the midst of the gayest society, still blessed with her late simple and holy state of mind.

I shall not give an account of her marriage, which, by her own desire, was performed as quietly as possible, but shall describe to my readers what I think may perhaps be more interesting to them, namely, the arrival of this happy young couple at their own home.

It was a fine evening in the month of August, when Sophia first again discerned the high grounds and woods in the neighbourhood of Mortimer-Hall. The look which at this moment she gave to Mr. Sackville conveyed more pleasure to his pious and simple heart than is experienced by a vicious mind through the longest and most successful life. "There," said Sophia, "are the beloved woods; and you say, my dear Edward, that they are within a very pleasant distance from your house?"

"Not my house, my beloved Sophia," he said, "but yours. Henceforward, all that I have is yours."

Sophia looked down, and her long dark eye-lashes concealed the tears which suffused her gentle eyes; but there was a sweet smile on her lovely lips. "My little Anisette!" she said, "my sweet little Annette! And is she grown? Does her pretty flaxen hair curl as it used to do?"

"It was a happy day, my lovely Sophia, when we first saw Annette," replied Mr. Sackville; "and, though it should please God to bless us with many children, we shall still, I trust, consider our little Anisette as our eldest and not least beloved."

The tears gushed unrestrained from the eyes of the grateful Sophia, as she heard these words,--tears of joy and ineffable thankfulness to the almighty Bestower of all good, for his infinite mercy in granting her a partner for life, whose piety and charity were such as are but rarely to be met with even in this Christian country.

And now the carriage approached the outskirts of the park, while every moment some old well-known object presented itself to the delighted recollection of Sophia.

They now drew near to the lodge; and through the iron gates Sophia had a momentary glimpse of the bridge and gravel road leading to the Hall, terminated by the house itself, half concealed by trees, yet disclosing the windows of the oak parlour to full view. Sophia saw, too, the spot where she had beheld the little Annette for the last time, in the hand of her now happy and beloved husband.

Scarcely had they passed the lodge, when they heard the bells of several churches sounding from different quarters. The cheeks of Sophia flushed when she understood the cause of this rejoicing; and, turning to Mr. Sackville, she said, "O, what a call is this upon us so to act that these poor people may have reason to rejoice indeed that we are come among them!"

And now they had proceeded a long way in a line with the park-paling, and were come to that place at the upper side of the park where the road took a direction towards Fairfield. The carriage now began to ascend, till it reached an eminence from which was seen the little village itself, almost embosomed in trees, and standing in a fertile plain, while just beyond, upon a rising ground, appeared the church and pretty parsonage house. The bells rang loudly and merrily as they entered the village street, and many persons were collected at the doors of the houses, to welcome, by respectful bows and courtseys their beloved minister and his lovely bride.

Sophia recollected, among these, many of the poor people from the neighbourhood of the Hall, and their innocent joy affected her even to tears.

The carriage had now passed the village, and ascended towards the rectory, which, though an old-fashioned dwelling, yet, from its being stuccoed with stone colour, and adorned with a green latticed verandah in front, situated in a garden abounding with the choicest shrubs and flowers, presented a very pleasant appearance.

But the sweetest flower, in the eyes of Sophia, which there presented itself, was the little blushing and sparkling Annette, holding good Mrs. Cicely by the hand, who, as Sophia afterwards found, had taken a small dwelling in the village of Fairfield, and was living on the fruits of her long services.

Sophia and Annette could hardly wait the opening of the carriage-door, before they were in each other's arms weeping abundantly, and thus relieving themselves from that excess of joy by which they might otherwise have been overwhelmed.

The happy party were then led by Mr. Sackville into his favourite room, a large old-fashioned apartment, which served as a study and dining-room, having one window looking towards the village, and another into the blooming and fragrant garden. Here a handsome collation had been set out and decorated with many sweet herbs: and nothing would serve the young and affectionate pair but that the faithful Mrs. Cicely should sit down with them and share in the repast; while the little Annette became almost boisterous with excessive joy.

The evening was finished with a prayer of thanksgiving to the bountiful Giver of all good gifts.

And now, having described the happiness of this pious young couple,--a happiness, surely, never to be tasted by young persons who allow their minds before marriage to be carried away by any feelings unauthorized by religion, or who deliberately and perversely allow their own unsanctified desires to interfere with their duties either to God or their fellow-creatures,--I shall proceed to say, that the promise of happiness given to this young pair did not prove delusive; and time, as it passed with Mr. Sackville, only tended to prove to himself, and to all who knew him--"How much the wife was dearer than the bride."

In order to have the more means of doing good, and to preserve themselves as much as possible from anxious cares, the young people set out in a humble way of living; and though Sophia had brought her husband an ample fortune, and at different times afterwards received some very handsome presents from her father, yet she always preserved the most humble habits, and desired to be expensive only in her charities.

Annette never lost her place in the affections of her adopted parents, though they were blessed with many lovely children of their own. From the day of their marriage, they resolved to lay aside certain little savings for the use of this dear child when she should come of age: and they would rather have chosen to reduce their own modes of living, than to have departed from their original intentions respecting her.

Sophia bestowed upon this her eldest child, as she always called her, the best instructions which she was capable of giving, (and of what is not a pious and tender mother capable?) and her labours were returned in kind in a much shorter time than she had foreseen: for Annette being so much older than the eldest of her own children, she was enabled so to guide and direct them in their hours of recreation, that she proved an essential benefit to them.

Mrs. Cicely spent the remainder of her days in her small house in the village of Fairfield, having sufficient to maintain herself in great comfort without labour. But as her health had been better since she had seen her young lady happy, she, after a while, began to be weary of total want of employment, and made herself very useful in visiting the sick among the poor, besides sometimes undertaking an office of the same kind in the families of the more affluent; and thus adding a few guineas every year to her small income. Her Sunday afternoons were, however, usually spent at the rectory, on which occasions, Mr. Sackville always insisted on her taking her place at his own table.

Mr. Sackville and his beloved Sophia had, it is true, some sorrows, in common with all other mortals. Among their trials, was the loss of several infants in the cradle. But perhaps of all afflictions attendant on man's state on earth, this is the one which best admits of the consolations of religion. The loss of a beloved infant inflicts, in truth, a deep and bleeding wound; but for wounds like these there is a balm which, when duly sought and applied, presently assuages the smart, and restores the wounded heart to perfect health.

And now, before I conclude my narrative, it may perhaps be expected that I should say something of the Squire and his family; the elder part of which remained in or near some one or other of the most fashionable public places till the old gentleman wished all these public places sunk in the sea, and even Mrs. Mortimer herself became weary of her own and her eldest daughter's manœuverings.

At length, an end was put to all these schemes by the marriage of Miss Juliana to her old lord, and that of Miss Harriet to her rupees: after which, the two brides, having each quarrelled with her elder sister, to whom they were both in some degree indebted for their splendid settlements, it was agreed that the Squire, with the mother and single daughter, should return to take up their abode in Yorkshire; in pursuance of which plan, they arrived at Mortimer-Hall about twelve months after the marriage of Sophia.

In the course of time, Mrs. Mortimer became somewhat heavy and infirm, and sunk into excessive indolence. Miss Clifford took upon herself the management of the house, and spent some of her superabundant activity in hunting with the Squire, scolding the grooms, and putting all the lower offices into confusion.

Mr. Mortimer frequently visited his beloved Sophia, and took extreme delight in her children. At first, he ridiculed Mr. Sackville's religious principles, but at length he was brought to tolerate them, even so far as to put his sons under his tuition; and, in his old age, his daughter had the happiness of believing that a very decided change had taken place in his mode of thinking: while she enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing her brothers grow up as real gentlemen and sincere Christians.

We now close the history of Sophia with this request--that our young female readers will study her character, and endeavour, like her, to cast all their cares, with respect to their future establishment, on Him who knoweth what is best for them; for in this confidence in the Almighty all true wisdom consists. And let us remember, that the time is short: it remaineth, that both they that have wives be as though they had none; and they that weep, as though they wept not; and they that rejoice, as though they rejoiced not; and they that buy, as though they possessed not; and they that use this world, as not abusing it: for the fashion of this world passeth away. [I Cor. vii. 29-3I.]

As the lady of the manor finished this story, she looked at her watch, and saw, with some surprise, that she had considerably exceeded the usual time. She therefore, without commenting on the narrative, requested her young people to join her in prayer.

A PRAYER FOR A HOLY AND HEAVENLY STATE OF MIND.

"Blessed and glorious Lord God, we sinners lie at the door of thy mercy, beseeching thee to forgive all our innumerable offences, for the sake of that blessed atonement which the Lord Jesus has made by the sacrifice of himself. O Lord, what a world of corruption and vanity wilt thou find in our hearts! O take out thence every evil thought, and subdue every sinful inclination. Mortify all the vicious principles which thou seest in us. Let thy blessed Spirit renew our souls, sanctify all the powers of our nature, and make us holy as God is holy. Strengthen our pious resolutions under all the frailties of youth, and against the assaults of temptation; for though we would willingly avoid every thing that displeases thee, yet we know our own weakness, and therefore we humbly put ourselves under the constant protection of thy grace. Preserve our younger years from the pollutions of the world, and guard us throughout this dangerous stage of life. Help us to set a more careful watch over our thoughts, our lips, and our actions, that we offend not our God, and have continual cause for bitter repentance. Choose thou, O Lord, our inheritance for us, and our portion in this world, and be thou our portion and happiness in the world to come. Let not our hearts be set on worldly pleasure and riches; but fix our affections on things above, where Jesus Christ sits at thy right-hand.

"O Almighty God, we are not sufficient for these things of ourselves; for who, among the children of men, has yet been enabled to cry out, 'O God, thy will, not mine, be done?' whoever has been enabled to cast his cares at the foot of the cross, and leave them there undisturbed? or who, even among the faithful, has been enabled to place his infant Moses among the bulrushes without setting one to watch what may become of him?

"O Father, we know that perfect faith is able to triumph over every trial appointed to man on earth: but where is perfect faith? Where was it of old? and where is it now? Lord, what then remains for us to do, but to cry, 'Lord, we believe; help thou our unbelief?' We desire to possess holy hearts and pure affections; we desire to be raised above the love of earthly pleasure, and that idolatrous regard for any temporal object, by which our hearts may be drawn away from thee. Our lives have hitherto passed in restless longings after some imaginary worldly good; and in pursuit of these we have lost many opportunities of doing thy holy will and pleasure, and enjoying those innocent delights and quiet satisfactions, the means of which are profusely shed in the path of every individual of the children of Adam.

"Heavenly Father, relieve us, we beseech thee, from these wretched longings after sublunary joys, and lift our affections on high, to the object of supreme love and everlasting bliss. Teach us to seek present happiness only in the way of duty; and though we may find some dark and weary steps in this path, yet grant us grace to pursue our journey till light shall break upon our steps, and peace be shed upon our hearts.

"And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, be all glory and honour, both now and for evermore. Amen."

EIGHTH COMMANDMENT--THOU SHALT NOT STEAL.

"I am now prepared, my dear young friends," said the lady of the manor, on occasion of the next meeting at the manor-house, "with a narrative on the eighth commandment which will probably introduce you to higher life than the subject seems to promise."

The young ladies smiled, and Miss Emmeline remarked, that, a short time since, she should not have expected to be introduced into high life by a disquisition on the subject of stealing, but that she could not now feel much astonishment, even if such a subject were to bring persons of elevated rank under her notice.

The lady of the manor then ordered tea, which was no sooner dispatched, than she commenced her little narrative.

The history of Frederick Falconer

The Earl of P-- had two daughters; the eldest of whom, Lady Charlotte, was very handsome; while the younger, Lady Anne, was as remarkable for her ordinary appearance, her person being clumsy, and her face spoiled by the small-pox: in consequence of which accidental circumstances, Lady Charlotte, soon after her presentation, was married to the Earl of V--, and Lady Anne was obliged to take up with Mr. Lambert, who had not only the misfortune to be a commoner, but was also so unhappy as to owe his immense fortune to the lucky speculations of an uncle who had been in trade.

The seat of the Earl of V--, called Clifton Castle, was situated in one of the finest counties in the west of England; and Mr. Lambert's beautiful villa and flourishing estates lay so near to those of the earl, that the families attended the same parish-church, and the sisters, who were very fond of each other, were enabled to meet almost every day--the countess being reconciled to the inferiority of Lady Anne's marriage in point of rank, on consideration of Mr. Lambert's immense riches, and the magnificence of his establishment.

Mr. Lambert was, also, an inoffensive character, when considered merely in the light of a neighbour, and as far as concerned those persons to whom he thought he ought to look up. To those whom he regarded as superiors no man could be more servile and submissive: whether he was equally accommodating to his inferiors will appear in the course of this narrative. He had himself been brought up to trade, and, some persons pretended to say, behind the counter of a linen-draper. But, be this as it may, he was extremely ignorant with respect to every branch of gentlemanly knowledge, excepting, indeed, such as may be acquired in high society by the most superficial observation; and to these minutiae he paid such close and unremitting attention, that, before he had been many months in his new situation, he was a perfect oracle in all matters of ordinary etiquette. He knew the precise place which each person ought to take at a large dinner-table, who ought to walk out of a room first, who should lead the dance at the county balls, how many dishes and how many removes it was necessary to put on a table on such and such occasions; with a thousand other impertinences, on which a real gentleman would never bestow a single serious thought.

At the same time, his private studies consisted of books of heraldry, court calendars, treatises on ornamental gardening, and such parts of the daily newspapers as treated of the anecdotes of fashionable life. His highest ambition was to have a fine place, an elegant equipage, to be thought intimate with the great, and to be particularly well dressed; and he would have deemed it a more serious evil to be detected in a breach of etiquette, than to be found guilty of the most grievous offence against morality: at the same time, it must, however, be understood that he was by no means what the world calls an immoral man. He neither drank to excess, nor gambled, nor kept bad company: but this was not because he had any horror of vice, but simply because he happened not to feel any inclinations that prompted him to the commission of gross offences of this nature. He was, moreover, excessively timid, and retained his original character of a man-milliner even when at the head of an immense establishment, and connected in marriage with a lady of noble family.

It happened, however, that the wife which Mr. Lambert had chosen was a truly respectable woman. I say "happened," because Mr. Lambert had by no means selected her on account of any good qualities he had observed in her, but because she was the only single lady of title with whom he was acquainted, and it had entered into his head that Lady Anne would have a very agreeable sound in connexion with Lambert.

Lady Anne was very young when she married Mr. Lambert; she soon, however, discerned his foibles, and managed them so well, (her rank giving her an influence over him which the most charming woman, without a title, never could have acquired,) that, during her life, he acquired a respectability in society which he never totally lost, although she was spared to him only a short time.

Mr. Lambert earnestly desired a son, and it was, therefore, felt to be some disappointment that he had no prospect of a family for more than a year after their marriage. At length, however, the hope of an heir was given: but on the very day that Mr. Lambert saw the fulfilment of this hope in the birth of a son, he was deprived of his valuable wife, and the countess of a sister whom she dearly loved.

On this occasion, Lady V-- acted like a true friend. She took the infant (who was called Robert after his uncle) to Clifton Castle; and, having provided him with a nurse, kept him under her care till he was seven years of age: at which time he was restored to his father, who had procured a tutor for him, a gentleman who, as it proved, was in every respect calculated for the important office--a circumstance which, speaking after the manner of the world, I should call very lucky: for Mr. Lambert had required nothing in the preceptor of his son but good manners and a thorough knowledge of the classics, and had found in him, in addition to these qualifications, a truly pious and amiable companion.

In the mean time, Lady V-- had presented her husband with two children, a son and a daughter. The daughter, Lady Augusta, was three years younger than Robert Lambert, and, from her earliest infancy, promised to possess more than her mother's beauty.

Mr. Lambert no sooner heard of the birth of this little girl, than he fixed upon her as the future wife of Robert; and so much was his mind filled with this idea, that he failed not to impart it to his sister-in-law the countess, who admitted the proposal with a degree of alacrity which was perfectly ridiculous, when we consider that the bride-elect was still in her cradle.

Lord Clifton, the son of the Earl of V--, was not born till two years after his sister: and, as he advanced in years, nothing remarkable appeared in his character, neither was there any thing particularly attractive in his exterior, but an elegance of manner and general politeness in his carriage, which marked the young nobleman.

Thus, in as concise a manner as possible, have I stated the situations and circumstances of the several persons who are to act some of the most conspicuous parts in the following history; and I shall now at once proceed to that part of the narrative in which my history may properly be said to commence, which was at the time when Robert Lambert was brought from Clifton Castle, and placed under the care of his appointed tutor, Mr. Day.

As many of the events which I am about to relate seemed, humanly speaking, to depend upon the character of Robert, I think it right to give my reader a very particular description of his character, and also of the general appearance of the boy; appearances being circumstances of no small moment in the circle in which he was destined to move.

Robert Lambert was one of those coarse, dark complexioned boys who sometimes turn out much better looking than could possibly have been expected of them when mere children. His features were strongly marked, his eyes large, and his lips prominent. His person was strong made and thick set, his temper hasty, and his manners were incurably rough; though he wanted neither understanding nor feeling, and was sensible of kind treatment, but, at the same time, violently rebellious and untractable when harshly used. He shewed, at an early age, a decided aversion to every kind of dissimulation, and prided himself upon a degree of openness which amounted even to rudeness.

While residing at Clifton Castle, he had accidentally overheard some remarks made upon his father's character, and certain ridiculous allusions to his formality, preciseness, and awkward imitations of the great man. These observations were, undoubtedly, never meant to reach Robert's ears: but they had reached them, and had thus awakened sensations which could never be destroyed, and which co-operating with the natural bent of his own mind, tended to produce a character as directly contrary to that of his father as two characters could possibly be.

When Robert was placed under the care of Mr. Day, that excellent man soon made himself acquainted with his pupil's dispositions; and, observing the errors into which he had been allowed to fall, he set himself to counteract them by instilling into his mind, as soon as possible, those pure Christian principles by the exercise and application of which the valleys are exalted, the mountains brought low, and the rough places made plain: and, through the divine blessing on his labours, there is no doubt that Mr. Day would, in time, have succeeded in rendering his pupil all that he could have wished, had there not been a counteracting influence continually at work to undo all that the good tutor was endeavouring to effect.

Mr. Day possessed sufficient authority to keep Master Robert out of the way of the flatteries of the servants and dependents of the family; but he could not protect him from the misplaced and ill-timed interferences of his father, who considered himself dreadfully scandalized by the roughnesses of his son's deportment, and was, therefore, most eagerly desirous to see the little boy as delicate in his appearance, and as graceful in his manners, as some of the puny sprigs of nobility with whom he had become acquainted at Clifton Castle.

It was in vain that Mr. Day continually reasoned with Mr. Lambert on this subject, and advised him to wait until the operation of a good and gentlemanly education should have produced its usual fruits of gentility and politeness in his son. On this point Mr. Lambert would hear no reason. He insisted upon it, that Robert should be polished first, and educated afterwards; and, in favour of his own views, he pleaded the example of several children whom he had seen at Lord --'s, whose elegance of manner had been evident from the cradle.

To these remarks, Mr. Day would reply, that, in the present imperfect state of human nature, all natural perfections were never found in the same person, some children being endowed with one pleasing quality, and others with another; some being born with a certain elegance of carriage which others can acquire but with difficulty, and that only in an imperfect degree, even by a long course of tuition. "Your son Robert, Mr. Lambert, happens not to have this natural elegance," added Mr. Day: "but there is, however that in him which, with the divine blessing, will make a valuable man and a gentleman; yet, by endeavouring to force him out of his natural line, we shall only render his manners constrained and awkward. Let him see nothing but what is in good taste, let him be required to render civility to every one about him, and to give a proper attention to the cultivation of his mind; and there is no fear but that, in time, his outward deportment will become gentlemanly and graceful."

Mr. Day's arguments were good; but they were quite above the comprehension of Mr. Lambert, who could by no means think of waiting to let Robert grow up, before he should become such a gentleman as he wished him to be. He therefore, as I have said, continually marred the simple and pious plans of the tutor, and kept up a perpetual irritation in the mind of his boy, by constant, ill-timed, and injudicious interferences.

Instead of leaving little Robert in peace to study in Mr. Day's apartment, to walk out with this same beloved tutor when the tasks were concluded, to dig with dirty hands in some obscure corner of the shrubbery, and to amass snail-shells, painting-stones, and string, in his own way; he was continually forcing him into view, and then reproaching him, if, when thus dragged forth, he did not appear with all the ease, freedom, and propriety, of easy confidence of a first rate jockey. "There is Lady V--'s carriage," Mr. Lambert would say: "fly, Robert; hand her ladyship through the hall. But, stop: are your hands clean? Mr. Day, look at the boy's hand. Where is Cox? Where is your valet, Robert? Why did he suffer you to come to breakfast with such hands? O, you have been grubbing for snail-shells! No excuse at all: pity you were not born among the beggars. You never will be a gentleman; you were never intended for a gentleman. You are using your fork, Master Lambert, instead of your spoon. Cox, a spoon for Master Robert: not a large spoon; a dessert-spoon. What! did you never sit down to dinner with gentlemen before?" And then would commonly follow pathetic calls on the butler, the gentleman out of livery, and every footman, in his turn. "Is there no one here who can give Master Lambert a spoon?--Llewellyn, Burton, John, Thomas,--is it impossible to make interest for a spoon? Not a tablespoon, I beseech you. Does no one here know a dessert-spoon from a table-spoon? Mr. Day, my dear Mr. Day, I beseech you, do see that the boy does not contract such horrid habits."

In this manner Robert was tutored from day to day, from hour to hour. It is no wonder, then, if the boy's prejudices against his father's peculiarities grew stronger every moment, and if, notwithstanding the counteracting influence of Mr. Day, he still retained his natural roughness and untractability of character.

While things were proceeding thus, an only sister of Mr. Lambert's, the widow of a clergyman, died; leaving a son, about one year younger than Robert, of which son she appointed her brother the guardian, bequeathing the whole of her property, which was something more than three thousand pounds, to his care, for the use of her child.

Mr. Lambert had been fond of his sister, though he had not seen her for many years. As soon, therefore, as he heard of her death, he sent for the child, purposing to educate him with his own son, and to allow his fortune to accumulate for his use against he came of age. He accordingly sent one of his servants for Frederick Falconer; and, as Mr. Day gladly undertook his tuition without an increase of salary, every thing was speedily arranged for the reception of the orphan, while Robert looked forward with pleasure to the prospect of having a little companion of his own sex.

Lady V-- was in Mr. Lambert's drawing-room, conversing with her brother-in-law on their favourite scheme, which was the marriage of Augusta and Robert, and Mr. Lambert was expressing a hope that Augusta would be enabled to give the polish he so ardently wished to see in her intended husband, the want, however, of which Lady V-- did not greatly regard, as she felt much rather desirous that her future son-in-law should continue what he was, than be in the least like his father; when the carriage which brought little Falconer drove up to the door.

Robert and Augusta were, at the same time, playing in the hall, from whence they ran with glee into the drawing-room to announce the little stranger.

"Bring him in, bring him in," said Lady V--, with vivacity: "let us see what kind of creature he is."

"He is very pretty, mamma," said Augusta, whispering in her mother's ear: "I have seen him."

The servant now appeared, bringing in Frederick, who was dressed in a new suit of deep mourning, with his shirt-frill as white as snow, plaited neatly, and giving an elegant finish to his dress. At the door he bowed, and stood still till desired to approach.

This little boy had been brought up under the eye of a widowed and intelligent mother, and possessed also in an uncommon degree all those exterior perfections, the want of which had so embittered the life of Robert Lambert. He was tall for his age, elegantly formed, and, instead of having hair which, like poor Robert's, either stood directly upright, like bristles on the back of a certain inelegant quadruped not to be mentioned in genteel company, or hung over his forehead in inglorious confusion, was arranged by nature in the most picturesque curls, parted on the brow, and shading the sides of his blooming cheeks. These ringlets were of the darkest and richest auburn, his eyes were deep blue, his eye-lashes long, his features regularly beautiful, and his complexion was fair, though glowing. In short, it was impossible to behold a more graceful or lovely boy than little Frederick Falconer; and when he was introduced to his uncle, there was a mixture of affection and timidity in his manner which was peculiarly captivating, and remarkably adapted to his friendless situation.

"Is he not pretty?" said Augusta, whispering to her mamma. "What is his name?"

"Frederick Falconer," replied. Lady V--.

"And may I play with him?" asked the little lady, looking upon him as a new and delightful toy.

"He is tired now," said Lady V--.

"Are you tired, little Master Frederick?" said Augusta, stroking his face with her dimpled hand. "Will you play with me when you have rested?"

The little boy smiled, but did not speak.

"And may he come to Clifton?" said Augusta.

"In a few days," replied Lady V--.

"Will you come, Master Frederick, in a few days?" said Augusta, repeating her mother's words, while she held out her hand to him.

The little boy took the offered hand, but at the same moment burst into tears.

"Why do you cry, little Master Frederick?" said Augusta: and she looked at Lady V--, as if for an explanation.

"Why do you shed tears, my little dear?" asked Lady V--.

"Because she looks so like my little Emily; and Emily is dead."

"Emily!" repeated Augusta; "what Emily?"

"My little sister Emily," said the orphan boy, sobbing; "and Emily is dead."

Augusta could bear no more: her tender bosom swelled, and a gentle colour suffused her whole face; for her feelings had not yet been rendered callous by the cold, prudential system of a worldly education. Her lovely eyes at the same time became filled with tears, and she hid her face in her mother's bosom.

In the mean time, Robert stood looking on, being touched with the tears of his young companions, and having no apprehension of the consequences which might ensue from the arrival of his handsome little cousin.

Little Frederick was, soon afterwards, sent into Mr. Day's apartment to partake of some refreshments, and thither the other two children followed him.

"What a charming boy that is!" said Lady V--, as soon as the children were out of hearing; and she ran on for some time in the warmest praises of his beautiful eyes, elegant shape, and gentlemanly air.

In reply to this, Mr. Lambert expressed his regrets that Robert did not resemble him, and concluded by bitter complaints of the awkwardness and ungracefulness of his son and heir.

Lady V-- answered, as she really felt, that she thought Robert a fine boy, though, certainly, not so handsome as Frederick. "But what is beauty in a man," she added, "provided he has the manners and sentiments of a gentleman?"

I wish my reader to observe, in this place, that little or nothing has hitherto been said on the necessity of religion to complete the character of a gentleman, or, rather, to form the basis of it. But Lady V-- and Mr. Lambert knew little more of religion than its name; it therefore cannot be supposed that they would enter upon the subject in familiar conversation. Lady V-- took her leave that evening; and the next morning. Mr. Lambert, his son, and Mr. Day, being at breakfast together, the following conversation took place--little Frederick Falconer having not yet arisen.

"Mr. Day," said Mr. Lambert, "what do you think of Frederick? He is precisely the style of boy I admire. My sister was happy in having such a son."

Robert was deeply engaged in forming the semblance of the arch of a bridge with a crust of bread when this conversation commenced, and, therefore, did not at first hear a word of what was passing.

Mr. Day answered, that he had seen so little of the child, that he could form no notion as yet of his character.

"But his person, Mr. Day, his person," said Mr. Lambert, (who judged of human beings as he would have done of a piece of silk--by its effect on the eye,) "you must have observed that his person is uncommonly fine?"

At this moment Robert looked up, as if attending to what his father was saying.

"What is person in a child, Sir?" said Mr. Day. "It is a mere accidental circumstance, which is of no consequence either one way or the other."

"I by no means agree with you, Mr. Day," replied Mr. Lambert: "a good person is a letter of recommendation to a man or woman in any company. I wish, Robert, I wish," he added, "you were more like your cousin."

"I am as I was made," said Robert, sullenly, now first feeling the symptoms of dislike to his young relation.

"Not entirely so, Robert," returned Mr. Lambert: "you have, by your neglect of good manners, made yourself much inferior to what you were by nature. If you would but hold yourself up, be attentive to strangers, and learn to make a graceful bow when you enter a room, there would not be quite so shocking a contrast between you and your cousin."

Robert reddened. He seemed inclined to speak; but, observing the eye of his tutor upon him, and understanding its expression, he was silent: yet, endeavouring to do something to hide his embarrassment, he took up his dish of scalding tea, and, having filled his mouth as full as it could hold, he was compelled to get rid of the hot liquor, which he could not swallow, by returning it back into his cup, to the great horror of his father, who, rising up and ringing furiously, exclaimed, "Robert! Robert! you are an incorrigibly low-bred boy! At the moment even when I am speaking to you on the very subject, you are guilty of the most abominable breach of politeness."

"I could not help it, papa, indeed, papa," said the little boy, who was now really frightened; "the tea was so hot."

"And who," said Mr. Lambert, "compelled you to take the scalding tea into your mouth!"

"I did not think that it was hot," replied Robert.

"The grossest boor on earth, who offends against the most common laws of good-breeding, may plead excuses of this kind," said Mr. Lambert. Then addressing, by turns, Mr. Day and the footman, who had come in, in answer to the bell--"I hope, Mr. Day, you will take cognizance of this behaviour of Robert's. I really cannot have the boy at my table, if he acts in a manner so offensive to all the general rules of propriety. Here Llewellyn, put a clean napkin before Mr. Lambert, and bring a clean cup and saucer, and another plate, and remove that bread-and-butter, and those rolls."

"I don't want another cup and saucer," said Robert, striving to restrain his tears; "I have done breakfast."

"Come, do not be sullen, Master Lambert," returned his father; "you have had nothing yet. But I really believe, Mr. Day, that he would prefer living on bread and cheese, and dining under the hedge with my day-labourers, than be obliged to take his meals in a proper manner at my table."

"Indeed, papa," said Robert, (and he was going to add, "Indeed I should;") but a look from his tutor again restrained him, and he left his sentence unfinished.

"Indeed what?" said Mr. Lambert, who, when he was got into the teasing mood not uncommon to little minds, never left the work half done; "indeed what, Robert? What were you going to say?"

Robert was silent; for it was no part of his character to say any thing he did not think, though his tutor had influence enough to prevent him from always saying what he did think.

"So you will not speak?" said Mr. Lambert.

"Sir," said Mr. Day, "will you permit me to take Master Robert aside? And I shall, I hope, be able to make him sensible of the duty of accommodating himself in every point to his father's will." So saying, he arose, and took the boy out of the room.

As soon as Robert got into his own side of the house, he gave way to a violent burst of indignation, beginning with the following exclamations: "I hate Frederick Falconer; and I hate good manners; I never will be a gentleman; and, when I grow I will not live in this house; and I had rather starve than be so tormented; and I wish I was not Robert Lambert." So saying, he burst into tears, and threw himself upon a couch in an agony of passion.

Mr. Day felt really hurt for his pupil. He went close up to him, and, sitting down on the couch by his side, extended his arms to receive him. The boy sprang towards him, and, putting his face in his bosom, wept for some time, but it was more gently.

"Robert, my boy, you know I love you," said Mr. Day: "try to be calm, for my sake."

"I will, dear Mr. Day, I will," said Robert. "But do you mean to punish me for not swallowing the scalding tea?"

"No," said Mr. Day, "because I think you have suffered enough already. And now compose yourself, and put on your hat: we will take a long walk. I have some business to transact at a cottage beyond the park; and, as we walk, we will talk about some of these things, and I will point out some little matters which you ought to attend to, in order to please your papa. Little boys should always try to gratify their parents: it is a Christian duty. You know how often I have shewn to you, that our Saviour, when on earth, submitted to his mother, though, as he was God in human flesh, and she only a sinful human being, he must have seen many inconsistencies in her conduct."

"But you will not take Frederick with you?" said Robert.

"No, not to-day, Robert," replied Mr. Day, "because he is tired with his journey."

Thus Mr. Day succeeded in soothing his pupil on this occasion: but, as his father persevered in his injudicious and irritating ways, Mr. Day found it every day more and more difficult to control the feelings of the boy. As Robert grew older, he not unfrequently allowed his father to see that he resented his teasing conduct. He shewed also a kind of petty revenge and obstinacy by disregarding his injunctions in little matters. He allowed his independent and haughty sentiments to discover themselves on many occasions, and more than once told his father plainly, that he would rather renounce all that he could give him, than be continually subject to a tyranny which made him completely miserable.

In the mean time, the little stranger, whose beautiful appearance we have described, made his way among these various tempers in a manner which might surprise those who are not aware how safely and sweetly an unenvious and unsuspicious Christian temper will carry an individual through the storms and trials of life. Frederick Falconer had strong sense, and a quick perception; but he possessed, also, a spirit which either did not see, or scorned to enter into, the low cabals of meaner souls. He had been piously educated by the tenderest of mothers; and, when he could no longer enjoy the fostering care of that dear parent, he transferred all his regard and confidence to the equally worthy Mr. Day, who won his heart on the first day of his arrival, by coming to him when he was in bed, and kissing away the tears by which his little cheek was moistened, and by telling him how happy he would be under his kind uncle's care and with his dear cousin Robert.

If, after that time, Robert sometimes seemed to be cross and unkind to his cousin, little Falconer had a summary way of settling the matter in his own mind. "Robert," he would say, "is cross to-day: every body is cross sometimes. I will let him alone till he is in a better humour." He never entered into the causes of this ill-humour, the ideas of envy and jealousy appearing to be utter strangers to his mind. The writer of these memoirs has once met with a character similar, in this respect, to Frederick, and can only attribute this peculiarity to a natural nobleness of spirit, aided by simple Christian principles, and the strong yet secret influences of the Holy Spirit, which shewed themselves in this remarkable manner. But to return to our narrative.

Thus, though Frederick Falconer was surrounded by a variety of discordant characters, and was himself the object of envy and other evil passions, he rose triumphantly above them all, and retained, in a greater degree than could by many persons be deemed possible, the respect and love of all about him. The blessed and unsuspicious spirit of this amiable boy might perhaps, however, have been perverted, had it not been for the care of Mr. Day, who unceasingly laboured to preserve his mind in a state of composure, and to continue that happy ignorance of the evil passions of those about him in which he had hitherto remained. If Mr. Lambert flattered him, at table, for being superior to Robert in those respects which the old gentleman deemed of most importance, Mr. Day would make light of the circumstance in some subsequent conversation with the little boy, pointing out other things in which he was excelled by Robert, and thus, as it were, balancing the account in such a way, that the two children appeared to be equally worthy of praise or blame.

If, however, when all things were considered, Robert at any time happened to be out of humour, Mr. Day would take occasion to remark on his many good qualities, and to assure Frederick that his cousin loved him sincerely, though he might sometimes give way to feelings of ill-humour towards him. And this was, indeed, no more than the truth; for, had Robert been left to himself, he would, no doubt, have formed a sincere and ardent affection for his amiable little cousin.

When Robert was about eleven years of age, the following occurrence excited a very strong and painful feeling in his mind, which feeling there is reason to think was not overcome for many years afterwards.

He and Frederick were invited to spend some days together at Clifton Castle, where, it being summer time, the children were allowed to play in the pleasure-ground, from which they frequently made their escape into a little coppice, which shaded a dingle by the side of the park. In this dingle was a hut or root-house, in a retired situation, and also a small edifice built in imitation of a Grecian temple, which standing on the brow of the hill, commanded the whole range of the dingle, with its water-courses and cascades.

One day, when these little boys were playing in a Gothic window in the drawing-room, and Lady Augusta with them, they proposed that she should go the next day into the dingle, and choose each of them a house or habitation; "And we will adorn our house with flowers, and prepare a feast in it, and Augusta shall come and see us."

"No," said Augusta, "I will not come and see you, but I will live with one of you: you shall be the lord, and I will be the lady."

"But you cannot live with both of us," said Frederick.

"No," returned Augusta, "I will choose one of you, and live with that one; and then we will visit the other."

"But which will you choose?" said Robert. "Will you choose me?"

"No," said Frederick, "you must choose me."

"I'll tell you what I will do," replied Augusta; " I will choose the one who makes his house look the prettiest, and who has the nicest feast."

"O, very well," said Robert: "then we will get up in the morning very early, and we will see who can make the prettiest house."

Accordingly, the little boys very early the next morning set off into the dingle; and Robert, having chosen the temple, and Frederick the root-house, they set to work to adorn their habitations in the best manner they could.

Frederick stuck bunches of flowers in the thatch of his house, and set forth his fruit, which he begged from the gardener, in little baskets made of rushes; but Robert adorned the pillars of his temple with wreaths of roses and honeysuckle, and set forth his feast on dishes made of vine leaves, garnished with roses.

When all was done, the little boys compared each other's houses, and even Frederick confessed that Robert's house was much superior to his own. Augusta was then called, and conducted first to the temple, and next to the grotto; and, after having hesitated a while, looking at the same time very much vexed, she gave her vote in favour of Frederick's house, saying to Robert, as a kind of apology for her injustice, that she loved low places better than high ones.

The boys were both surprised, not expecting this turn of affairs; and Robert, calling young Clifton, who had followed them to the dingle, gave up his house on the hill to him, and walked back towards the Castle in high displeasure.

Augusta and Frederick looked after him for some minutes. At length, Frederick said, "Call him back, Augusta, pray do: don't make him unhappy. I know his is the prettiest house."

"No, I will not," said the little girl. "If he chooses to be angry, I can't help it: but I won't live with him."

"And why?" said Frederick.

"Because I don't like him," replied the young lady.

"But you ought to love every body," said Frederick.

"What, when I can't?" said Augusta.

"But you promised to live with the person who had the prettiest house, and indeed Robert's is the prettiest."

"Well, I don't care," returned Augusta, "I won't live with him: but I will run after him, and call him back to play."

She did so but he refused to come back, and retained his ill-humour for some days, manifesting it by great coldness towards his little playfellows.

While the impression produced by this circumstance yet remained on the mind of Robert, the little boys returned to Mr. Lambert's villa, where Frederick was suddenly attacked with a violent cold and cough, and an inflammation on the chest, which in a short time reduced him to such a state of weakness, that his uncle and Mr. Day expected nothing less than his speedy death. During this illness, the little patient discovered so much gentleness, and such an entire acquiescence in the will of his heavenly Father, with such perfect confidence in the love of his Redeemer, that he rendered himself more and more dear to his excellent tutor; and his uncle, who considered him as an ornament to his family, and who really loved him for his gentle and amiable deportment, was very uneasy, and laid aside in some degree his usual formal observances when standing by the bed of the drooping boy.

On this occasion, Robert, however, shewed a degree of inveteracy against Frederick, which grieved and distressed his tutor, particularly as the little boy could so well account for this dislike to his inoffensive cousin: for nothing, perhaps, is more irritating to the human mind, than constantly to be called into competition and brought under comparison with any individual, and to find oneself continually losing by being thus compared. It seems that, notwithstanding the gentleness of Frederick, and the counteracting influence of Mr. Day, poor Robert had suffered more severely from this cause than his tutor had supposed; insomuch, that he one day said to his valet, "How is Frederick to-day? I really wish he may not recover. But do not tell my tutor what I say."

Mr. Day, however, was informed of this speech of Robert's, and took occasion to speak very seriously to him on the subject. But first he went with him into Frederick's chamber, and made him look at his little cousin, extended on his bed, pale and emaciated, and his lovely face resting on his pillow. He made him touch his burning hand, and observe the labour with which he drew his breath. Then leading him out of the room, he pointed out to him the sinfulness and selfishness of his conduct, in wishing that his poor little companion might actually expire under his present sufferings, in order that he himself might be relieved from an object of envy and jealousy. The good man then took occasion, to point out the natural depravity, and even murderous dispositions, of the human heart, and the need we have of an entire change of nature, in order to render us fit for the society of angels.

Robert wept when his offences against his cousin were thus solemnly laid before him, and apologized for his bad conduct, by saying how perpetually irritated and hurt he felt by the continued comparisons which were made between him and Frederick. "I am sure," added he, "that my father loves him more than he does me; and Augusta, too, she does the same."

Here poor Robert burst afresh into a flood of tears; and Mr. Day, seeing him much softened, said, "My dear boy, even supposing what you say of your father and Lady Augusta to be true, why is Frederick to be blamed? Have you ever seen any thing in him but the utmost kindness, gentleness, and affection? Is he to be condemned for what others think of him and feel for him? Ought you to hate him, Robert, because he is amiable?"

"Oh! Mr. Day! Mr. Day!" replied Robert, in an agony of grief, "I am very wicked; I know I am. May God change my heart!"

"Go, my boy, then," said Mr. Day, "go, and pray for a new heart. Call on Him who is never deaf to those who apply to him in sincerity."

Poor Robert withdrew to his room, and prayed earnestly: after which, he came to his tutor with an altered countenance, and begged to be permitted to wait on his sick cousin; which office he performed for many days with a tenderness which did him honour, and which proved to Mr. Day that his feelings towards his little companion were, for the time being, entirely changed: and, notwithstanding the presents of fruit which came every day from Lady Augusta, who was inconsolable while her little companion was thought to be in danger, no new feelings of jealousy seemed again to arise in the breast of Robert.

Many weeks had elapsed before Frederick Falconer recovered his health and strength: but Mr. Day was extremely glad to see, that, during the time of his recovery, Robert remained perfectly calm, and, indeed, was beginning to lose some of his awkward ways: for, as the little boys were, during this time, much in their own rooms, and took their meals apart, young Lambert was spared the frequent comments of his parent on his want of elegance, which never failed to create either awkwardness and embarrassment in the little boy, or a fit of obstinacy equally unfavourable to his appearance as a finished gentleman. Nevertheless, when health was again restored to his family, Mr. Lambert recommenced that kind of injudicious conduct by which he had formerly excited the irritation of his son. "Frederick looks better than ever since his illness," said Mr. Lambert, one day, to the viscountess. "What would I give, if this dull boy of mine had half young Falconer's gentility of carriage!"

"Why then do you not try what a dancing-master would do for your son?" replied Lady V--.

"A very good thought, Lady V--" said Mr. Lambert: "and I hope, Robert," added he, turning to the boy, "that you will be attentive to the instructions of your dancing-master; for I shall procure one for you immediately; though I certainly entertain some fears that you will prove to be little better than a dancing-bear."

Robert looked sullen, and all his old feelings seemed again to revive. The viscountess observed his change of countenance; and, therefore, in order to restore his good-humour, she promised him a ball at Clifton Castle as soon as he was able to lead down a country-dance. Robert had heard balls spoken of by his father as very delightful amusements; so that he, consequently, hastened to his tutor to tell him what had passed.

Mr. Day could have wished that pleasures of this kind might not be held forth to his pupils; but this excellent man filled a situation in which, not having the power of acting as he would with regard to them, he was compelled, in order to their good, to do the best which circumstances would admit. He therefore made light of the ball, saying, that he considered it an amusement which he thought Robert would not much like; at the same time, he pointed out to the boy that it would be his duty to submit to learn to dance, if his father required it, and to pay attention to his lessons.

The dancing-master was sent for, notwithstanding some private expostulations of Mr. Day: and, as Mr. Lambert insisted upon being present at Robert's lessons, they afforded one continued subject of dispute between the father and son; Robert becoming sullen, and Mr. Lambert constantly carrying on the comparison of the bear, by which he every day assimilated the manners of his son more and more nearly to those of the ungraceful animal in question.

It appeared likely to be long before Robert would be able to claim Lady V--'s promise of the ball; and, indeed, he had taken such a dislike to dancing, and to whatever had any connexion with it, that when Lady V-- declared her intention of giving a ball on the arrival of Master Lambert's birth-day, which happened in the Christmas holidays, when he would enter upon his thirteenth year, he received the information with dismay, and even ventured to ask his father to excuse his presence on the occasion.

Mr. Lambert elevated his eyebrows, and shrugged his shoulders, with an air of the most lively astonishment, when he heard this request of his son. He expressed amazement at his peculiar taste, his extraordinary whims, and his singular fancies. "Robert Lambert," he said, "you will never be like other people: I have always predicted it, and I am now convinced that my predictions will be true. However, Robert, I shall not indulge you in this whim: you will, if you please, go to the ball, and I hope you will there behave like a gentleman."

Robert was extremely sulky from that day till the one fixed for the proposed amusement, and seemed determined to fulfil his father's predictions. He quarrelled with Frederick, was inattentive to his tutor, and absolutely impertinent to his father.

When Mr. Day expostulated with him on the roughness of his manners, he replied, "My father says I am a bear, and an oddity, and unlike a gentleman. How then am I to behave like any other person?"

The great day of the ball at length arrived, and Robert and Frederick were dressed with the utmost care, and required to accompany Mr. Lambert to Clifton Castle.

On this occasion, however, poor Robert disgraced himself dreadfully in the eyes of his father. He could not be persuaded to walk across the room, and make a low bow, and ask Lady Augusta, in form, to dance; though, had he been left to himself, he would have done it in his own way, and in a manner much more befitting a boy of twelve years of age. In consequence of this, his father became very angry; and such a violent fit of sullenness took possession of Master Lambert, that he could not recover himself all the evening, and therefore acted his part of the bear to a degree of perfection which almost did credit to his father's discernment in suggesting the simile.

In the mean time, little Frederick, who had none of poor Robert's difficulties to encounter, and who was not allowed to dance on account of his health, made his way with an ease and simplicity which pleased every one; and Lady Augusta said more than once to him, during the evening, "I wish you might but dance, Frederick; I should so like you for my partner."

The evening concluded without Robert's having made any considerable departure from the character he had adopted, and consequently, long and severe were the reproofs which he had to experience on his return home.

I am sorry to add, that on this occasion his tutor could not restrain him from breaking out into various impertinences against his father, whereby he irritated his parent so much against him, that Mr. Day the less regretted a change of plans respecting the boys, which was suggested about that time by the countess, who had sense enough to see that Mr. Lambert would ruin his son if he were left continually under his control.

The parish in which Clifton Castle and Lambert-Hall were situated was very extensive, the living was remarkably good, and the parsonage-house, though old, was large and beautifully situated. This benefice was in the gift of Lord V--, and it had for some time been arranged between the two families, that it should be given to Frederick Falconer when it fell vacant. Whether Mr. Lambert was to make any pecuniary acknowledgment to the earl on the occasion does not appear: but it was not expected that the incumbent, who was not a very old man, would die before Frederick Falconer should be of an age to be inducted. The living, however, became vacant about this time; and it was suggested that Mr. Day should be requested to hold it for his pupil, and, at the same time, that Robert should be placed in a public school; while Frederick, on account of his health, was to remain with Mr. Day, who proposed to remove to the vicarage.

Mr. Day was sorry to part with Robert, whom he really loved, and pitied with equal sincerity. He, however, felt convinced, that almost any change from the present state of things would be for the best, and he therefore quietly acquiesced in the whole of the plan.

Robert evinced much of the natural warmth of his feelings when he took leave of his tutor, and he seemed for the moment even to have forgotten all that he had ever found unkind towards him in the conduct of his father. He also embraced his cousin with restrained tears, and sent a present of dried flowers and a pair of living doves, with his best love, to Lady Augusta.

And thus I conclude the early stage of the histories of Robert Lambert and Frederick Falconer, and shall proceed immediately to certain circumstances of their more advanced lives, in which my readers may perhaps take a livelier interest.

We will now fancy several years to have passed away, during which Frederick lived quietly with Mr. Day at his parsonage, and Robert made his way in a public school. Lady Augusta and her brother, at Clifton Castle, were continually acquiring new accomplishments, and advancing more and more towards the characters of a fine lady, and a fashionable gentleman. In the mean time, as if by tacit agreement of all parties, the young people saw less of each other than they had formerly done.

During this period the earl's family was much in London. Frederick visited his uncle daily, and, without entertaining any further view than what was merely suggested by filial piety and gratitude, he daily won more and more upon his affection. Mr. Day about this time employed some of his leisure hours in beautifying the house and gardens of the parsonage considering them as the future possessions of his beloved pupil. In this work he did not, however, spend much money, although he exercised much taste; for he was a man of a humble Christian spirit, and earnestly endeavoured, with the divine blessing, to inspire his pupil with the same.

It was his constant maxim, that a humble and thankful disposition--a disposition free from ambition--should habitually be cultivated by a Christian pastor; and he often took delight in drawing the character of a minister in such true and lively colours as he trusted might impress themselves on the heart of Frederick. "The very word minister, my Frederick," would this excellent man say, "denotes the nature of the office of the Christian pastor. A minister is one who serves, waits, and attends on another; as we find from the twenty-fourth chapter of Exodus, the thirteenth verse, wherein Joshua is described as the servant, or minister, of Moses. A minister of Christ is one who is appointed to fulfil the service of God in his Church, to dispense and administer faithfully and wisely the word, the sacraments, and other holy things. We have, in the first epistle to the Corinthians, the fourth chapter, and twelfth verse, a short and simple exhibition of the ministerial character--And labour, working with our own hands: being reviled, we bless; being persecuted, we suffer it. Furthermore, Christ our blessed Saviour, when he undertook the accomplishment of man's salvation did not scorn the character of the minister and servant of his people; and hence the same mind should be in you, my son, who are to be a minister of God, which was also in Christ Jesus: Who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God; but made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. [Phil. ii. 6-8]

"Contemplating, therefore, the character and office of a minister, and the example of Christ, can we suppose it possible that the pastor of a Christian flock can be too humble, too much separated from the world, and too devoted to his people? He ought to consider, that his reward is not to be expected upon earth, and that his crown is a celestial one. He should view earthly honour, distinctions, and pleasures, as things in which he can consistently take no part. He should delight himself in simple and humble habits. He should make the welfare of his flock the object of his most ardent pursuit; and he should be at every instant ready to deprive himself of his earthly goods, in order to administer to the temporal wants of his people."

In this manner Mr. Day continually conversed with his pupil, and habitually set before him the glory of the spiritual world, and a union with his Saviour, as the grand end and object of his pursuits. The literary instructions which he imparted to him were also equally pure with those of a doctrinal and practical nature. He gave him a deep insight into biblical knowledge, causing him to study the sacred writings in their original languages. He introduced him to an enlarged view of history and prophecy; and, without presuming to speculate on the modes and manners of future events, he continually laid before him the promises of Scripture respecting the glorious kingdom of Christ upon earth, which is to be established in the latter times.

Such were the instructions communicated by Mr. Day to the youthful Frederick, while the recreations with which he supplied him were of a nature fully compatible with these instructions. He daily associated him with himself in his pastoral visits to his people; he allowed him to be the bearer of his alms and donations; he permitted him to assist in instructing the poor children; he engaged him in the pleasant work of embellishing his garden, in building root-houses, and in rearing trees and flowers, in collecting specimens of wild plants, and cutting paths in the deep recesses of the woods which adjoined the parsonage-garden and belonged to the glebe. He encouraged in the youth a talent for drawing; and, as he had also a taste for music, he procured him an organ, and delighted to witness his efforts to render the praises of God acceptable and pleasing during the period of family devotion.

And here let me pause for a moment, to make an observation on the propriety of Mr. Day's general procedure with his interesting charge; for it is highly important that, when the Christian preceptor interdict to his juvenile pupil those worldly pleasures in which youth naturally delights, he should carefully direct his attention to other objects, of an exciting and pleasurable nature, by which he may be fully occupied and innocently delighted; since there is in youth a fund of vivacity, a natural restlessness, which, if not properly directed and suitably employed in promoting some salutary purpose, will assuredly discover itself, it may be to the temporal, and even to the spiritual, disadvantage of the person in question.

While Frederick was thus enjoying the instructions of his tutor, he mixed little with any worldly society, excepting on the occasions of his visits to Lambert-Hall. But his uncle--I may say providentially--was not the kind of man whose sentiments were likely to become agreeable to young people: therefore, though all Mr. Lambert's principles were worldly, and, in consequence, low and grovelling, he never succeeded in making his nephew adopt one of them.

It was necessary, also, that Mr. Lambert should have an object upon which he might indulge and spend his natural petulance. This object he had for many years found in the character and person of Robert. But Robert was now absent; and, as no other immediately presented itself, he now began to divert the channel of his petty malice towards his favourite Frederick.

It was impossible, with any show of truth, to call this elegant and handsome boy a bear, or to compare him to a bull-dog, or to address him as an awkward fellow and a blunderer: but Frederick's fair complexion, brilliant eyes, and prompt politeness, would admit of comparisons of another nature, and of a kind no less disagreeable to a boy. "What a pity, Frederick," Mr. Lambert would say, "that such a complexion as yours should be exposed to the sun! Do, my good boy, carry a parasol when you go out of doors, or, at least, wear a large hat lined with green." And, again, the old gentleman would add, "Master Frederick's carriage would do him honour at court. Mr. Day, we must make him a page to her majesty. How well he would look in an embroidered suit, with a plume in his cap! There now, Falconer, there is Lady Betty's carriage at the door. Run, my page, and hand the lady out: bestow upon her one of your elegant bows. Well--vastly well--politeness itself! I dare say Lady Betty was amazed. Don't eat so much beef, Frederick: do restrain that enormous appetite. You will never do to perform the lady's maid, when Mr. Day and I act a play for the amusement of the county, unless you take care of your shape."

In this manner, and to this purpose, the old gentleman went on, till jokes of this kind became quite stale, and even Frederick could hardly bear them with good-humour: but when his good-humour began to fail, the recollection of the humble, pious, and grateful principles so carefully instilled by Mr. Day would come to his aid; and, therefore, when addressed by the appellation of Miss Molly, and told to keep his hands smooth and delicate, he would often turn the matter off with a laugh, tell his uncle he would not fail to obey his injunctions, and request a present of cold cream and violet soap.

When, however, after a time, Frederick was observed habitually to conduct himself in this manner towards his uncle, and to endure all his teasing ways with great good-humour, there were not wanting those who attributed to the boy motives from which, through the divine assistance, he was perfectly free: for, so far from his expecting to receive from his uncle any pecuniary benefit beyond that which he had already been fully encouraged to hope for, Mr. Day had carefully impressed him with the idea that Mr. Lambert meant to do no more for him than to put him in possession of the living, which the tutor very properly represented as being what was very generous and handsome. As I, however, have just remarked, credit was not given to Frederick for freedom from cunning and artifice, in thus accommodating himself to his uncle's humours; and some persons were even so mischievous as to write to Robert, to warn him of his cousin's designs, and to advise him to take care lest young Falconer should in the long run win so much on the affections of the father as materially to injure the son.

In answer to these suggestions, Robert replied, with his usual injudicious violence, that if his father chose even to disinherit him, he must abide by the evil; that he never would stoop to Falconer's meanness of conduct; that, thank Heaven, he had an independent spirit; that he had hands to work with, was no fine gentleman, but a true Englishman; and that he could be as happy in a cottage as in the finest palace in the world, &c. &c.

It appeared, however, when Robert again saw his father and Frederick, that, notwithstanding his boasted carelessness and independence, he was greatly irritated against them both; and that, though he still refused to stoop to wheedle his father, as he called the common respect due from a son to a parent, he yet felt not a little angry at witnessing the favour with which Frederick was regarded at Lambert-Hall, and evinced more coldness and haughtiness of manner towards his cousin than he had ever before done.

Thus, notwithstanding the high boast which he had made about his utter disregard of his future situation in society, he was, perhaps, one of the last characters that would with dignity submit to any thing like degradation.

--But to return to our narrative.

The Earl of V-- and his family had, as I before said, been much in Town for some years, and, during that interval, Frederick had seen nothing of Lady Augusta; but when that young lady had just entered her seventeenth and Frederick his nineteenth year, the family returned, for a few months in the summer, to Clifton Castle. Robert Lambert was, during that period, at the University.

As soon as Mr. Day heard of the arrival of the family, he went to pay his respects at the Castle, and was invited to dinner by the earl. He accepted the invitation; and when he met the ladies in the drawing-room, he was greatly struck with the improvement in Lady Augusta's appearance. She had always been beautiful, but she was now more so than ever; and added to her natural loveliness, not only the elegance and dignity of high life, but a certain simplicity of manner and intelligence of countenance, which rendered her exceedingly attractive.

The young lady seemed greatly pleased at the sight of Mr. Day, and accosted him with a degree of warmth which would have been very flattering, had not the good gentleman entertained some idea that all this kindness was not to be set down wholly to his own account.

Mr. Day was hardly seated in his chair, before Lady V-- asked after his pupil.

At the sound of Frederick's name, Lady Augusta started, and looked anxiously at Mr. Day.

"Frederick is well," said Mr. Day: "I left him with his books. It behoves him now to study hard, or he will do me little credit when he goes to the University."

"Is he grown?" said Lady V--. "Is he altered or is he the same handsome and pleasing Frederick Falconer that he ever was?"

On hearing this question, Lady Augusta looked down, and the colour in her cheek was evidently heightened.

"He is, Madam," said Mr. Day, "precisely the same that he always was. But," added he, "as his lot must necessarily be humble, I think it would be best, in submission to the better judgment of his friends, not to introduce him too fully to a sphere of life in which he cannot expect to sustain a part. His tastes are at present humble; he seems free from ambition; and appears quite contented with his condition: I therefore think that we should carefully endeavour to prevent his incurring habits and cherishing desires which may in the least degree interfere with his properly sustaining the character of a country parson."

"You judge correctly," said Lady V--, at the same moment slightly glancing at Augusta, but in a manner so delicate that no person would have observed it, who was not so intimately acquainted with the secrets of the family as Mr. Day.

The name of Frederick was not mentioned during the rest of the day.

When Mr. Day returned to the parsonage in the evening, he found Frederick working in his garden, and full of glee about some circumstance relative to a favourite plant. He, however, threw down his hoe, to enquire after the family at the Castle; and his benevolent tutor, who had but just now felt all anxiety lest his beloved pupil should insensibly be drawn in to admire the intended wife of Robert, now felt that there was equal danger in allowing the young lady to see much of Robert's cousin: for, notwithstanding Frederick was in his gardening-jacket, with his crisped hair deranged by the heat into which he had been thrown by exercise, there was so much of the gentleman, of the elegant scholar, and so many interesting indications of Christian and manly virtue in his appearance, that he thought it scarcely possible for any young lady to be intimate with him, without feeling disposed to regard him with preference. He felt now more than ever rejoiced that he had spoken so explicitly, to Lady V--, and he hoped that, by this precaution, he had obviated the danger which every discerning person must have foreseen.

"And Lady V-- is well?" said Frederick, in answer to some remark of his tutor: "I am glad of it. And how does Lady Augusta look? Is she much grown? Is she altered?"

"She is grown and improved," answered Mr. Day, "and looks amiable. I hope she will make our dear Robert a good wife: for, though Robert is somewhat singular, he has many valuable qualities, and really deserves a worthy partner."

To this remark Frederick answered, with warmth, "I think, Mr. Day, that I should hate any body who was unkind to Robert: I could not bear to see Robert unhappy."

Here the conversation dropped, and Frederick said no more on the subject of the earl's family till the next day; when he asked Mr. Day when he would take him to see Lady V--.

"My dear boy," returned Mr. Day, "you must mind your studies, and I must attend to my parish: we have little time for visiting."

Frederick pressed the matter no further; and spoke, immediately afterwards, with animation, on a subject altogether irrelevant.

Thus things passed off till Sunday, when it was impossible to prevent the young people from meeting at church, without giving some reason for so doing. During the service they had no opportunity of seeing each other, but immediately after they left the church they met, and their meeting was full of warmth and affection. Mr. Day heard Lady Augusta say to Frederick, "Why don't you come to see us, Mr. Falconer? Have you forgotten your old haunts, and the wild glen, in which we used to play so happily?"

Frederick replied, that he hoped Mr. Day would soon accompany him to the Castle, adding, that he would request him so to do.

Something then was said by Lady Augusta relative to Frederick's love of gardening: on which, the young man shewed her a sprig of some geranium which he had in his bosom.

Lady Augusta took the flower, and admired it, though there was nothing remarkable in it; and, as the earl's carriage drew up at the moment, she was handed into it by Frederick, still holding the geranium in her hand.

There was nothing to a common observer in all this, but it was enough to awaken and engage the vigilance of Mr. Day.

During the course of the next week, young Falconer more than once asked Mr. Day to go with him to the Castle; but the careful tutor always found some excuse for putting off the visit.

In the mean time, he told Mr. Lambert, that if he still intended to bring about the marriage between Lady Augusta and Robert, he thought it would be best in a quiet way to keep Frederick from Clifton Castle. "Not in the least," added he, "because I doubt the honour of Frederick, or question the uprightness of his intentions: but human nature is weak, and Lady Augusta might perhaps be struck with his very pleasing manners and prepossessing appearance."

Although there was something implied in this speech which did not greatly tend to exalt Mr. Lambert's son, yet it caused the old gentleman to exult and rub his hands with a feeling of self-complacency, because he had, as he said, always foreseen that Robert would be eclipsed by Frederick: and nothing pleased him so much as any thing like a tribute paid to his sagacity; and the more unwilling this tribute was rendered, the better was he pleased, and the more complete was his triumph. "And so you are come round to my opinion at last, Mr. Day?" said he. "I could only wish that you had seen the thing in the same light that I did years ago. You are an excellent divine, no doubt, Mr. Day; but it is not by study, it is not from books that men acquire a knowledge of life: the world must be seen in order to be understood. However, your advice," added the old gentleman, with increasing pomposity, "your advice, on this occasion, is good, and I admire your prudence, Mr. Day. Let Frederick Falconer be kept away from Clifton Castle, since you now allow that in all matters relative to the exterior, in all such things as strike a lady's eye, he is so much superior to Robert. Poor Robert! I wish I could see any thing in him like a manner, like the appearance of a gentleman. But I always foresaw that he would turn out just as he has done. I never could account, Mr. Day, for the strange perversity of his humour in rejecting every kind of refinement, bred up, as he was, under my eye, and with such pains as I took to break him of his low habits. Why, my good Mr. Day, Robert Lambert never will know either how to come into a room or to go out of one."

"Robert has many excellent qualities, I still maintain," said Mr. Day; "and may yet make a valuable man."

"I hope so," said Mr. Lambert; "I hope so; I hope the University will do something for him: he sees good company there. I think he will be cured of his mauvaise honte, at least, at college. Most young men are, unless they are incurably awkward; eh, Mr. Day?"

"Sir," said Mr. Day, "you know that I was always an advocate for your son."

"I know it, I know it," returned Mr. Lambert: "and let me tell you, Mr. Day, no person's opinion in the world has more weight with me than yours; and I much approve the advice you have given respecting Frederick Falconer, and shall, without loss of time, communicate your ideas on the subject to my sister, Lady V--."

Mr. Day felt his mind relieved in having acted thus openly with Mr. Lambert, and resolved, if he found it necessary, to deal as plainly with Frederick, and to point out to him the necessity of repressing his feelings of admiration for the destined wife of his patron's son and early friend. Frederick, however, never once mentioned the name of Augusta during the remainder of the week, and Mr. Day hoped it would not be necessary for him to mention the subject.

But when Sunday morning arrived, while the bells were ringing, more in token of the day, than actually to call the congregation to church, Mr. Day withdrew, as his custom was, to a retired grass walk in his garden, to meditate upon the subject of his discourse. He had not been long there, before he observed Frederick walking thoughtfully into that part of the garden especially appropriated to flowers, and which Mr. Day could see from an opening between the trees which encompassed the grass walk. He saw him gathering several flowers, after which, the young man, still appearing to be lost in thought, drew nearer that side of the garden where his tutor was. Mr. Day went to meet him, and, seeing in his hand the bud of a beautiful moss rose, with a sprig of jessamine, elegantly arranged, he extended his hand to him, and said, "Frederick, will you give me those flowers?"

Frederick blushed, but presented his tutor with his elegant little bouquet.

"Frederick," said Mr. Day, "you have always been open and sincere with your tutor: tell me, my boy, for whom did you make this beautiful assortment?"

Frederick blushed again, and hesitated: but, as his tutor seemed determined to wait his answer, he, at length, said, "For Lady Augusta."

"I thought so, Frederick," said Mr. Day, at the same time returning the flowers to him. "And now, my dear boy," he added, "consult your conscience, consult your God; and do with these flowers what your Christian principles may dictate."

Frederick took the flowers, and presently threw them, with force, over a neighbouring hedge into a narrow lane on the other side.

"You have done right, Frederick," said Mr. Day: "and so may the Almighty give you grace to repel all temptations, and thus to overcome the powers of darkness."

Mr. Day then proceeded, in a plain and simple manner, to set before Frederick that line of conduct which it became him to pursue with respect to Lady Augusta Clifton. He first pointed out to him the strong obligations under which he lay to his uncle, who, when he was deprived of his parents, made up the loss to him in the kindest manner, having provided not only for his education, but also for his future respectability in society; he then proceeded to display the baseness and ingratitude of his conduct, should he attempt by any means to deprive his uncle's son of that amiable and accomplished wife who had, been purposed for him from his infancy.

"I did not intend, I had not thought," replied Frederick, hesitatingly.

"I do not suspect you of having had any evil intentions," said Mr. Day; "I cannot suppose that such a thought as that of supplanting your cousin has yet entered your mind: but what, my son, has been the tendency of my instructions to you from your infancy, but to point out the depravity of the human heart, and to shew that there is no crime, however atrocious, into which it may not betray its possessor. The inclinations of the heart may be understood by the divine injunctions given by Him who knows the secrets of every heart, and by the commands which are laid upon us to beware of such and such offences. He, therefore, who thinks himself to be in no danger of committing idolatry, murder, or theft, charges his Maker with ignorance, and says to Him, as Hazael said to Elisha, 'Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?' [2 Kings viii. 13.]

"The sin of theft, my dear Frederick, is deemed a low and contemptible one, and is commonly believed to be committed only by the most needy and most despicable individuals in society. But this is a serious error; and I fear that, at the last day, it will be found that many are deeply involved in this crime, who would scorn to number themselves with the common housebreaker and highwayman. Whoever, Frederick, either by force, by address, or by dissimulation, obtains that which is or ought to be, the property of another, is guilty of this crime. Augusta Clifton is not yet, it is true, the wife of your cousin; but the marriage has long been determined by the parents on both sides. Robert Lambert, I have reason to think, desires it. You have known of this intended marriage for years: and if you feel within yourself the slightest reluctance to see this union take place, you are already under the power of temptation; and if you are a Christian, you will fly the trial, as you would the resentment of an angry God."

Frederick answered again, as he had done before, "I did not think, I never intended, I have never considered--."

Mr. Day waited till he should finish his sentence; but, as he added no more, the good tutor proceeded:--"I repeat to you, my boy, that I have not the slightest suspicion that as yet the idea has entered your head, of standing in the way of poor Robert Lambert; you are, therefore, to be excused, since you have erred only through ignorance. I have now stated the case to you in plain language, and you can, therefore, no longer err in this matter from ignorance: and I must, consequently, suppose, that if you do not now adopt every means in your power to shun the danger which I have pointed out to you, you have not that horror of sin which I have hitherto ever believed you to possess."

"Oh, Mr. Day!" exclaimed Frederick.

"Go, my son," said the tutor, "withdraw to your closet; make this affair a matter of prayer; and return in half an hour, to declare to me the result of your application to the throne of grace."

I have already said, that the parish of which Mr. Day was the incumbent was a very large one; and there was at one remote extremity of it, among some woods belonging to the Earl of V--, a little village called Farewell Village. Here, on a small rising ground, was a chapel of ease, served by a curate of Mr. Day's, and here he had established a Sunday-school.

On returning to his tutor, Frederick still appeared somewhat thoughtful, but the expression of his countenance was placid, and he thus addressed his instructor:--"While Lord V-- is in the country, I will attend Farewell Church."

"Give me your hand, my beloved boy," said Mr. Day. "Always act in this way, and the Lord will bless you."

From that moment, Frederick recovered his usual animation; and, taking his favourite volume (viz. Herbert's Country Parson) from his pocket, he set off to walk slowly to Farewell, or, as the country people call it, Forrell, occupying himself in reading, as he wound his way through many a shadowy glade and embowered path, till he reached the place of his destination.

It does not appear what Lady Augusta thought, when she looked in vain for Frederick and his little offering of flowers, as soon as the church service was finished; but certain it is, that, when she went home, and had reached her own dressing-room, she put fresh water to the sprigs of myrtle and geranium which he had given to her the last Sunday, and sent them, early on Monday morning, to the gardener, with an order that he should exert the utmost of his skill to cause them to live and flourish in flower-pots; neither could she be turned from her purpose, although the gardener sent word, by her maid, that the sprigs were of the most common sort, of which he had innumerable samples in the green-house.

"Tell him," said Augusta, "that he is mistaken; and, at any rate, he may do what he is bid, without giving his opinion."

Frederick saw no more of Lady Augusta during that summer, and he gave evidence, by the cheerfulness of his manner, that if she had made any impression on his heart, it was nearly effaced.

In the autumn, Mr. Lambert took a house in Town, intending to spend the winter there; in consequence of which, Robert and Frederick did not meet as usual, during the Christmas vacation.

While residing in Town, Mr. Lambert, through the interest of Lord V--, was created a baronet: on which account, we shall henceforward call him Sir Anthony Lambert, his Christian name being Anthony; which, as he said, had a very respectable sound in conjunction with Lambert.

After Christmas, Frederick was entered at Cambridge, it being thought, that, as Robert was at Oxford, associating with the higher circles, and spending much money, it would be more to his cousin's advantage that they should not be together. Mr. Day still continued at the parsonage, where it was settled that Frederick should spend his vacations.

Another year passed away, during which Robert came of age; and Sir Anthony Lambert spent the long vacation with his son at a sea-bathing place, and the Christmas holidays again in Town; and, as Clifton Castle was undergoing repairs, the earl's family did not come down into the country.

Robert was now removed from the University, and it became the common talk that his marriage with Lady Augusta was to take place in the summer season, when both the earl's and Sir Anthony's family were expected to be in the country.

But in arranging this plan the good gossips were much mistaken; as the marriage was by no means in that state of forwardness which was believed. Everything, indeed, had long been agreed upon by the parents on both sides, and Robert was extremely anxious that he might not be disappointed; but Lady Augusta had as yet evidenced no manner of partiality for him, and her mother had her serious doubts that her daughter herself would never consent to the union. The two families, however, arrived in the country at the expected time, which was precisely at the commencement of Frederick's long vacation; and Lady V-- brought with her one of the daughters of her brother the Earl of F--, who some years ago, on a tour to the Continent, had offended her father past recovery by marrying an indigent French nobleman, by whom she had been left a widow, and almost without resources, a little more than eighteen months past.

This lady (whom we shall call Lady Frances Courbillon) was about twenty-eight years of age; but with those who could not detect the various arts by which she contrived to disguise the injuries which the lapse of a few years produces even in the fairest form, she might easily pass for eighteen. She had all that gaiety and ease of manner so peculiar to the country in which she had resided for the last ten years; she was sprightly in conversation, full of wit and repartee, had an innumerable fund of French anecdotes, played delightfully on the harp, and appeared to be the most simple and undesigning creature in the world, having attained the perfection of art, which is, to seem to have no art at all.

There can be no doubt that the society of a lady of this character would be very acceptable in a large country house, the heads of which thought of nothing but of passing away their time in an agreeable manner, and that, by her highly fashionable air and free manners, such a companion would, as she in fact did, occasion what is called a very lively sensation among the country families who visited at the Castle. "Have you seen Lady Frances Courbillon?" said one lady to another. "Is not she beautiful? is not she elegant? is not she interesting?"

"A charming woman!" said another: "and so young to have known such sorrows! She even looks well by the side of Lady Augusta Clifton, and no one can doubt that she is in many respects vastly superior: for she is so free, so communicative, so pleasant in conversation; while Lady Augusta is, on the contrary, altogether as reserved and impenetrable."

Sir Anthony Lambert and Mr. Day were the only persons who decidedly disliked this lady. We do not wonder at Mr. Day, who was a man of deep penetration, not relishing an artificial, worldly character, of the kind we have described; but how she happened not to obtain the good-will of Sir Anthony, when we consider what pretensions she had to rank and fashion, would not so easily appear, unless I were to tell my reader, that the old gentleman thought he had detected her in making some attempts on the heart of his son Robert the summer before, at Brighton, where she then appeared, just come over from the Continent, in the interesting character of a young, beautiful, and afflicted widow.

Sir Anthony had charged his son with having manifested some partiality for this lady, and had represented the few civilities he had shewn her as so many affronts to Lady Augusta; the consequence of which strong statement of the case was, that Robert's indignation boiled over. He unequivocally charged his father with being suspicious, and at the same time decidedly refused to break off the acquaintance, as Sir Anthony desired.--"Not," said he, speaking on the subject to one of his young companions, to whom he commonly opened his heart when his father displeased him, "not that I care one straw for Lady Frances; but I cannot bear to be tutored and lectured on every occasion, or to be led about, at my age, like a child in leading-strings, or a bear in chains."

"Ay, Lambert," repeated his companion, laughing, "like a dancing-bear, with a monkey on his back."

Robert was in a passion; he was angry with his father, and he allowed the simile of the monkey to pass without reproof, which at another time he perhaps would not have done: for, with all his roughness, his impetuosity, and his untractableness, Robert Lambert had some good qualities, some sense of religion, some benevolence of heart; and, had he from his infancy been generously and affectionately treated, he would probably have been a very different character from what he then was.

Mr. Day and Frederick happened to be at the Hall when Sir Anthony and his son arrived, and Mr. Day instantly perceived a decided improvement in the appearance and manners of Robert. He was now become far from ill-looking, and his demeanour was easy and gentlemanlike. He accosted Mr. Day with kindness, but Frederick with so much coldness, that the latter could not but observe it, though he passed it off with the ease and good-humour natural to him. In consequence, however, of this reserve, Mr. Day withdrew with his pupil as much as possible to the quiet rectory, leaving the great people to manage their affairs in their own way.

In the mean time, the two great families were constantly together, and nothing was heard of in the neighbourhood but of sumptuous dinners, rural galas, water-parties, excursions to the fine seats in the vicinity, &c.: but whether Robert made any progress in the good graces of Lady Augusta no one was able to ascertain.

The two families had been more than a month in the country, when, one morning, as Lady Augusta, attended by a livery servant, was riding through a wood at no very great distance from her father's castle, the very wood, in fact, which led to the village of Forrell, her horse took fright at the sight of two gipsies who suddenly appeared from among the trees; and the creature, after rearing and prancing for some moments, would inevitably have thrown its rider, if Frederick, who was returning from his little school at Forrell, had not happened to come up at the critical moment, and, by his timely assistance, saved the lady from a dreadful fall. He seized the bridle of the horse, delivering it into the hands of the servant, and lifting Lady Augusta down, set her on a mossy bank which was near at hand: for the young lady was greatly terrified; and it was some time before she could speak to Frederick, or answer the. servant's question., whether she would choose to mount again, or permit him to take the horses home, and send the carriage.

"Take back the horses," she at length said, "but do not send the carriage, lest my mother be alarmed." Then turning to Frederick, "I had intended," said she, "to have quarrelled with you, Sir, when we met; but you have compelled me to exchange my expressions of resentment for those of gratitude. I thank you, Mr. Falconer, for what you have done," she added, at the same time extending her hand to him: "you have perhaps saved my life:" and while she spoke, she changed colour several times, and seemed considerably agitated.

Frederick muttered something about satisfaction, honour, pleasure, &c. hoping that she was not hurt, not very much frightened: but not being able to finish a single sentence, he stopped, and looked down on the ground.

"I see, Frederick," said she, with more tranquillity, "I see you are ashamed to meet me, conscious, as you are, of your marked neglect of all our family, and of me in particular, who was the companion of your early days, who lived with you, in fact, as a sister, and a sister who once thought herself beloved."

"A sister!" repeated Frederick, sitting down on the bank near her. "If you will still consider me as a brother, and still honour me with your sisterly regard, I shall be happy; but--"

"But what, Frederick?" said Augusta. Frederick added no more. "Tell me, Frederick," said the young lady, "tell me, I beseech you, why you do not come among us as usual. What is the meaning of this estrangement? Have I done any thing to offend you? I am sure I never intended it. Have my parents displeased you? Explain to me the cause of this coldness." So saying, she fixed her beautiful eyes upon him with a look of earnestness and anxiety, which greatly added to his embarrassment, putting it, at the same time, altogether out of his power to offer any kind of excuse for having so entirely withdrawn himself from her society. "Well," she said, suppressing a sigh, "I see, Frederick, that you will not grant me your confidence, and perhaps I am to blame to ask it. But only satisfy me in one point--have I offended you? have I displeased you?"

"No, dear Lady Augusta," said Frederick; "no, never,--never in the least:" and he was about to add, that he never felt his affection for her warmer than at the present moment; when, recollecting Robert, he hesitated, stammered, and was again silent.

She smiled. "O, Frederick, Frederick, what an enigma you are! but, as you have assured me that you are not angry with me, I will rest contented." So saying, she arose, adding, that she wished to return home, lest her mother should be alarmed.

There was no alternative for Frederick; he could not but accompany her.

As they continued to walk together, the young people seemed both to become more easy; and Augusta, purposely leading the way to the subject of her proposed marriage with Robert, said, "I do not think, Frederick, I ever can bring my mind to consent to it."

Frederick started.

"You wonder, perhaps, at my saying so," she added: "but, though I have some friendship for Robert, I dread his violent temper; I fear I could not be happy with him."

"You must judge for yourself in this respect," said Frederick. "No one, in such cases," added he, "can decide for another."

"Not in points of mere taste, I grant," said Augusta; "but every one may judge of the effects of a violent temper. Tell me, Frederick, what do you think of Robert Lambert? Is he a man calculated to make a woman happy?"

Frederick had never felt a stronger struggle in his mind than at this moment. Robert had lately behaved to him with extreme insolence, and it was now in his power to take a signal revenge: but he hesitated not a moment on the subject, secretly praying that he might be directed to say what was best on the occasion. He turned to Augusta, by whose side he was walking, and, looking steadily at her, "You ask my opinion, dear Lady Augusta," he said. "I will give it you sincerely--I think there is much that is valuable in Robert Lambert; and I think that a wise, affectionate, and virtuous wife, might render him at once, humanly speaking, a good and happy man. He has had great difficulties to encounter, which may account for what seems unpleasing in his character. But I have this persuasion, that if you should condescend to honour him with your hand, you would have no reason to repent of your choice."

"You seem very warm in Robert Lambert's cause," said Lady Augusta, reddening; "you seem very anxious to see me married to him."

"I wish to see you happy, and Robert also," answered Frederick.

"Then, if you wish my happiness, you must not unite me with Robert Lambert," returned the lady, pettishly.

"And wherefore?" asked Frederick.

"Because I have no proper regard for him," she replied. "I dislike him; I like others better."

"O! that alters the case," replied Frederick. "If you actually like any other person better, no friend of yours, or of Robert Lambert's, could wish you united."

Lady Augusta blushed. She had said more than she meant to do, and she was at that moment unable to speak from vexation.

Frederick looked at her, and a tear was trickling down her cheek. "My dear Lady Augusta, my sister," he said, "have I offended you in pleading for Robert? But you introduced the subject yourself: I never should have ventured on such a liberty."

"Nobody accuses you, Frederick," replied Augusta, "of being impertinent, interfering, or forward; your friends, perhaps, think you just the reverse, and would sooner charge you with distance and coldness: but at any rate, Mr. Falconer, Robert Lambert is much obliged to you, and it is not your fault if I do not marry him."

"And make him the happiest of men?" said Frederick.

"No, Mr. Falconer," said the young lady, "I should never make Robert happy, were I to marry him. Unless persons are happy themselves, they can never administer to the happiness of another."

The conversation was now becoming every moment increasingly painful to Frederick, and he hardly knew how to carry it on, or how to control his own uneasy feelings; when he was relieved by the appearance of Mr. Day, who, having met Lady Augusta's servant and horses, and heard of the rencontre in the wood, hastened to put a period to a tête-à-tête of which he dreaded the consequence.

Mr. Day and Frederick attended the young lady to the Castle-gate, where they took leave, notwithstanding the entreaties of Augusta, who would have had them spend the rest of the day with her parents.

Some slight rumour of Lady Augusta's accident, and of the adventure in the wood, had reached the Castle before her arrival. Lady V-- was anxious to hear if her daughter were hurt. But as soon as Augusta had assured her parents that she had escaped entirely uninjured, the subject was dropped, as if by general consent, nor was the least reference made to it either by the earl or Lady V-- during the rest of the day.

This circumstance, in connexion with some others which she had observed, rather puzzled Augusta, and led her to form certain conjectures relative to Frederick, of a nature quite different from any that had previously occurred to her mind. She now thought she saw at once the reason of Frederick's being so entirely kept in the back-ground, and of the apparent coldness of her family towards him; and she also concluded that she had now found the clew to his excessive embarrassment, when she questioned him in the wood on the cause of his withdrawing himself so entirely from the companions of his youth. "However," said the young lady to herself, "all these arts are totally unnecessary. I ought never to have seen Frederick, if I was ever to become Robert Lambert's wife."

It happened, that Sir Anthony and Robert were to dine at the Castle on that very day. Whenever Robert was present, Augusta made a point of being particularly silent and reserved: and as she had almost resolved never to accept of the young man, we cannot blame her for the adoption of this line of conduct; nay, perhaps it would have been better if she had acted in a manner still more decided, and put an end to the hopes of Robert, through her parents, even before he had made her an open declaration of his regard. But Augusta was not a pious young woman; she had great vanity, and some degree of pride. The immense fortune to which Robert was heir had many attractions in her estimation; and even at the moment when her heart was powerfully inclined towards another person, she felt it almost impossible for her to renounce those elegancies and that splendour which would attend the wife of Robert Lambert.

Another reason which made her unwilling to destroy at once all the hopes that Robert cherished of obtaining her was, that she plainly saw there was a person who was even more anxious than herself to become the mistress of the immense property to which he was heir; and this person was no other than Lady Frances Courbillon, who was secretly detested by Augusta, as one who dared to contend with her for the palm of universal admiration, although she was sufficiently polite to conceal this dislike from every person but the object of it.

Lady Frances was, however, fully convinced of Augusta's dislike of her; but, as it did not suit her, at that time, to appear to recognize this feeling of her cousin's, she affected to have it supposed that she believed herself to be the object of her tender regard. She therefore always addressed her in the petted language of a spoiled child, she prattled to her apparently with the most amiable simplicity, she pretended to open all her heart to her, and even to make confession of her faults, and ask her advice.

It was in the evening of the same day on which the adventure took place in the wood, (while the ladies were assembled in the drawing-room, and at the moment when the gentlemen might be expected to join them,) that Lady Frances, seeing her cousin seated in a pensive attitude, in one of the Gothic windows of the apartment, drew towards her, and, placing herself by her side, began, in apparently the most undesigning way in the world, to amuse her with some of her little expressions of fondness, and professions of pretty helplessness and want of prudence. "Dear Augusta," she said, "I have been so giddy, so very thoughtless; I have affronted that good lady who sits by Lady V--: I don't recollect her name; but the lady in the wreath of white roses. Well, I have affronted her, past forgiveness, by asking her from what shop in the town she got her rouge; adding, that I thought the tinge beautiful. And what do you think she declared to me--that she never used rouge; that the colour was entirely her own, perfectly natural; and that she would not use rouge on any account whatever."

"But don't you know, Lady Frances," said Augusta, "that English ladies don't like to have it supposed that they rouge?"

"O, I know it; that is, I should know it: but I have been so long abroad, where, with all their faults, they are as open and undisguised in this respect as in many others, that I had forgotten all your punctilios. One is not fit for England when one has been for any length of time abroad: but you must tell me, my dear, when I transgress--when I am injudicious; you, who are all dignity, all decorum, all sweetness." So saying, she laid her hand, with an expression of fondness, on Augusta's arm, and added, "But perhaps I tire you; you look fatigued. I fear you have not overcome your feelings of alarm. Well, we have reason to be very thankful that you were not hurt. But I have not heard how it was: let me know something of this knight of the wood."

Lady Frances was aware, though Augusta was not, that within the last minute the gentlemen had entered the room, and that Robert Lambert had advanced towards the place where they were seated, and was standing in the rear of their little couch, which was turned towards the window with its back to the company, in that style of elegant carelessness that has been in fashion for some years past; and she had timed her question so accurately, that the first words which Robert heard as he approached were, "Now do let me hear something of this knight of the wood:" to which request Lady Frances added, "You cannot think, Augusta, in what glowing colours I have painted this hero, this youth who seemed to drop from the clouds so apropos, at the moment when the danger was most urgent. I know that he must be tall and fait à peindre: but I have been at a loss, whether to give him dark blue eyes or black, for on this circumstance, you know, the colour of his hair and complexion must depend. I have been used to dark hair in France, but, as our hero is an Englishman, I am inclined to give him the blue eyes and the brown hair of the Saxon; and I fancy him rushing from the trees, at the instant when you were in the most imminent danger, and seizing the bridle of your rampant steed, &c."

"O, Frances," said Lady Augusta, interrupting her, "what nonsense you are talking."

"Nonsense!" said Lady Frances, "what is life without nonsense? But, seriously, who is the young lad who saved you from being thrown from your horse, and perhaps breaking your neck, this morning?"

"Who is he?" said Augusta, "why Sir Anthony's nephew, Frederick Falconer."

"And what kind of young man is he?" asked Lady Frances, carelessly.

"O, I don't know," replied Augusta, endeavouring to seem equally careless; "have you never seen him?" At that instant Augusta, perceiving that Robert stood behind her couch, stood up, and turning to him, said, "Sir, I hope you have been amused with our conversation."

"I have heard little of it," replied Robert, somewhat sullenly.

"O, what? you are there?" said Lady Frances, looking up to him from her seat on the sofa; "how long have you been in the room? But you are the very person to satisfy my curiosity. Who is this Frederick Falconer, who saved Lady Augusta from that dreadful accident this morning?"

"I have heard nothing of any accident," replied Robert; "it is strange that no one should have mentioned it to me:" and he looked at Augusta with an expression at once reproachful and suspicious.

Augusta replied, that she conceived every one must imagine that he would not feel much interested in an affair which could not concern him. "For even now," she added, "now that you are told of it, you never ask me whether I escaped unhurt."

Robert endeavoured to recover his temper, and to make some polite enquiries, saying, that it was impossible for any one really to conceive that he was not deeply interested in every thing which affected Lady Augusta Clifton.

"Well, Sir," said Augusta, with more assurance of manner than became so young a lady, "if you are so much interested in all that relates to me, you shall have an exact account of what happened this morning." And she immediately recounted to him all the circumstances, as they had taken place, excepting some particulars of her conversation with Frederick.

As she proceeded, Robert reddened and appeared violently excited; notwithstanding which, he did not speak till Augusta had finished her story, and Lady Frances had added, "Is it not wonderful, Mr. Lambert, that this knight-errant should have appeared at the very moment in which his presence was most needed?"

"Probably," returned Robert, "had the accident happened an hour sooner or an hour later, he might have been equally at hand."

A glance of extreme contempt was the only reply Lady Augusta made to this speech; and she was walking away, when Robert seized her hand and begged her pardon, uttering some incoherent expressions about sincere regard, which is always hasty.

"Sincere regard, Sir," replied Augusta, "cannot exist without respect; and no man respects the woman whom he can suspect of dishonourable conduct."

Robert assured Lady Augusta that he never suspected her in the least.

"Then, Sir," said Augusta, "whose honour do you doubt? If it is Frederick Falconer's, you are mistaken; you never were more mistaken: for no man ever had a more faithful or a warmer friend than you have in Frederick."

"How do you know that, Madam?" said the impetuous Robert.

"I am not yet, I thank Heaven, compelled to answer every question you choose to put to me, Mr. Lambert," replied Augusta: "I am not yet your wife."

Robert apologized again, expressed a hope that he had not yet offended past forgiveness, pleaded the unhappy warmth of his temper, and, in short, urged his suit with so much vehemence, that Augusta, who had not quite made up her mind to renounce all the splendours which might be procured by Sir Anthony's fortune, allowed him to suppose that he was forgiven, and, then walking to the other end of the room, placed herself so close to her mother, that it was impossible for him to intrude any further particular conversation upon her.

But although Robert supposed that he now stood as high, or nearly so, in Augusta's good graces as he had done before this unfortunate conversation, yet he felt so much irritated by the account of what had happened in the morning, so filled with undefined ideas of jealousy and suspicion--that he could scarcely command his composure so long as it was necessary, in order to effect his escape from the company; and when he found himself alone in a retired walk in the shrubbery, in which he had taken refuge, he vented his indignation upon Frederick, in exclamations of no very specific tendency. However, as there were no other creatures besides naiads and wood-nymphs to hear these complaints, and as Echo was not at hand to repeat them, these murmurs of indignation passed away without effect, and Robert was returning in a more tranquil state to the Castle, when he overtook Lady Frances, who was walking alone and in a pensive attitude, apparently thinking as little of Robert as he was of her.

At the sight of him, she started with very well feigned astonishment, exclaiming, "Mr. Lambert, is it you? Why, did I not leave you in the drawing-room but a quarter of an hour ago!"

"Impossible," replied Robert, "for I have been to the very end of the shrubbery."

"Well," said Lady Frances, "then I never was more mistaken in my life."

Mr. Lambert then joined Lady Frances, who began to converse with him on the common topics of the day; being fully aware, from her knowledge of his character, that he would presently bring up the subject of his recent thoughts, namely, the affair in the wood, and his slight altercation with Lady Augusta. Neither was Lady Frances mistaken: Robert, soon breaking away from all topics foreign to the late occurrences, came to the point in question; and, being drawn on by his artful companion, made a full and explicit avowal of his real feelings and sentiments respecting Augusta and Frederick.

This was precisely the object at which Lady Frances aimed, namely, to induce Robert to make her his friend and confidante; being well aware, that, if she could accomplish her end, he would frequently seek her society, and thereby abundant opportunity would be afforded for bringing him within the influence of her allurements.--But to return to Frederick.

There was nothing so very remarkable and opportune in the meeting of this young man with Lady Augusta in the wood, as should induce us to suppose that Frederick was actually one of those heroes of romance who is always in the right place at the critical moment when he is required to be so: for the truth is, that Frederick had been in the habit, for some weeks past, of going every day, at a certain hour, to visit his little school at Forrell, and had been accustomed to take his books, and study as he went sauntering along. Of this circumstance Lady Augusta had been informed, and, we are sorry to add, that she had chosen the wood for her ride on that very account. It was, therefore, by no miraculous intervention of supernatural agents that Frederick happened to be where he was expected to he, and where the young lady had purposely gone to meet with him. But Frederick was a pious young man, and, consequently, humble: he did not, therefore, entertain the slightest suspicion, on this occasion, derogatory to the honour of Lady Augusta; but represented the whole affair, as he walked home with his tutor, in a light entirely favourable to the young lady. "But, my dear Mr. Day," he added, hesitating as he spoke, "from what has happened this day, I have had such an insight into my own heart, that I conceive I should do well to leave this place till she is married. Sorry as I shall be to lose so much of your society, yet I think it would be best for me to be absent from this neighbourhood for the present."

Mr. Day highly commended this resolution of Frederick's; pointing out the wisdom of fleeing, rather than braving temptation; and, accordingly, the rest of the day was employed in arranging a little tour, which was to occupy Frederick for two months to come. Things of this kind admit of no delay: accordingly, Frederick set out early the next morning, intending to make his first stoppage at the house of a college friend in Yorkshire, and to proceed from thence to the Lakes.

On the morning of his pupil's departure, Mr. Day rode over to Clifton Castle, where he knew he might expect to find Sir Anthony and Mr. Lambert; being charged with a message from young Falconer to his uncle, apologizing for his abrupt departure.

The family at Clifton Castle were at breakfast when Mr. Day arrived. He was received, as usual, with much cordiality by the earl and countess; but Robert looked sullen, and Augusta melancholy. "You are on the wing betimes, Mr. Day," said Sir Anthony; "this is a rare circumstance with you; for, I believe, you make a point of always devoting the first hours of the day to study."

"I have been up, Sir Anthony," said Mr. Day, "ever since five o'clock; at which time I started Mr. Falconer for the north. He intends visiting the Lakes this summer, and I am come charged with his respectful remembrances to this noble party, and his particular enquiries respecting the health of Lady Augusta."

As Mr. Day expected, this news of the flight of Frederick excited no small sensation in many individuals of the polite circle which surrounded him. Robert Lambert's countenance spoke much, very much; Lady Augusta turned pale, and with difficulty appeared to be able to command her feelings in any tolerable degree; Lady V-- and the earl seemed resolved to express nothing, and, in consequence, primmed up their features and looked impenetrable; while the formal and slow-minded Sir Anthony was the only person who was at that moment able to remark on the intelligence which Mr. Day had communicated; and that he did to the following purpose:--

"Frederick Falconer started this morning, you say, for the Lakes of Westmoreland, and without giving me the smallest notice of his intentions. I am amazed, Mr. Day; surely I ought to have been apprized! I am astonished! But young people are so uncertain in all their motions,--so hasty,--so rapid. But I am sorry. I have, you well know, Mr. Day, one of the best maps of Westmoreland now extant, and the Guide to the Lakes, with views of all the most beautiful scenes in the country. Frederick would have obtained many fine ideas if he had taken time to study these books before his departure."

In this manner the old gentleman descanted somewhat to the relief of the rest of the party: and, after breakfast, Mr. Day found means to reconcile him to this step of his nephew, by the simple statement which he made to him of the truth.

After the departure of Frederick, Mr. Day, who now went more frequently to Clifton Castle, found himself much puzzled to make out the manœuvres of the young people there; for, although he was very far from wanting penetration, yet their conduct was influenced by such mixed motives, that it was impossible to say how they would act on any specified occasion.

Lady Frances, whom I mention first as being the eldest, was exceedingly anxious to be at the head of the immense property possessed by Sir Anthony Lambert. Had Sir Anthony no son, she would not have made the least objection to have married him, with the hope of soon breaking his heart; but as there was a son in the way, and as she thought him much less disagreeable than his father, and at the same time more approachable, his fiery passions frequently leaving him without guard against a designing foe; she, in consequence, directed all her attacks against him, and was daily acquiring more influence over him, while she pretended nothing but friendship and esteem; but this under-plot was to be kept altogether out of the sight of Lord and Lady V--, Sir Anthony, and Augusta, and was managed with so much art, that it was only suspected by the last. In the mean time, Lady Frances kept up her public character, of thoughtless levity and indiscretion, with surprising success: and although she rendered herself very disagreeable in the eyes of Sir Anthony, by her French manners and contempt of forms, yet it by no means appeared that he had any definite idea of what might be the consequence of her artifices. At the same time, poor Robert was under the influence of many painfully contending feelings. He had a sincere regard for Augusta. Her coldness excited very unpleasant sensations in his breast, and often put him out of humour with himself, filling him with vindictive and jealous emotions respecting Frederick Falconer, to whom he persisted in attributing all his want of success with Augusta. In the mean time, being dissatisfied with himself, he was irritated against his father, whose manner was always ungracious towards him; he was suspicious of Mr. Day, and, in short, uneasy with every one but Lady Frances, whose secret blandishments and well-timed flatteries were ever ready to restore his self-complacency when he was under the influence of angry and irritable feelings.

Thus we have entered into the most secret views of Lady Frances and Robert. Lady Augusta Clifton only remains to be spoken of; and we shall perhaps find more difficulty in describing her state of mind, than that of any other of the party, because two opposite and very violent feelings were raging within her breast: the one of these was a strong and deeply rooted affection for Frederick, the other was ambition. Whenever she thought of giving up Robert, she regretted the loss of all those elegant and splendid circumstances which she might secure to herself by a marriage with him; and when she thought of accepting Mr. Lambert, then Frederick Falconer appeared before her in that perfection of person, of mind, and of general character, which raised him in her estimation so far above every other young man whom she had ever known. Thus this unhappy young lady, being destitute of correct religious principles, was continually halting between two opinions: while her conduct, in consequence, was variable and inconsistent, and, as far as Robert was concerned, unjust.

While things were in this state, Robert, unable to bear suspense any longer, and being urged on by his father, made an explicit declaration of his regard, together with a formal tender of his hand to the young lady.

It was now become necessary for her to decide in her choice between the man she loved, on the one hand, and the house, estate, and equipage, which were almost equally dear to her, on the other: but it is believed that her regard for Frederick would have obtained a complete triumph, had she not foreseen that there was one at hand ready to seize upon the worldly advantages which she was about to reject; and the prospect of living in the same parish, in a character inferior to this person, was an idea so humiliating, that love itself, she felt, could not make it palatable: therefore, when Mr. Lambert made his formal profession, she gave him, it is true, a denial, but such a one as no man but the fiery and hot-brained Robert would have received as such, particularly from one so young and so lovely as Augusta.

Robert's passions, however, took fire. He fancied that Augusta despised him, and herein he was not far from the truth. He flew to pour his sorrows into the ear of Lady Frances; and my readers will not be surprised to hear that the end of this indiscreet and ill-placed confidence was a runaway marriage--the two young people having made their escape to a place where being speedily united for life, they had nothing left to do but to repent at leisure.

Although events of this kind will sometimes happen in real life, there being no kind of sin and folly into which the natural man is not liable to fall; yet these are scenes on which my pen by no means delights to descant. I shall, therefore, satisfy myself with describing the effect of this mad scheme upon the friends which Mr. Lambert had left behind him at Clifton Castle and Lambert-Hall.

Lord and Lady V-- were highly offended, and evidently deeply disappointed. Sir Anthony was almost furious, and, in his anger, he solemnly renounced his son, and declared that he should never be one penny the better for him. Few persons, however, believed this declaration of the angry father's, and every one trusted that time would bring about that reconciliation which all Robert's friends so ardently desired. Mr. Day was greatly afflicted by Robert's imprudence, and the more so, because he had an exceedingly bad opinion of Lady Frances.

My reader will probably be anxious to know what the feelings of Augusta were on this occasion. I think I may say that they were, on the whole, pleasurable, though she also joined in the general censures of the young people, and used every means in her power to soothe and console Sir Anthony.

Sir Anthony had refused to receive any letters from his son after his marriage; and, in order to prevent the necessity of any further communication, he informed his steward that he wished Robert to receive an annual income to the full amount of the interest of his mother Lady Ann Lambert's fortune, which had been about fifteen thousand pounds, declaring his determination never to add a shilling more.

On this occasion, Mr. Day pleaded earnestly for his pupil; but finding that all he said did but increase the irritation of Sir Anthony, he thought it best to let the matter rest for the present. He also thought it advisable to write to Robert; which he did, pointing out to him, in a truly paternal way, that line of conduct which he should now adopt, to render himself again acceptable to his father. "You have done wrong, my dear pupil," said Mr. Day; "you ought not to have deceived your father. But I feel persuaded, that, if you and your lady will now submit yourselves to circumstances, and will settle quietly down in some retired situation, on the thousand a year which you can command from the interest of your mother's fortune and Lady Frances's property, you may still enjoy all the comforts, and some of the elegancies, of life; you may moreover render yourself beloved and respected; and may, in the long run, recover the affection of your father."

But Robert Lambert had married a woman who was by no means disposed to yield to untoward circumstances, or to sit down quietly in a country place, on a thousand a year. She maintained, that the best measure which she and her husband could adopt in the present state of things was to go to Paris: and she wrought so effectually on Mr. Lambert's mind, that to Paris they went; and thus persevered in a kind of conduct which tended to keep up the irritation of Sir Anthony, who, with a true old-fashioned English spirit, hated France, and all things appertaining to it.

While these various events were successively taking place, in rapid succession, Frederick Falconer was travelling in the north; whence he was recalled by his uncle, and received with a very marked cordiality at Lambert-Hall: where he no sooner appeared, than he was invited to Clifton Castle, and had frequent opportunities afforded him of conversing with Lady Augusta.

"My dear Frederick," said Mr. Day, on a certain occasion, to his pupil, "you ought to consider well what our good friends at Clifton Castle are about, and what you are about yourself. There are several enquiries which I think you should seriously make, before you yield your heart to the fascinations of Lady Augusta. In the first place, would Lord and Lady V-- consent to her marriage with a man in your humble condition in life? and, if you could obtain their consent, is Lady Augusta a fit character to become the wife of a man of moderate fortune? And, finally, is she a pious woman? You must not trust yourself, Frederick, with a partner who is not so. The greater her attractions, the greater will be your danger, if she wants those principles which are especially requisite in the help-meet of a minister of Christ."

"I have reason to think," replied Frederick, "that Lady Augusta has a lively sense of religion."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Day: "if it is so, I am not aware of the fact. But you, probably, have some grounds whereon to build your opinion?"

"Only from some little things which have dropped from her own lips," returned Frederick, "and from observing a little elegant pocket Testament lying on her table, when I, one day, dropped in by accident."

"Far be it from me, my dear Frederick," said Mr. Day, "to pass a harsh judgment on any one; but still I think it very possible for a young lady to have an elegant pocket Testament, and also to utter some pleasing religious sentiments, when it suits her purpose so to do, without her having, after all, the slightest feeling of genuine piety. True religion shews itself in actions, not in words; and I cannot believe that Lady Augusta Clifton could have trifled with Robert Lambert in the way she did, had she possessed the fear of God. However, my dear Frederick, inasmuch as we poor human creatures are infinitely short-sighted, and liable to be deceived in various ways, not knowing what tends to our real good, and what to the contrary; my advice is, that you should place the whole concern of your future life in the hands of God, seeking the divine help to enable you to sit loose to the possessions of the world, and holding yourself in readiness to renounce every thing which you cannot retain consistently with your obligations as a minister and a Christian. And, at present," he added, "I advise you not to commit yourself by any strong professions of regard for Lady Augusta; and, on this account, avoid being alone with her. In a few days, your vacation will be at an end; you will then return for the last time to college; your examination and ordination will take place in February; and you will perhaps think it best not to come among us during the Christmas vacation. In the mean time, I shall be a careful observer of Lady Augusta's conduct, and I may, moreover, be able to form some idea of what the views of her parents may be respecting her."

Frederick Falconer approved of Mr. Day's advice, and was so anxious to adhere precisely to it, that he refrained from going to Clifton Castle till the morning previous to the day of his departure. He then set out, accompanied by Mr. Day: but when arrived at the Castle, they unexpectedly met Sir Anthony Lambert in the hall, who, seizing hold of Mr. Day, conveyed him into a private room, to communicate certain intelligence relative to Robert; and Frederick was, in consequence, obliged to go alone to seek the family, and say adieu.

The footman ushered him into the room that was usually occupied by the family during the morning: but it was empty. Frederick, accordingly, took a book, and sat down to read. This apartment, which was entirely in the Gothic style, opened into a kind of wilderness of flowering shrubs, beyond which were seen the higher regions of the park, crowned with clusters of trees, which seemed almost coeval with the Castle itself. The distant cawings of the rooks in the summits of these trees, and the gentle murmur of the breeze through the strings of a harp standing before the window, were the only sounds which broke the silence. Frederick had taken up a book, and had opened it; but though he held it in his hand, he had not paid the smallest attention to its contents: on the contrary, he was deeply engaged in meditation, and not unfrequently occupied in short mental prayer and earnest supplication, that assistance might be afforded him to resist the temptations with which he was surrounded.

While thus engaged, he heard a step, and, turning his head, he saw Augusta, who had advanced a considerable way into the room without observing him; but who, when, at length, she did discover him, manifested such natural and lovely expressions of delight, that he, for a moment forgetting all his tutor's cautions, sprang from his seat, seized her hand, and uttered he knew not what; but which proved, however, to be certain words of a tendency so unequivocal, that the young lady was no longer left in doubt of the impression she had made on his heart.

Her reply was, also, such as encouraged him, and led him on to add more to the same purpose; and, in consequence, when a moment of reflection returned, he was astonished to find that he had already committed himself so far, that it no longer depended on himself to reject this alliance. He, however, on this occasion, was not forsaken of Him on whom he had recently called with so much earnestness; but was enabled to see, now that he had thus incautiously involved his fate with that of the young lady, what next was best to be done upon the occasion. "Lady Augusta," said he, "I have been impelled, by circumstances, to make an avowal of feelings which but a moment before I had resolved not to acknowledge: but, since it is so, permit me now to open to you the whole of my heart; to explain the motives of my conduct for some years past; and to point out certain difficulties which I even now, in this moment of ecstacy, but too plainly foresee lying in the way of our being happy with each other."

Lady Augusta blushed, and seemed uneasy; but allowed Frederick, however, to lead her out of the room into the shrubbery, where they hoped to be enabled to converse some time without interruption.

Having reached a sequestered spot in the pleasure-ground, they sat down on a garden-seat, when Frederick entered into a full explanation of his views and plans of life, of his determination, with the divine aid, to devote himself to the service of God, and to reject the vanities and pomps of this life, though he expressed himself as intending not to renounce the real elegancies and charms of society; and concluded by representing to Augusta, that, unless she could resolve to adopt his views, to turn away from all mere earthly pleasures, to repress ambitious views, and to endeavour to obtain and cherish a serious sense of the obligations of religion, he believed it would be better that he should resolve never to see her more, than that both of them should be rendered unhappy by a union of hands and hearts where the tastes and feelings were so irreconcileable.

I do not pretend to repeat the words of Frederick on this occasion, but merely to convey his sentiments; doubting not that he would know how to clothe these sentiments in language at once elegant, affectionate, and decisive.

Lady Augusta Clifton heard him throughout without interruption, but, at the same time, with such feelings of enthusiasm towards the speaker, that she felt, for a moment, that, had he asked her to live with him in a cottage on bread and water, she could joyfully have yielded her assent.

When he urged upon her the duty and importance of a serious attention to religion, her admiration of his character increased, and his impressive manner affected her. The tears trembled in her sparkling eyes, and made their way down her glowing cheek; and, at length, overcome by a variety of emotions, she gave way to a burst of tears, and exclaimed, "O, Frederick! dear Frederick! I will, indeed, endeavour to do, to learn, to be,--all you can desire."

Thus terminated this scene; and Frederick and Augusta, as they walked towards the Castle, resolved to wait till his final return from the University before the affair should be mentioned to Lord and Lady V--: and this was proposed, not from any motive of deceit on the part of Frederick, but because he wished that further time should be allowed Augusta for due reflection on the step which she was about to take; and by which she would sink in the estimation of the fashionable world, and enter within a sphere of life totally different from every thing with which she had been hitherto conversant.

As soon as Frederick Falconer was alone with Mr. Day, he related all that had passed between himself and Lady Augusta.

Mr. Day was sorry that things had gone so far, although he could not blame the young people; and he felt that, if Lady Augusta could resolve to sacrifice her ambition and lay aside her loftiness of manner, for the sake of Frederick, she would indeed render herself worthy of him.

The next day, Frederick took leave of his uncle and Mr. Day, and proceeded to the University; where he remained till he had passed his examination, and was admitted to deacon's orders.

In the mean time, Lord and Lady V-- were in Town for some months, but they returned into the country about the time when Frederick Falconer was expected home.

It was the general report, that Lady Augusta had refused a very advantageous match in London; but what reason she assigned to her parents for so doing was not known. When she revisited the country, Mr. Day thought that she looked exceedingly amiable. She treated him with marked affection, borrowed several religious books from him, and was known to take an interest in the welfare of the poor, and to engage in serving them with an activity which she had never before evinced.

When it was known that Frederick's ordination was over, and while his friends in the country were eagerly looking for his return to their society, notice was suddenly brought them, that he was so seriously ill as not to be able to leave his bed; and the intelligence was the more alarming, inasmuch as his complaint was of the same nature with that which had terminated the life of his mother, and had already brought himself, when a child, to the borders of the grave.

Sir Anthony expressed more feeling and less selfishness on this occasion than he was supposed to be capable of; and Lady Augusta was so violently affected, that she had no longer power to conceal her attachment for Frederick from those about her. She wept continually while the least danger continued, and, as her mamma reported the case, she was constantly engaged in prayer.

It is always a good sign when affliction leads an individual to prayer; but it is much to be lamented, when that individual ceases to pray as soon as the affliction is withdrawn.

Mr. Day had hastened to his beloved pupil immediately on receiving the account of his illness, and he remained with him till he was able to be removed, and brought home to his house.

In the mean time Lord and Lady V-- had had sundry private discussions with Sir Anthony, which were held, it was supposed, on the subject of the attachment now known to be subsisting between Frederick and Lady Augusta: and though the result of these discussions could not be precisely ascertained, yet they were considered to be of a tendency favourable to the marriage, as Lady V--, not many days after the return of Mr. Day, with his pupil, to the parsonage, appeared, in her open carriage, with her daughter, at the gate of the garden.

Mr. Day no sooner saw the carriage, than he hastened to the gate, and invited Lady V-- to alight. The lady consented, and, followed by her daughter, was led through the well-ordered shrubbery and wide old-fashioned hall of the parsonage, into a large room with an extensive bow-window, which supplied the double office of a dining-room and study; the books being arranged, with great neatness, in their proper places, while certain fine old busts and prints constituted the only ornaments of the apartment. Frederick was extended on a sofa, near the fire, when the ladies were introduced. He was dressed in black, and, though considerably reduced, he never looked handsomer, the reflection of the crimson window-curtain giving a glow to his complexion which almost resembled the flush of health. He arose with haste to meet his noble guests, and, as he extended his hand to Lady Augusta, she burst into tears; when, so far from meeting with a reproof from her mother, she consoled her in these terms-"Why weep now, Augusta! Our Frederick is restored to us, and we may soon hope to see him in perfect health."

All this appeared so fair, so open, and so disinterested, on the part of Lord V--'s family, that even Mr. Day was pleased, and said to Frederick, "I rejoice to see the high notions of our old friends, Lord and Lady V--, giving way, and that they appear willing to make their daughter happy at the expence of their own magnificent earthly prospects."

This visit of Lady Augusta and her mother seemed to refresh and exhilarate Frederick so much, that he rapidly regained his health, and, as the spring advanced, was enabled, as usual, to visit his uncle and the family at Clifton Castle.

And now prosperity seemed to attend Frederick on every side. He appeared to have been daily growing more and more dear to Sir Anthony since the delinquency of poor Robert. He was the favourite of all at Clifton Castle; and though Lord V-- had never given him a decided promise of his daughter, he was considered by every one as an accepted suitor, and permitted to enjoy Augusta's company whenever he pleased.

About this time, Mr. Falconer was deprived of the society of Mr. Day, who, hearing that Robert Lambert and his lady were going on in a very heedless manner at Paris, resolved to undertake a journey to see his pupil, that he might endeavour in person to profit him by his advice. Frederick was now able to perform the duty of the church; and excellent as Mr. Day was in the pulpit, still, in the opinion of Lady Augusta at least, he was greatly excelled by his pupil. Mr. Falconer, however, had far humbler ideas of his own powers as a Christian teacher, and was fully aware that a babe in Christ cannot instruct like a father of the Church. He endeavoured however to tread as closely as possible in the steps of his tutor, and was careful never to allow his private feelings or pleasures to interfere with his duty as a pastor. Thus, by the divine blessing, he was led on in the way of holiness, and became strengthened in the performance of every Christian duty.

Mr. Day had scarcely been absent one week, when a circumstance, wholly unforeseen, took place in the little society which he left behind him. This was no other than the sudden death, by a fit of apoplexy, of Sir Anthony Lambert. Frederick had been with him only an hour before, and had left him in apparent good health, little thinking that he should never again be permitted to look upon a living uncle.

Frederick was particularly shocked at the unlooked-for decease of this poor man, because it had never been possible to bring him for a moment to any thing like serious reflection on religion or a future state. His mind had always been, and continued to the last, so filled with the empty and circumstantial nothings of life, that he appeared to be incapable of receiving an idea which was not connected with these; and, as he had advanced in life, he seemed more and more devoted to such follies.

To persons thus occupied, a sudden death seems, indeed, a great evil, although we are assured, that a protracted disease or a lingering dissolution would not have the least power of correcting these follies, and bringing such characters to serious reflection, unless attended with a blessing from on high.

As soon as Sir Anthony had been taken ill, Mr. Falconer was sent for, but, as I before said, he did not arrive till the old gentleman had expired. Lord V-- had also been sent for at the same time; and, soon after his arrival, Frederick put his seal, in the presence of that nobleman, on all Sir Anthony's papers and valuables; then, ordering a lead coffin to be made for the remains of Sir Anthony, he dispatched a special messenger to Paris for Robert, now Sir Robert Lambert.

Frederick calculated that it was possible Sir Robert might arrive in about fourteen days; he therefore resolved to delay the funeral till he should come, and, consequently, the body was laid in the coffin, which, by Frederick's orders, was placed in the handsomest apartment of the house, in such state as he thought the deceased would have approved, could he have witnessed what was passing: and during the time that the family were waiting for the arrival of Sir Robert, in order to solemnize the funeral, Frederick continued altogether at the Hall, and kept himself in entire privacy, admitting only Lord V--, who came to him every day, treated him with particular respect, and spoke of his marriage with his daughter as a measure already resolved on, and one which might be expected to take place as soon as the mourning for Sir Anthony was over.

Young people, especially pious young ones, are not apt to be suspicious: yet Frederick, had he reflected but a little, must surely have thought that there was something extraordinary in this excessive politeness.

In the mean time, Mr. Day was proceeding to Paris, where, when he arrived, he found his pupil in a state of misery of which he before had scarcely an idea. He was living in a wretched lodging, almost without the decencies of life, exposed to perpetual fear from creditors, and in a state of the most violent irritation of mind. To add to his distress, Lady Frances Lambert was exceedingly ill, and confined to her bed in a chamber adjoining to that in which Mr. Day found his pupil; she having been brought into this state by uneasiness and disappointment, working on a proud and highly ambitious mind.

At the sight of his tutor, Robert burst into tears; and, throwing himself into his arms, "O my friend! my father!" he said, "I have not deserved this kindness. I am a lost and undone man. I have ruined myself by my own folly. Though all my debts were paid, and I were in possession of a fortune equal to my father's, I must still be miserable: for I have united myself with a woman destitute of principle, and even without affection."

Mr. Day was much touched by this statement of the truth of which he had no doubt, and he immediately set himself to ascertain the extent of the young man's debts, and to discover what could be done for him. He also endeavoured to persuade him to a reconciliation with his wife, to whom it seems he had not spoken for several days; and the good man was the more anxious to bring this about, because, immediately on his seeing the sick lady, he plainly perceived that her constitution was giving way, and that Robert would be set free from his imprudent connexion sooner than he could naturally have expected.

Mr. Day had provided a sum of money more than sufficient for his own wants; and he resolved, by as strict an adherence to economy as decency would permit, to render his purse as useful as possible to Lady Frances, she being unprovided with any other attendant than her own maid, who was as helpless a poor creature, and as entirely overcome by the afflictions in which she saw the family involved, as it was possible for a woman in that situation to be. Mr. Day's presence seemed, however, to encourage her; and Lady Frances herself was, it appeared, particularly affected by his attentions.

While Mr. Day was exerting himself to ascertain the actual state of Robert's affairs, and endeavouring to bring the young couple into a state of mind more in accordance with their circumstances, the entire aspect of affairs was suddenly changed by the arrival of the messenger from Lambert-Hall. It was necessary for Robert to set out immediately, and he now found no difficulty in prevailing with his creditors to allow of his departure: for Mr. Day having advised him to make his situation known to the English ambassador, his Excellency very kindly spoke to them, telling them that the money should be paid immediately; adding, that Mr. Lambert, by the death of his father, was now come into possession of resources so ample, that his present debts would be scarcely an object of consideration to him.

Being thus set free, Robert Lambert thought of nothing but returning to England, and set off post the next morning, leaving Mr. Day behind him; that excellent man having declared his determination not to leave Lady Frances till her husband's return; as her health was becoming daily more and more precarious, and her spirits were now reduced to a state of such deep despondence, that they were wholly incapable of a revival, even in the near prospect of that worldly prosperity which she had hitherto so ardently desired.

Thus is it ever found, that earthly possessions produce no real comfort, unless they are accompanied with the divine blessing: and hence may be seen the folly of endeavouring to obtain, by any artful or dishonest practices, those worldly goods which ought to be the property of another.

A man who really desires and aims at the enjoyment of true peace of mind, will receive the commandment--"Thou shalt not steal," in its largest and most extensive acceptation. His conscience will be delicately tender on this point, and he will admit of no saving clauses wherewith to reconcile his mind to the appropriation of the smallest thing which ought to belong to another. And, inasmuch as nothing but scriptural views of true religion can enable an individual to sit down habitually easy and free from care with respect to the possessions and honours of this world, he will endeavour to keep his eye stedfastly fixed on a future life, and the glories of an eternal state of blessedness.--But to return to our story.

Sir Robert Lambert travelled night and day, and arrived at Lambert-Hall some hours earlier than Frederick had calculated upon.

When he drew near his late father's domains, the young man was considerably affected by the various recollections of his parent, and his heart smote him with the many acts of disrespect and disobedience of which he had been guilty towards him. He thought much also of Frederick, and tried to persuade himself that the superior attention and respect of his cousin's conduct towards Sir Anthony was merely the result of interested motives: "for he could not," thought Robert, "have been blind to my father's singularities, he could not but have seen his weaknesses, and felt his irritating ways. But he had an object to gain which I had not: he had his way to make, and his private interests to promote; and he wanted dignity and spirit sufficient to set him above a mean submission to the whims of those by whom he expected to be the better. I have no doubt," thought Sir Robert, "that if my father has left a will, it will be found that Frederick is handsomely provided for. But be it so: I would not deprive him of the fruits of his assiduities."

Thus Robert hardened his heart against Frederick, and arrived at the Hall in a state of mind full of irritation, not only against his cousin, but against all those whom he supposed to be at all attached to him.

There was a gloom and silence pervading every part of the domain, as Sir Robert advanced through the park to the Hall; and the sight of the hatchment placed over the front door affected him even to tears.

The first questions that he asked, as he sprang from the chaise, and entered the hall, the door of which was opened by an old servant, were, "Is my father yet buried? and who has taken the management of every thing?"

"Your father is not buried, Sir," replied the servant; "and we have looked to Mr. Falconer for our directions."

"Where is Humphreys? where is the steward?" asked Sir Robert. "Let him be sent for."

"He is at this moment with Mr. Falconer in the library."

"Humph!" said Sir Robert, and immediately walked forward to the library, the servant hastening before him to open the door and announce his arrival. Sir Robert found Frederick and the steward busy with certain papers.

At the sight of Robert, Frederick sprang from his seat, and ran to meet his cousin. "I am glad to see you, Robert," he said: "but we did not expect you till to-morrow."

Robert extended his hand coldly towards Frederick, and, glancing his eye over the table, "You seem very busy, Falconer," he said, "deep in affairs!"

"Business must be done by some one, cousin," replied Frederick; "and when the head of the family is not present, it must devolve on others."

"Certainly," returned Robert. "I am much obliged to you for taking the trouble." And, so saying, he threw himself on an easy chair, and began to question the steward on the occasion of Sir Anthony's death, on the arrangements which had been made for the funeral, and other matters of the same kind, without taking any further notice of Frederick.

This behaviour was so pointed, that even the steward seemed embarrassed by it, and made every answer by a reference to Frederick, saying, "Mr. Falconer knows, Sir; Mr. Falconer desired it should be so and so; it was by Mr. Falconer's orders."

In the mean time, Frederick seemed resolved not to be offended, if possible: but, placing himself again at the table, he said, "Robert, I shall finish the arrangement of these papers: they are merely household bills--things of little consequence; but it will save trouble to wind up these unimportant matters."

Sir Robert made no observation on this, but gave orders for refreshments, continuing to speak to Humphreys as if no third person were present.

Frederick, in the interim, completed his business, tied up and wrote memorandums on the papers, and then, delivering them to Mr. Humphreys, "There, Sir," he said, "they are all straight, and ready for Sir Robert's inspection at a future time." Then rising, he came up to Robert, gave him his hand, and told him what he had done with regard to sealing up the papers in Lord V--'s presence, expressing his wish that they might be opened before the same person; and added, "I am going, now, my dear Robert, to return to my own house, where my presence is required, and I shall expect that you will send for me whenever you want me. I must, therefore, bid you adieu."

Robert hesitated, and seemed not to know how to act; but while he still remained undecided, Frederick left the room: and, having given one look at the coffin which contained the remains of his uncle, whose memory at that moment was more precious to him than ever, he returned to his peaceful home, full of sentiments of gratitude to that uncle, through whose kindness he was possessed of such a home, and was in a state of such perfect independence of the humours of his cousin.

The funeral of Sir Anthony took place the next day and was attended by most of the gentlemen of the county, Sir Robert and Frederick being the chief mourners.

The day after the funeral was appointed for opening the seals; on which occasion, Lord V-- was requested to be present, and Frederick thought it his duty to attend. Mr. Coleman, Sir Anthony's solicitor, was also of the party, and some other friends of the family. Lord V-- called on Frederick in his way to the Hall, and took him up in his carriage. He appeared to be in high spirits, and addressed Frederick as one whom he regarded as his future son-in-law.

Frederick, however, was dejected, and said to his Lordship, "I do feel my cousin's coldness; I cannot but feel it; and I fear it will embitter much of my future life. But he is to be pitied. He thinks I have stood in his way in a case where his heart was deeply concerned; and perhaps there is not a severer trial to a man of any feeling, than to be compelled to live in friendship with a successful rival."

Lord V-- smiled, and replied, "You have hit upon a good excuse for Sir Robert's insolence; but I believe that the world, in general, is not inclined to judge so favourably of him as you do."

When they were arrived at the Hall, Lord V-- and Mr. Falconer found the rest of the persons who were to be present at the opening of the seals, assembled in the library, partaking of some refreshments. The party consisted, not only of several gentlemen of distinction in the neighbourhood; but Mr. Humphreys the late Sir Anthony's steward, and Mr. Coleman his solicitor, the latter being a man of great importance in his own esteem, and one who had been introduced to Mr. Lambert some years before by Lord V--, were among the number present.

Sir Robert bowed coolly to the earl, and nodded haughtily to Frederick, as they entered; while Mr. Coleman, in his well-powdered wig and creaking shoes, bustled forward to meet the earl's offered hand, at the same time exchanging a glance with him which was not lost upon Sir Robert, whose uneasy feelings rendered him more than usually quick in observing the change and expression of every countenance. "Lord V--" said Sir Robert, "I am glad to see you; we have been waiting for you some time, and as soon as you have refreshed yourself, we will, if you please, proceed to business."

"I am at your service at any time, Sir Robert," returned the earl, "but, upon my word, this ham looks so temptingly that I must taste it. I believe that the air must have given me an appetite, for I am excessively hungry."

The earl then took his seat at the table, and Mr. Coleman began to shew his skill in cutting the ham, while Lord V-- called for mustard, Chili vinegar, and pickles, exciting such a bustle, that poor Robert was almost ready to wish that some of these good things might stick in his throat. "Do try this hung beef, Lord V--," said Mr. Coleman, "it is most excellent."

Sir Robert, who all this time was walking, or rather stamping, about the room, suddenly stopped, and turning round, desired Frederick, with some haughtiness, to ring the bell.

"What do you want, Sir Robert?" said Mr. Humphreys, running before Frederick to the bell; "can I get any thing for you? Perhaps it might not be so well to introduce the servants, as we are likely to be engaged in business."

"Business!" repeated Sir Robert, "I see no chance of our commencing business at present: Lord V-- and Mr. Coleman are otherwise engaged."

"Did you speak to me, Sir Robert?" asked Mr. Coleman.

"No, Sir," returned Sir Robert; "but when you have satisfied your hunger, we will, if you please, proceed to business."

"Sir, I shall be ready immediately," answered Mr. Coleman; while he and Lord V-- continued to cut slice after slice of the hung beef, evidently enjoying the impatience of Sir Robert, who seemed scarcely able to repress his angry feelings.

"I say, Lambert," said Lord V--, "have you any beef like this in Paris?"

Sir Robert bit his lips, and could hardly find words to answer. Mr. Coleman then took up the subject of French cookery, and ran a parallel between that and English, till at length Frederick became uneasy, and hinted to Lord V-- that he was keeping Sir Robert in pain. "O, true," said Lord V--, looking at his watch, and rising from the table.

Sir Robert appeared as if relieved by this motion, and led the way to the room where Sir Anthony had kept his papers, and which had been locked up by Lord V-- and Frederick.

"Perhaps no man," said Sir Robert, "knew my poor father's arrangements better than you did, Mr Coleman. Is there a will?"

"Yes, Sir," said Mr. Coleman, "there should be one."

"You are acquainted with its contents then, Sir," rejoined Sir Robert.

"I cannot say that I am, Sir," returned Mr. Coleman; "though I was present when it was executed."

Lord V-- looked closely at the seals on an iron chest and scrutoire, all of which were in perfect preservation. The scrutoire was first opened, but it contained nothing of consequence, excepting the key of the strong box. The strong box was next resorted to, and there was the will, which, from its date on the envelope, in Sir Anthony's own hand, appeared to have been made a little after the marriage of Robert; a circumstance which filled the young man with such violent apprehensions that he could scarcely command his feelings till the document was opened.

It was agreed that Mr. Coleman should read the will; and the old gentleman accordingly seated himself, in due form, at a small table, causing the company to arrange themselves around him, and stopping, very deliberately, to wipe his spectacles before he began. At length he unfolded the scroll, and cursorily ran over the preamble, but without the least variation of countenance, during the time of his doing which poor Robert was in agonies. At length the old gentleman began to read, and, after certain long-winded and formal preludes, such as are commonly found at the head of documents of this kind, he proceeded, in an unaltered tone, to these important words:--"I, Anthony Lambert, Baronet, &c. &c. being in sound mind, &c. &c. give and bequeath to my well-beloved and dutiful nephew, Frederick Falconer, the only surviving child of my late sister, Barbara Falconer;" here Mr. Coleman was troubled with a cough, which was, however, the less to be wondered at, as the old gentleman was sometimes known to cough on other occasions, and, being thus put out of his course, he was obliged to begin anew, and to proceed leisurely from the commencement of the above-mentioned weighty clause, till being again come to the name of Barbara Falconer, he went on as follows: "the whole of my landed estates, my personal property, goods, and chattels, &c. &c. to be by him possessed, without condition or encumbrance: and to my son Robert, the whole of his mother's fortune, being ten thousand pounds in the five per cents, with the saving thereupon, &c. &c."

Mr. Coleman was proceeding, when he was suddenly and violently interrupted by the exclamations of several persons in the company; while those who were particularly concerned, started, turned pale, and spoke not a word. "Would you wish to hear these clauses again, Lord V--?" said Mr. Coleman, on his Lordship hinting that he did not understand them. The earl nodded assent, and there was a dead silence in the apartment, while Mr. Coleman recapitulated what he had before read: but he had scarcely come a second time to a conclusion, before Sir Robert, wildly awakening from the state of stupor into which he had been thrown by this sudden and dreadful downfall of all his prospects, rose up, and fixing his fiery gaze on Frederick, who was even more astonished than himself, and was become pale as death from agitation, poured upon him such a volume of bitter execrations as made every one present tremble with horror; "Contemptible creature! mean and creeping villain!" he exclaimed, "are you now satisfied?"

"Robert," said Frederick, "I have not deserved this, I solemnly declare!"

"Fawning hypocrite!" rejoined Robert, interrupting him, "approach me and I will fell you to the ground, and trample you beneath my feet!" and the young man as he spoke stood trembling with rage, and looked as if even murder was not far from his thoughts.

Mr. Humphreys, the venerable steward, at the same instant, took hold of his young master's arm, and hinted something about command of temper; on which Robert pushed him from him, with a violence which made the old man reel backwards to the wall, while he himself again burst forth in a torrent of such furious invectives against Frederick, that even Lord V-- and Mr. Coleman were forced from their pretended calmness, and were, with others present, obliged to use their utmost strength to prevent the rash young man from rushing upon his cousin, and giving such a turn to the scene as no one had foreboded.

"Hear me; only hear me, Robert," said Frederick. "I was as little aware--I had not the least suspicion.--"

"Had not the least suspicion!" replied Robert, taking up Frederick's word in a tone of bitter scorn. "Yes, I believe you; so far I believe you:--you were not aware perhaps, of the complete success of your vile machinations; you had not even hoped that you had succeeded so far as to make me a beggar. But, villain as you are, you shall not enjoy your triumph. I deny the authority of the will; I will contest it in a court of law. You shall never know an hour's enjoyment of your ill-gotten property."

"The will has been duly executed, Sir Robert," said Mr. Coleman, looking at the seals and signature: "it cannot be contested; no law will give it in your favour: the property is not entailed; it must go as the will directs."

"Permit me to speak," said Frederick. "Hear me; only hear me, Robert."

"I have heard enough, I have seen enough, despicable villain!" again interrupted Robert: "more I will not hear."

"But you shall hear me, my brother! my friend!" rejoined Frederick; and he would have added more, had not Lord V-- forcibly drawn him back, Mr. Coleman, at the same time, beseeching him not to provoke his cousin to strike him. "I do not want to provoke him," said Frederick, "if he would but hear me."

"But," said Lord V--, drawing him still further off, "don't you see, my dear Falconer, that, by attempting to speak to him now, you may bring upon yourself some insult which a gentleman never could pass over: he would not hesitate to strike you. Do, pray, my good Falconer, be ruled by me:" and the earl held his arm so firmly, that Frederick could not extricate himself without violence.

While this was passing at one end of the room, the friends of Robert were labouring to keep him within bounds at the other; for he was endeavouring to break through to Frederick. At length, however, the furious young man, finding that he could not prevail, many being against him, tore himself from them, rushed down stairs and out of the house, called for his carriage, and, shortly afterwards, was seen passing the gate into the park, with the utmost speed to which the horses could be urged.

Frederick had not observed the moment of Robert's quitting the room; but when apprized that he was actually gone, he would have followed him, and was hardly restrained, by all who were present, from rushing after him. The earl, however, and his friends, had interest enough to detain him till Robert was altogether beyond his reach, and the gates of the park were closed upon his carriage. Frederick then ceased to dispute the point; and, with a paleness and dejection of countenance which astonished every one present, sat down quietly to hear the remainder of the will, which was of little importance: after which, he requested Lord V-- to do the honours of the house towards the company assembled, and requested the favour of being left awhile to himself.

As soon as the gentlemen were withdrawn, Frederick threw all the papers into the strong box, locked up the scrutoire, and retired to that apartment of the house which he had always occupied when visiting his late uncle; and there, closing the door, he made such an application for the divine direction on the present trying occasion, as assuredly could never be made in vain to Him who hath said, "Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out."

While he was thus employed in earnest and ardent prayer, his mind was promptly enlightened to perceive how he ought to act; and he was also brought to the determination of doing that immediately which he considered it right to do as his last resource. He, accordingly, rang his bell, called for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the following letter to Robert.

"MY DEAR SIR ROBERT,

"You think ill of me, and I confess that appearances are against me. You are persuaded that I have injured you: it remains, therefore, now, for me to vindicate my character, by assuring you, that it is my fixed resolution to take no advantage whatever of the bequest of your father. Give me but your friendship and your confidence, Robert, and I shall be perfectly satisfied, and even most happy, in the consciousness of having acted with integrity, and evinced the power of God, as operating in an earthen vessel, to the eyes of all these who hitherto may have doubted his ability for raising his unworthy creatures above the temptations of the world.

"Return, then, my dear Robert, return to your own home: and God grant that you may prove a blessing to all those who might hereafter depend upon you for comfort and assistance!"

This letter being signed and sealed, Frederick called for his own servant, a very trustworthy young man of sound principles; and, giving it to him, besought him that he would endeavour to trace Sir Robert, and deliver the deposit into his own hands. He also particularly charged him not even to hint to any one whom he might see, before he left the Hall, the object of his intended journey.

As soon as Frederick had dispatched the servant, he felt his mind so greatly relieved, that he returned to the library; where, on finding that Lord V-- and Mr. Coleman, with the other gentlemen, had left the Hall, he called all his servants together, and simply stated to them, what they were all fully apprized of already, that his uncle had left him in entire possession of the estate, having made his will at the period when he was at the height of his resentment on account of Sir Robert's marriage. "According to this will, therefore," said he, "I am entitled, by the laws of my country, to accept and retain this property. But, my friends," he added, and seemed much affected as he spoke, "as a Christian, I have undertaken to submit, not only to the laws of man, but to the laws of God: and although, in taking from Sir Robert his rightful inheritance, I should not, indeed, transgress against the letter of the law which saith--'Thou shalt not steal;' yet, in the spiritual and enlarged sense of that law, such conduct would be a breach of this commandment, and I should, by such a measure, forfeit, in the opinion of every simple Christian, that respect which alone can render me useful as a minister. I should lose my peace of mind, my confidence in my Redeemer, my trust in God; and, in fine, the whole comfort of this present life, and perhaps the happiness of the next."

Frederick paused, and was astonished at the powerful effect which his discourse produced on those present. Some melted into tears, some blessed him, and others praised God for thus displaying his power in this his devoted servant; and all united, as if with one voice, in requesting him to retain his authority over them, acknowledging that they were all rejoicing, but a moment before, in being subjected to that authority.

"I cannot, I dare not, grant your requests," replied Frederick. "Cease, therefore, to urge me, my friends; and doubt not that you will find Sir Robert a kind and generous master, and one who will shine more in power and prosperity than he has in adversity."

While these things were passing at Lambert-Hall, Lord V-- had returned to Clifton Castle, to relate the events of the day to his lady and daughter. I do not use the word news of the day, because it so happened, that Lady V--, her noble husband, and their beautiful daughter, had been fully apprized of Sir Anthony's intentions with respect both to his nephew and son, from the period of Sir Robert's delinquency and although Lord V-- had proceeded throughout the whole of the business with a high degree of worldly wisdom and discretion, yet it was, in a great measure, owing to his influence and that of his lady, together with the blandishments of their beautiful daughter, that Sir Anthony's resolution of disinheriting his son remained fixed, till such time as his sudden death rendered the act irretrievable.

Lady V-- and Augusta were walking in the park at Clifton when the earl's carriage entered it, on his return from Lambert-Hall. He no sooner saw his wife and daughter, than he ordered his servants to stop, and springing from the carriage, hastened to meet them, with such an air and expression of countenance as proved, before he spoke, that all had turned out at the Hall just as they wished it. Augusta's fine face was flushed with pleasure; and Lady V-- exclaimed, "I am glad to see you, my Lord, so cheerful. How did Robert bear it? Was he very indignant?"

"Indignant!" said his Lordship, "how could he be otherwise? A cooler temper than our friend Roberts would have been inflamed by a less thing than this. But the scene was capital. That arch hypocrite, Coleman, who, you know, has detested young Lambert ever since he was insulted by him, some years ago, at a public dinner, was so cold, so impenetrable, and so immoveable; old Humphreys stared so, and seemed so puzzled, between the old and new master, his love and regard pulling him one way, for he is very fond of Falconer, and habit and custom drawing him the other, that it was really quite diverting."

"And Frederick," said Lady V--, "how did he behave? Had he any idea, do you think, before the reading of the will, of the great things which were to be done for him?"

"I verily believe," said Lord V--, "that he did not expect sixpence from the will: and he was so violently affected by the distress of his cousin, that, had Robert shewn the slightest self-command, had he not behaved altogether like a brute on the occasion, I verily believe that young Falconer would have made concessions by which he would have lost all the benefit of the bequest."

"Well," said Lady Augusta, laughing, "I could almost be sorry for poor Robert, if I were not so very glad."

Lord and Lady V--, with their daughter, continued in conversation to this effect till they returned to the Castle; where, meeting with some visitors, they were obliged to change the subject, and to affect that fashionable ease and carelessness which persons used to polished society are enabled to assume on every occasion. These visitors dined at the Castle, but left it early after dinner; and they were no sooner gone, than Frederick Falconer arrived.

The moment he entered the drawing-room, Lady V-- hastened to congratulate him on the acquisition of his immense fortune, and Lady Augusta welcomed him with her sweetest smiles. But Frederick, instead of evincing an increased animation, or shewing any unusual elation of spirits, seemed agitated and embarrassed, and there was a something in his whole appearance which alarmed Augusta, though she scarcely knew wherefore. His cheek was considerably flushed, his hair disordered, and care and solicitude sat on his brow. He took no notice of the compliments paid him by the countess, but requested the favour of a few moments' private conversation with Lady Augusta, which request was instantly complied with by her mother, who walked out of the room, and, closing the door after her, left the young people together.

Augusta, when left with Frederick, seated herself on a sofa in a recess of the window, waiting patiently till her companion should speak: but he kept her for some moments in suspense, while he paced the room, evidently in violent agitation. At length, turning suddenly towards her, and looking upon her with no small expression of disturbance within, "O, Augusta!" he said, "you whom I have loved from my infancy, you who alone, of all women, have ever possessed my heart, tell me, now,--must I forfeit you, together with the great possessions which I am about to deliver up to their rightful owner? or will you fix upon me an eternal weight of obligations, by sharing with me my sacrifice to justice, and partaking with me the humble lot to which I was destined at my birth?"

Augusta trembled, blushed, and hesitated. At length, she said, "Frederick, I do not understand you: what is it you propose?"

Frederick approached her. He seated himself by her on the sofa; he also took her hand and pressed it to his lips. He looked earnestly upon her. Her beautiful face was covered with blushes, and a tear stole down her cheeks. "Augusta," he said, "I have written to Robert, and I have declared my determination of delivering up to him the whole of what his father left me."

Augusta started. She drew her hand from his. Anger inflamed every feature; and recoiling, as it were, from him, as he sat near her, "You have done this, Frederick?" she said. "You are actually resolved to reject the good fortune which was offered you, and you expect me to encourage you in this folly, and to prove my regard by upholding you in an act of the grossest absurdity?"

"I did not expect all this from you, Augusta," replied Frederick: "I anticipated no difficulty on your part, and I believed that you would have assisted me in reconciling your noble parents to that step which I am determined to take."

"You had formed a very high opinion, then, of your own perfections, and of my regard," returned Augusta, with a smile of contempt, "if you supposed that I should think a marriage with you such an object, that I should be ready to take you in one hand, and beggary in the other."

"Beggary!" returned Frederick, rising from the couch; "beggary, Augusta! Have I not a thousand a year, a comfortable house, independent of any fortune you might have had? Oh, Augusta! Augusta!" he said, "you have awakened me from a dream, a dream of delight, in which, had it lasted much longer, I might have ceased to look forward to the happiness of another world. But all is right," he added, striking his hand on his forehead, and then clasping both hands together, and looking upwards, " all thou ordainest is right, O my God. Henceforward may I love thee, and thee only!" Then turning again to the young lady, and holding out his hand to her, "Shall we part, my beloved?" he said. "Must I renounce either my integrity or the woman I have loved from childhood? Will you give your hand to the humble Frederick Falconer, and attach him to yourself for ever by this condescension? or will you renounce him, as he has done the fortune which he could not accept without injustice and ingratitude? Speak my beloved; speak but one word, and make me the happiest, as I shall be the most highly favoured of men."

The young lady wept violently. Frederick thought she was deliberating in his favour. He drew nearer to her, and was about to take her hand, when, rejecting him with scorn, "No, Frederick," she said, "I repeat to you, that I will not uphold you in the folly you meditate. No, if you can resolve thus to throw away my future comfort, I cannot suppose your regard to be such as it ought to be. That I love you, Frederick, that I have always loved you, I do not deny: but I cannot, I never will, consent to the foolish sacrifice you are about to make. Let us now part, and it will depend on what you resolve, whether we ever meet again in any other character than that of common acquaintance." So saying, she arose, and, while still weeping, left the room.

The eyes of Frederick followed her, as she passed along the splendid apartment; and, as soon as she had shut the door behind her, he left the room by another outlet, quitted the Castle, and, making the best of his way to the parsonage, shut himself up in his own chamber, where he was confined a few days with a slight fever, occasioned by the excessive agitation which he had endured for some hours past.

Five days had passed during which Frederick had been obliged to keep his chamber, in which time he enjoyed much peace of mind, the consequence of the divine blessing upon his honourable intentions. When able to leave his room, he had several visits from Lord and Lady V--, which ended only in increased displeasure on the part of these noble individuals, who represented his determination of giving up the estate to Robert as an act of the grossest folly, and assured him that they never would consent to his marriage with their daughter, if he persisted in this absurdity. But, through the divine blessing, he was enabled to adhere to his first determination, and was almost brought to feel, that Augusta was not the woman who would have made him happy, though her peculiar loveliness had hitherto blinded him to this truth.

It was on the occasion of the last visit of this noble pair to Mr. Falconer, and at the moment when they were about to take their leave, that a travelling-carriage drove up to the door of the parsonage, from which sprang Sir Robert Lambert. Frederick hastened into the hall to receive him, and was about to take Robert in his arms, when the young man fell at his feet, embraced his knees, burst into tears, and exclaimed, "O my brother! my friend! my Frederick! you have, at length, more than conquered me. I see your merits, and my own injustice. Oh, pardon, pardon your Robert. Give me your friendship: give me my father's legacy, and retain your estate; you are more worthy of it than I am. Yours it is, and yours it shall be: my father judged wisely: you alone deserve it."

Lord and Lady V--, who, from the inner apartment, heard all that was passing, looked at each other, and were astonished. They saw Frederick lift up Robert and embrace him, and heard him declare that he never would deprive him of his natural rights. "I do not want these possessions, my dear cousin," be said, "they would not make me happier; I am content with what I have.--A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth." [Luke xii. 15.]

In this manner, and to this purpose, the young men had for some time persevered in their contest of generosity, when Lord and Lady V-- interrupted them, by passing through the hall to their carriage. Robert started at the sight of them, bowed, and drew back, but Frederick stepped forward to hand Lady V-- to her carriage.

The noble pair took a formal leave of Frederick, who stood at the door of the house looking at the carriage till it was out of sight. Then, fetching a deep sigh, he returned to Robert, who began immediately to renew his entreaties that his cousin would at least share his father's fortune with him.

"My dear Robert," said Frederick, "we have, in the excellent Mr. Day, a common friend and father, whom we may hope to see in a few days. I insist on giving up the estate to you; and what you shall do for me shall be left to the arbitration of this friend. I repeat to you, that I want nothing. I have already all I require for myself, and even much more. At one time I thought of marrying, but at present my views on that subject are altered. But we will leave this matter now. Make me but your friend, my cousin; grant but your confidence; and henceforward may we be as dear brothers who have but one interest, and who may hope to spend a happy eternity together when these perishable scenes shall have passed away."

I shall not repeat all that Sir Robert said in reply to this. Suffice it to add, that the removal of his suspicions of Frederick seemed to have, with the divine blessing, a sudden and happy influence upon his whole mind and character. He now was enabled to see and to honour the beautiful and glorious effects of religion on the human heart; he was also made to perceive the violence, impetuosity, and injustice of his own conduct through life; and he was, in consequence, humbled, being rendered dubious of his own judgment, and willing to submit it to that of his friend, whose character, as I before said, was now discovered to him in its true colours. But to proceed with our narrative.

Robert, for several days after his arrival, still remained with Frederick, resolving to await the return of Mr. Day before he proceeded to the arrangement of his affairs, or the further inspection of papers. It appears, that Lady Frances had by her conduct so entirely forfeited the respect of her husband, that it could no longer be required of him to pay her the attention due to every reputable wife: and it therefore can be no matter of astonishment that he received the account of her death, which was forwarded by Mr. Day, and arrived a few days after Sir Robert reached the parsonage, with sentiments, if not altogether of thankfulness, at least of a mixed feeling. Mr. Day informed him, in the letter which brought an account of his lady's death, that it was his intention to follow this letter as soon as possible after the funeral: and he accordingly appeared within twenty-four hours of the time intimated.

The meeting between Mr. Day and his two pupils, after so many eventful occurrences had taken place in the family, was very affecting; and when he was made acquainted with the noble conduct of Frederick, and the present generous and penitent feelings of Robert, the good, gentleman melted into tears, and exclaimed, while lifting up his eyes and hands, to heaven, "O my God, I thank thee that thou hast heard my prayers: I am, indeed, blessed in my children!"

When Mr. Day had somewhat recovered the fatigue of his journey, he entered into the business of arbitration between his pupils, having first insisted that they should abide by his determination.

"I have by me," said Mr. Day, "the outline of a will made by your poor father while you, Robert, were at the University; and I think that we cannot do better than abide by this will, supposing the last not to be in existence with respect to yourself and Frederick. By this first will, Frederick was entitled to ten thousand pounds; and I certainly think it but just that he should now receive this same legacy, and not, at any rate, be a loser by your father's too generous intentions towards him.

Robert begged to be permitted to double the sum; but Mr. Day remarked that there was to be no appeal from his decision, and the matter was thus amicably and wisely arranged, Frederick, however, assuring Mr. Day that he should have been perfectly satisfied although he had not been one shilling the better for his uncle's will.

From that period I am happy to say that Sir Robert Lambert never forgot the obligation he owed to Frederick; and all uneasy feelings being removed, his admiration of his character and love of his excellent qualities seemed, with the divine blessing, to effect such a change in his heart as seemed to render him a new creature.

While things were thus happily proceeding at Lambert-Hall and the parsonage, and peace restored to the minds of the two cousins, (Frederick and Robert both having been brought to feel that in missing Augusta they had perhaps escaped a woman whose ambition might have rendered them miserable,) the death of Lady Frances had wrought a mighty change in the politics of Clifton Castle.

Lord and Lady V-- found themselves completely baffled, and were made to feel that the very steps which they had taken to secure a particular situation for their daughter were the very means of her losing this situation. Lady Augusta, however, was still in the first bloom of her beauty, and might expect to marry a man of higher rank than Sir Robert Lambert: they therefore resolved to leave the country for a few months, and to try their daughter's fortune elsewhere, not recollecting or supposing it possible that Augusta might still retain such a regard for Frederick, (whom she had never even mentioned since he had refused to oblige her by sacrificing his integrity to her ambition,) as would render it impossible for her ever to think of another person.

But the truth was, that the noble and disinterested conduct of Frederick towards his cousin, and the anguish he expressed when compelled to sacrifice the object of his tender regard to his sense of duty, had so raised him in her esteem, that she would now have given up every earthly prospect, had it been possible thereby to recall the past, and render herself loved and respected by him as she once had been.

"O Frederick, my Frederick," she would often say, when left to her own private reflections, "Oh, had I but shared with you the glorious sacrifice, how blessed, how loved, how honoured by all, should I now have been! and in what peace might I have dwelt with you in your humble yet fragrant dwelling, where, as in a second Eden, I should have employed myself in the presence of my beloved, the assistant and sharer in all his innocent labours and works of charity! But ambition and covetousness have proved my bane and destruction. O miserable, lost Augusta!" In this manner would the young lady bemoan herself; while she still could see no menus of retracing her steps, or of making her present feelings known to Frederick, consistently with the delicacy of her sex.

Thus did this fine young creature become the prey of secret sorrow: the colour faded from her cheeks; she grew silent and pensive in company; and, when unobserved, was continually in tears.

In the mean time, she was removed by her parents from Clifton Castle, and carried first to Bath, and afterwards to Town.

And now, weeks had rolled round, and nearly eight months had elapsed since the death of Sir Anthony. Robert had been established some time at the Hall, and habitually conducted himself in a manner which obtained for him the respect and love of all his dependents.

The months of spring at length arrived, and the gardens of the Hall and parsonage were beginning to look gay with the buds and blossoms of the renewed year; Mr. Day and his pupils were full of schemes of Christian love and benevolence; and the amiable Frederick was preparing himself for priest's orders; when suddenly there appeared in him symptoms of that alarming disease which had twice before threatened his life.

To describe the anguish of Robert and Mr. Day on this occasion would be impossible. Frederick himself was now the only one who could speak a word of comfort. "My father, and my brother," he said, "I may recover as I have before done; I may overcome this attack, if the Lord permits, and live to be a hale old man: but if not, my Robert, if I must go, what then? I shall indeed be parted for a little while from you, and from my adopted parent; but I shall be the gainer: I shall be there, where my home and my heart have long been, praised be He who drew that heart unto himself, and opened to my view such scenes of glory in a future world, as with the value of which no earthly possessions could admit of the least comparison.

"But who," added the young man, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, "who wrought this mighty work in me, and sent his Holy Spirit to dwell within this polluted temple, making his strength apparent in my weakness, and causing his holiness to shine amidst the deepest natural corruption? Who, but that God who willed my salvation ere yet my body was fashioned out of the dust, or the spirit of life breathed into my nostrils? God the Father loved me, and prepared for my salvation, ere the foundations of this earth were laid, or the morning stars had sung together. That salvation was complete when my Saviour cried out, It is finished. And I trust that God the Holy Spirit has been fitting me, through many years past, for the glory provided for me, by his regenerating and sanctifying grace, although I long resisted him with the whole strength of a corrupt nature and an unconverted will."

"Oh, my son," Mr. Day would reply, "my Frederick! God give me strength, if needful, to yield you up; for I feel that I cannot do it in my own strength."

Robert could not speak on these occasions, but repeatedly, when Frederick spoke of the probability of his death, did he rise in haste, leave the room, and return again after a while, his eyes red with weeping, and with an expression of sorrow which he was unable to conceal.

Frederick's disease, which was upon the chest, had, in his two former attacks, been so acute, that, in a few weeks, the result in both cases was decisive; but on this occasion it operated much more slowly, and was more variable in its effects, favourable symptoms at times presenting themselves, and again disappearing. The young man, in the mean time, grew daily more emaciated, his strength and appetite gradually declining, and his power of exertion growing less and less; while, however, the sweet peace which he continually enjoyed was habitually such that he declared himself as being only too happy. He described himself as enjoying an unshaken trust in his Saviour, and a bright hope of future blessedness, which was uniformly unclouded, though at the same time utterly independent of any idea of self-confidence. That noble act by which he had secured the admiration of all who knew him, he seemed at this time wholly to have forgotten, inasmuch as he never once adverted to it; and if any one hinted at the subject in his presence, he would reply, "How could a Christian, or even an upright moral man, have acted any otherwise than I did on that occasion? You lower the tone of mere morality, my friend, by representing an act of this kind as any thing more than a common duty. Would you praise a man for not robbing on the highway, when I tell you that a common highwayman is a superior character to one who takes advantage of circumstances to deprive a neighbour, a distant relation, or a brother, of his just rights?"

I could with pleasure write many pages relative to the blessed state of mind of this truly noble and pious young man during the few last weeks of his life. His decay was so gradual, that even his nearest friends were not fully aware how soon they would be required to give him up. His last evening was spent in his favourite apartment, the library of the parsonage; where, as he lay on the sofa, with his beloved tutor and Robert seated by his side, the brilliancy of his eyes, and the hectic glow of his cheeks, added to the natural beauty of his features, rendered his aspect so far from deathlike, that, although his pulse throbbed violently, and his breath was alarmingly oppressed, the idea of his very speedy dissolution did not by any means occur to his anxious friends. The window of the room was open, it being summer, and some of the little children from his school at Farewell had come to bring him an offering of fruit.

When their little presents were brought, he took a single strawberry from the basket; and, having eaten it, begged that the children might be ranged around, without the window, to sing a favourite hymn which he had taught them. His request was complied with; and while they sang, he seemed pleased, and even affected. "Ah, dear children, I shall never hear your voices again," he said; "I shall never more visit your little village: but I thank God for the happy hours I have spent among you." He then added these words:

"'These are the joys he makes us know
In fields and villages below;
Gives us a relish of his love,
But keeps his noblest feast above.'"

On that very night, at twelve o'clock, this blessed young man finished his short but glorious course, in the arms of Robert Lambert, while his tutor, with several old servants, were kneeling round his bed.

Frederick Falconer's death took place exactly one year and six days after that of his uncle; and when, had he accepted the bequest of Sir Anthony, he might have been in possession of the estate precisely one year, wanting nine days.

Frederick Falconer had been laid out in the handsomest room of the parsonage about eight hours, and his fine features were settled in death, although the hectic glow had scarcely yet forsaken his lips and cheeks, while the most beautiful flowers from the greenhouse and hothouse, belonging to the Hall and his own garden, were profusely scattered over the sheet with which he was covered, when suddenly a carriage appeared at the gate, from which rushed the unhappy Augusta in a state little short of frenzy.

Robert Lambert met her as she entered the hall.

Her step was hurried; her hair disordered; and her cheeks were in a glow. "Where is my Frederick?" she said, addressing Robert, but not seeming to know the person thus addressed.

Robert was silent, and seemed violently agitated at the sight of this young lady.

"Where is Mr. Falconer?" said Augusta, turning from Sir Robert to a servant who entered the hall.

The servant's eye directed her to the stairs. She approached them, and ascending rapidly, met Mr. Day at the door of the room, where rested all that was mortal of the late elegant and amiable youth.

"Lady Augusta Clifton!" said Mr. Day, with astonishment.

"Where is Mr. Falconer?" repeated Augusta; and pushing by Mr. Day, she entered the room, and hastened with a quick step towards the bed, but stopping short at the sight of the corpse, she clasped her hands, turned pale as death, and remained a moment motionless. Then looking, as if appealing for pity, at Mr. Day and Robert, who had followed her into the room, she approached the corpse, and stooping over it, addressed it in the following words.-- "Yes, my Frederick, I have resolved, I have determined upon doing all that you required. I will abandon all for you; all the pleasures, all the honours, all the distinctions, of this world,--I give them all up for you." So saying, she pressed her lips on the cold forehead of the corpse, and sank insensible upon the bed.

In this state she was removed, and every means were used to restore her senses. She at length recovered, and, with a calm dignity, which was even more dreadful than her late frenzy, she bade adieu to Mr. Day and Sir Robert, got into her carriage with her maid, and was driven back to Clifton Castle.

From that day Lady Augusta was never more seen to smile; and a very few years terminated that life which had been begun amidst prospects the most fair, but the happiness of which had been entirely marred by the eager desire of possessing the distinctions, honours, and riches of this world.

The funeral of Frederick was marked by expressions of the deepest sorrow. It was attended by Lord V--, Sir Robert Lambert, and Mr. Day, and by multitudes of young and old persons of every rank in the neighbourhood. The children of the school at Farewell sang Frederick's favourite hymn over his grave; and there was not an individual present who did not weep abundantly, nor one who would not gladly have changed place with him, who in his life had been so eminently enabled to shew forth the effect of grace, and whose death had been as tranquil as that was honourable.

Lord and Lady V--, when it was too late, deplored their former ambitious aims respecting their daughter: and I rejoice in being able to add, that, having been favoured with clearer views of religion through the instrumentality of Mr. Day, and in consequence of the ever-memorable example of Frederick Falconer, by the time that their son arrived at that age when he might be expected to choose a wife, they desired chiefly to find a virtuous woman--virtuous in the true Christian acceptation of the term; being now fully persuaded, that good principles, in a son or daughter are more to be esteemed than gold and silver, and all that the world deems desirable.

After the death of his much-lamented Frederick, Mr. Day attached himself to Robert Lambert; and the last ten years of this good man's life were spent in the education of two sons of Sir Robert, the eldest of whom was called Frederick, and the second, Falconer.

Sir Robert was a sincere and constant mourner for his beloved Frederick, and a successful imitator of his glorious example; being counted, after he came to his estate, one of the most upright, honourable, and generous men of whom his country could boast, and I need not add, a man of solid and consistent piety.

Sir Robert Lambert did not marry again till some time after the death of Augusta, and, it was reported, that he offered himself to her more than once during this interval. But this unhappy young lady continued to the last faithful to the memory of her Frederick; and, as she died in confident reliance on the merits of her Saviour for the pardon of her numerous misdeeds, we may trust that she is now rejoicing in the presence of that Saviour, in the land where all tears shall be wiped from our eyes.

Many years are passed away since Frederick Falconer was delivered from this present evil world: but a noble full-length portrait of him is still to be seen in a gallery at Lambert-Hall, where he is represented in the full bloom of health and beauty, but clothed in light and resplendent garments, and elevating his eyes and hands towards heaven, with a brilliant crown hanging over his head, while beneath his feet are placed bags of gold and other emblems of earthly magnificence. And the children's children of Robert Lambert still shew this portrait with evident satisfaction, and are delighted to relate the history which occasioned its existence.

The lady of the manor here concluded her narrative; at the same time expressing her hope, that she had succeeded, in some small degree, in pointing out and explaining the rule of rectitude which every Christian ought to observe with regard to the possessions of his neighbours, and in warning her young people against that more polite kind of stealing of which proud and ambitious persons are continually guilty. "Ambition," she added, "is a prolific source of dishonesty; but it is, nevertheless, natural to man's heart, and can never be eradicated from thence until the Spirit of God has exercised his power in the regeneration and sanctification of the soul."

The lady of the manor then called her young people to prayer.

A prayer for grace to be enabled strictly and spiritually to fulfil all the duties enforced by the eighth commandment.

"O Lord God, our only ground of hope and confidence, thou by whom we were first created, and who hast kindly supplied all our wants during the years of tender and helpless infancy, graciously inspire us with such a perfect trust in thee, such an entire reliance on thy fatherly care, and such a firm assurance that that care will be continued unto the end, that we may never allow ourselves to entertain any anxieties respecting our future lot on earth, nor attempt to supply our necessities by any means in the least degree dishonourable, or unjustifiable by the divine law of perfect love.

"Imprint on our minds, O blessed Lord, this indisputable truth--that goods unjustly gotten never profit, but become as rust and moths among our worldly possessions, Teach us to be content with what we have, be it little or be it much, and anxious only to use our substance to the glory of God, knowing that a small supply, with contentment, is far more desirable than the greatest wealth, without thy divine blessing.

"Enable us, O Lord, to resist all the temptations that riches may suggest; all undue desires of being great or exalted on the earth; all covetous expectations of inheriting the goods of another, or of obtaining them in any way, which, even though it may be sanctioned by the written laws of man, may not be compatible with that spirit of universal love which ought to subsist between the children of one common Father. And, inasmuch as the world is all in all to those to whom the views of future glory are not as yet unfolded to the eye by faith, grant us, O Lord, that faith which is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen; so that we, having a vehement desire after things hoped for, may loose our hold on those inferior objects already within our grasp; and, in looking forward to certain glory and unsearchable riches in the world to come, may cease to value the perishable riches and fading honours of the present life.

"And, to this end, give us, O Lord, a clear view of the hope which is in us, and shew us our title to the treasures which are above, in order that we may be enabled the more easily to renounce those which are on earth. Enable us to admire and adore thy declaration of those divine decrees by which the children of the Blessed One were elected heirs of glory, ere yet the measurement of time commenced, and the glorious courses of the planets had begun to distinguish the seasons and mark the changes of night and day. Make us to understand how the promises of future blessedness were purchased by the blood of Christ, and signed and sealed by Him, who, because he could swear by no greater, used his own incommunicable name, to ratify the bond. And, finally, lead us to consider how the Lord the Spirit works continually in preparing us for glory.

"Lead us, O Lord, to meditations on these subjects, and teach us to feed on thy promises, till we are enabled to cast the world beneath our feet, to trample on its riches, and to triumph over its temptations. And so guide us, O blessed Lord, with thy counsels, that we may hereafter enter into thy eternal glory, through the name and merits of Jesus Christ, our only Lord and Mediator. Amen."

NINTH COMMANDMENT--THOU SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS AGAINST THY NEIGHBOUR.

"The offences of the tongue, and the proper management of this little member, is the subject, my dear young people, to which we are this day led by the commandment that is now to be considered," said the lady, of the manor, looking affectionately round on her young friends, who were once more gathered about her. "This precept, viz. 'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour,' is of extensive signification, and not only forbids actual falsehoods and intentional misrepresentations, but all exaggerations and careless misstatements even of the slightest facts. And hence the best of persons have found, that, inasmuch as that every one is liable to misconceptions, the safest and surest way to prevent any breaches of the ninth commandment, is, to avoid much mention of their neighbours' concerns, and all unnecessary interferences with the affairs of others.

"The scourges and lashes of the tongue," proceeded the lady of the manor, "have, no doubt, their use in society, and have been employed, and still are so, in checking gross evils, and bringing secret sins to light; though, at the same time, they are full as often the instruments of evil as of good; and, at any rate, they belong not to the panoply of Christian warfare thus described by the Apostle.--Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and, having done all, to stand. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness; and your feet shod with the preparation of the Gospel of peace; above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. [Eph. vi. I3--I7.]

"And now, my beloved young people, having briefly stated the motives which religion suggests for the control of the tongue, I shall proceed to give you some of my own views on the state of conversation in general in this country.

"It is commonly supposed, that a gossiping disposition is now confined to low life, and that the genuine spirit of it is rarely found in any higher circle than the milliner's shop. But this appears to me an error; and although there is a certain sort of tittle-tattle which seldom creeps into polished life, yet I am of opinion that there is not a single order or denomination of men, from the courtiers who attend the royal levee, to the shoeblack in the corner of the street, who has not its appropriate gossip and its petty calumnies.

"Gossip and tittle-tattle, disguised with the cloak of pretended charity and anxiety for the well-being of a neighbour's soul, is one of the greatest evils of the present state of religious society. The University has a peculiar style of tittle-tattle of its own, with an appropriate language. There is another sort of tittle-tattle at clerical meetings; and another where many military men are found. Persons bred to the law and to physic have each their appropriate gossip, independent of all discussions of that general kind which may be useful to them in their professions. The higher and lower, the elegant and coarser orders of females, have each their tea-table scandal. Seminaries of instruction are, in general, deeply infected with this low spirit of tittle-tattle; and the halls of the senate, and the very courts of kings, are as deeply infected with this evil spirit as the tepid atmosphere of the laundry and the workshop of the tailor. And the unconverted man, in every situation and rank of life, is nearly as incapable of refraining from this kind of pastime, as he would be to live without bread or water."

The young ladies smiled at this assertion of their instructress; not, indeed, because they questioned its truth, but at the new view which it gave them of society--a view which brought conviction with it to all those who had seen any thing of the world. "But may I ask you, my dear Madam," said one of the young ladies, "how you would define the word gossip or tittle-tattle?"

"Gossip is no other," returned the lady of the manor, "than the repetition of such unimportant matters as take place in the families of our acquaintance, or as affect their affairs. This kind of conversation is always unimproving; and it is more or less sinful, according to the feelings by which it is dictated, and the spirit in which it is uttered. When retailed without excitement of any kind, and merely from the love of talking, it is inexpressibly dull; and when dictated by evil passions, which is most commonly the case, it becomes decidedly injurious to all who hear it: and, to say the best of it, if it does not excite bad passions in the hearer, it fills his mind with a sort of rubbish which leaves little room for more useful matter.

"But, inasmuch," continued the lady of the manor, "as I have a very striking narrative by me, wherein these matters, to wit, the faults of the tongue, are largely discussed, and their sad consequences very plainly set forth, I shall say the less beforehand, but refer you to my manuscript for my further opinion on these subjects."

The sight of a manuscript always pleased the young people; and while the lady was unfolding it, one of them ventured to say, that she thought it impossible that any character she might hereafter meet with should please her so well as that of Frederick Falconer.

"Well," said the lady of the manor, "we shall see. But I apprize you, that, though I am about to introduce you into a large society, there is but one individual in that society whose character can be at all compared with your favourite Frederick."

She then spread the paper before her, and read as follows:--

CLARA LUSHINGTON'S ACCOUNT OF HERSELF; RELATED, DURING THE COURSE OF A LONG ILLNESS, TO A TENDER AND PIOUS FRIEND, WHO WAS HER CONSTANT COMPANION.

"I was born in the province of Delhi in the East Indies. My father was an officer, high in the Company's service; and my mother a native of Cashmere, born of Mussulmaun parents, and never, as I have reason to fear, convinced of the errors of that faith.

"From such an ill-assorted union, much domestic happiness was, of course, not to be expected, neither, as I well remember, did much result.

"I do not recollect the station at which I was born, my parents having left it while I was too young to take much notice. When I first became conscious of my existence, I was living with them at Cawnpore, a European station in the East Indies, on the banks of the Ganges, about eight hundred miles above Calcutta.

"Cawnpore is the largest station, with the exception of Calcutta, on that side of India; consisting, first, of a black or native town, a barrack for European infantry, a second for artillery, a third for European cavalry, and a fourth for native cavalry; the whole forming a line along the banks of the river for nearly seven miles, the country in the rear of and between these several stations for regiments being sprinkled with gentlemen's houses, standing, for the most part, in beautiful gardens abounding with all kinds of fruit and forest trees.

"My father, who held a staff situation in this place, inhabited a house situated at the extreme end of the native cavalry cantonment. The site of his habitation was on a conca rock, on the bank of the river; and it consisted of two bungalows, united by a gallery which was formed of mud, and covered with thatch, of nearly a quarter of a mile in length, and built with a gradual ascent from the lower to the upper bungalow.

"Of the two bungalows, the less, which was the habitation of my mother, was so near the precipice which flanked the bed of the river, that one of the outer verandahs hung in mid air, suspended on beams strongly attached to the rock, and at such a height as to be above the highest masts of the pinnaces and budgerows which passed beneath. The second bungalow, which was my father's especial dwelling, lay in a direction from the river, and considerably lower than the first or lesser one, the long passage before mentioned sloping considerably towards it.

"The bungalows in India, whether large or small, are, for the most part, of the same construction; being built of unbaked bricks and covered with thatch, having in the centre a hall, encircled by eight smaller apartments, the whole being encompassed by an open verandah, commonly inclosed by rails, and shut up, at times, by a kind of delicate matting, composed of rushes, and painted of various colours, by which the glaring light of the sun is excluded, although the air is admitted.

"My father's bungalow was furnished, according to the taste of Europeans, with branched wall-shades, carpets, and tables carefully polished. I also remember a sideboard, richly covered with plate; and his equipages were as numerous and various as we should see in the establishment of a prince in Europe. Well do I remember the elephant, with his sumptuous howdah, on which my father went out every day before sunrise, and on which, as a great favour, I was sometimes permitted to accompany him.

"My father at that time loved pomp, and kept much company, although I have had reason to think that his whole views of life and happiness have since been entirely changed. The publicity and display in which he then indulged formed, however, a very striking contrast with my mother's mode of life, which was so retired, and so monotonous, that a European female would, I believe, have some difficulty even to conceive it.

"The bungalow in which my mother resided was, as I before remarked, much smaller than my father's, though of the same construction. It was also furnished entirely according to the eastern custom. My mother herself occupied the centre apartment, which on all occasions was shut out from the others by such light screens as I have described above, these screens being covered with green silk, to render them more impervious to the eye. The walls of her room were whitewashed, and the pavement was spread with a sitringe, or carpet of striped cotton, the manufacture of the country. Attached to the ceiling, in the centre of the room, was a kind of silken canopy, enriched with golden fringe, from which fell a drapery of purple China gauze, which in the day-time was knotted up, but in the night opened and spread over the person beneath. On the floor, under this canopy, was a large quilt of Benares silk, spreading widely around, and, upon this, many cushions of the richest kinquaub. In the centre of these cushions was my poor mother's usual resting-place; and there she commonly sat, in the oriental fashion, with her paun-box, of burnished gold, on one side, and her hookah, of materials equally rich, on the other.

"On this spot she spent twenty out of the twenty-four hours, never moving from it, night or day, excepting in the cool of the evening, when she went out into the high gallery above mentioned as suspended from the top of the rock over the river. There seated, with her female servants about her, she enjoyed a little variety in looking down, through the purdah, upon the boats passing and repassing beneath. How she spent the rest of the twenty-four hours I can give you little idea, excepting that some part of each day was devoted to the use of the hookah, in chewing the betel-nut, and in sitting under the hands of the waiting-women, who expended no small labour in combing, perfuming, and braiding her hair.

"My mother never, as I can remember, discovered any very strong proofs of regard for me, excepting in case of my being ill; on which occasions I more than once recollect her displaying deep and tender solicitude: and, when I think of this parent, and consider that she died in the false belief in which she lived, I own that I have certain feelings of anguish which I cannot describe; and I am inclined to envy the poorest creature, who, having been born in a Christian country and of Christian parents, is not exercised with the painful feelings which agitate me whenever I think of her who gave me birth.

"But, amidst any circumstances, there surely must be something sweet and touching in the recollection of a mother. Mine was a beautiful woman, though totally different from any one I ever saw in Europe. Her complexion was a clear brown, and her hair long, black, and beautifully disposed upon her forehead. Her eyes were dark, and set as those of the oriental beauties commonly are, being somewhat long, and having a melancholy expression, but possessing an indescribable lustre. Her features were small and delicate, as was indeed her whole person, though, when she stood up, she appeared tall. Her dress was always perfectly oriental, her person being covered with a profusion of ornaments, and a loose drapery of muslin being thrown over her head. She spoke little, but was fond of being talked to and of hearing what was passing; and those of her female attendants who could tell the most news or repeat the longest stories, were always her greatest favourites.

"Having now laid before you, my friend, the particular circumstances of our family, which I have taken the greater pains in doing from their being so entirely dissimilar from every thing witnessed in Europe, I proceed to describe the manner in which I spent my life till I had entered my tenth year, at which time I was removed from my parents.

"Independent of my father's and mother's establishments, I had four or five servants to wait entirely upon me; among these were three women, who used to follow me wherever I went, and administer to all my caprices. I was always dressed as a little native, though in the richest materials which could be procured; and I spent my time in running backwards and forwards between the two bungalows, talking either to the company in my father's sitting-room, or to the servants in the verandah, as suited me best, and displaying my evil qualities, of various kinds, to afford amusement to the latter. I was totally unacquainted, in the mean time, with the use of a book, or of the English language, while I was too well initiated in most things that are vile and base in the Hindoostaunee language, and the Hindoo modes of life.

"I remember few anecdotes of my childhood worth recording: one day passed with me as another, while I continued to grow in stature though not in grace. One thing, however, I ought to remember with particular thankfulness, which is this,--the frequent escapes which I had from a sudden and terrible death. The long passage, so often mentioned in the course of my story as extending itself between the bungalows, being in many parts illuminated only by certain air-holes, resembling the arrow-slits to be seen in the towers of old castles, was, in some places, nearly dark; and, indeed, this exclusion of light and air rendered it cool in the hot season; but, in consequence, it became dangerous, as a receptacle for venomous reptiles: and more than once in this passage, (for I think it happened as often as twice while we lived at Cawnpore,) I discerned the dreadful eyes of a monstrous cobra di capel glaring at me through the obscurity. On both these occasions, I was so struck, so petrified with terror, that I could not move, and should, no doubt, have stood still to meet a horrible death, if the servants had not snatched me away; for these creatures have such a power of fascination, that it is seldom that those escape on whom they fix their deadly gaze.

"It is true, that my father caused these serpents to be destroyed, and search was made for their nests throughout the gallery; yet, when I think of the dangers to which, at that period, I was daily exposed from these venomous reptiles, I cannot but feel new motives for praise to Him who hath hitherto kept me as the apple of his eye.

"But to dwell no longer on this--the early part of my life, which contains not much either of sweet remembrance or of many tender domestic passages, I hasten to say, that, when I was just entering my tenth year, a cousin of my father's, whom I accustomed myself to call my aunt, and therefore shall continue so to do, visited us at Cawnpore, and prevailed on my father to let her take me with her to Calcutta, promising, as her own children were gone to Europe, that she would receive me as a daughter, and superintend my education. This lady was the wife of a surgeon in the Company's service, and, consequently, in a situation to live in high respectability. My father was fully sensible that my situation in his house was far from desirable; he therefore gladly closed in with the offer, and I did not hear of any objection made to its being accepted by my mother.

"I pass over the scenes which took place on my departure. Suffice it to say, that my grief was violent when I was carried on board the boat, but it was soon forgotten; and by the time I arrived at Calcutta, I was perfectly reconciled to my new acquaintance.

"My aunt's habitation was a superb puckah house, in Chouringhee Road; where she lived in a degree of splendour, of which the wife of his Majesty's physician in Europe would hardly have an idea. Here my education was to commence; and my aunt, in consequence, taught me to read, and directed her ayah to instruct me in the use of my needle so far as to make my doll's clothes: but, as to any religious, or even intellectual acquirements, I was nearly as deficient as ever. My mornings were, indeed, occupied in the presence of my aunt, at least some hours of them; but my evenings were always spent with the ayah, my aunt being continually engaged, at those times, in paying and receiving visits.

In the society of this ayah my only improvement consisted in an exchange of my knowledge of the Hindoostaunee spoken up the country for that of the worst Bengalee, and of my acquaintance with the vicious practices of the Hindoos for that of those of the low Europeans or half Anglicised natives with whom Calcutta abounds. I should, however, add to these acquirements, a certain love and insight into the art of dress, which I derived as much from the mistress of the family as from her waiting-maid; together with such a knowledge of the English tongue, as enabled me to read it imperfectly, and to speak in that clipped and hissing manner in which the Bengalees always pronounce that language.

"Those who have been in India, will now be able to picture me to themselves such nearly as I was at that period, and will have all my tricks, and ways, and modes of life and manners, before them; but I think I might challenge the whole collected population of untravelled Britons, to form an idea of a creature at once so artful and so seemingly simple, so ignorant and yet so knowing, so truly bold and so affectedly modest, so seemingly gentle and so really obstinate and imperious, as I was at that time, and as many unfortunate young people are who are brought up under such complicated disadvantages.

"When I had been four years, or thereabouts, in Calcutta, I heard of the death of my mother; a circumstance which affected me less at the time than it has done upon subsequent reflection; for to this day, after the lapse of ten years, I continually lament her death, and wish, and O how earnestly do I wish! that her life might have been spared until it had pleased God to give to her worthless daughter a sense of the value of that blessed Saviour, of whom my unhappy parent scarcely knew the name. But can the Judge of all the earth do wrong? Almighty Father, I desire to submit my will to thine! I desire to be able to say, in the fullest sense of the words, 'Thy Will, O God, be done!' But to leave the ever-affecting subject, and to go on with my narrative.

"It was not probable that the education which I had hitherto received should, humanly speaking, make me a very amiable character. I was, in fact, what is called a very naughty girl; and some of my transgressions about this time, being brought to the knowledge of my aunt, she, in consequence, wrote to my father, proposing that I should be sent to school; adding, as a further argument in favour of this plan, that she expected her daughter from England, and should, therefore, have less time to attend to me.

"My father, in reply, said, that he much approved the plan of my going to school, but wished that I might be sent to a Mrs. Patterson, who kept a seminary of considerable note, in the Circular Road; and the reason he gave for choosing this school was, that a very intimate friend of his, a Colonel Carrisforth, of the Company service, had a daughter boarding in the house, a young lady of lovely manners and excellent principles, and one who he was assured, if requested so to do, would act the part of a sincere and affectionate friend, guide, and protector to me. Inclosed, he sent a letter from Colonel Carrisforth to his daughter, which I was to carry with me and deliver to the young lady when I was taken to school.

"My aunt lost no time, after the receipt of this letter, in making the due arrangements with Mrs. Patterson and one evening within the same week I accompanied her to school.

"I know, my dear friend, that you like to have every new scene exactly brought before you. I shall, there fore, endeavour to take you with me in imagination to the Circular Road, and to make you at home in Mrs. Patterson's house, every nook and corner of which is still painted in lively colours on my fancy, together with the various figures and countenances of the numerous individuals who formed the household.

"It was a foggy evening in the month of November about six o'clock, when I got into my aunt's coach in Chouringhee Road, to accompany her to Mrs. Patterson's We passed awhile beneath the walls and gates of the many puckah houses in that direction; then, turning down the burying-ground road, and going through several noble streets, in which the houses appeared not united together, as in England, but standing in luxuriant gardens, and at considerable distances from each other, we entered into that part of our way which is inclosed on each side by the walls of the burying-ground. Here, for a great length of way, nothing is to be seen but tombs and monuments, of various descriptions, presenting their tall and mournful heads above the walls, and, as the carriage moves along, seeming to pass away before the eye in a long and sad procession, producing in a fanciful mind something like the perception that one sometimes has in dreams, when dark and indistinct visions of sorrow seem to flit before the eye, and that so swiftly, that, apparently, the visual ray can scarcely rest on the form of one before another presents itself. Through this mournful avenue our carriage entered upon the Circular Road, which is a raised causeway carried round the suburbs of Calcutta, and forming a very usual drive for its inhabitants. On each side of this road, at least of that part of it upon which we entered by the burying ground way, is a variety of trees known only in hot climates, such as palm, bamboo, almond, orange, tamarind, and plantain trees; and these, owing to the damp of the Bengal soil, growing with a luxuriance of which the inhabitants of more northern latitudes can scarcely form an idea. In the midst of this thick foliage, but commonly thrown considerably into the back-ground, appear houses of various descriptions, some being small and of dubious character, as if they might belong either to a respectable native or to a poor European; others being decidedly European; and of these last there was also a great variety, some being of almost princely construction, and others more minute and in the cottage style. Over this whole scene, the time of my making these observations being, as I before said, an evening in the month of November, there hung a thick fog, common throughout the evenings during the cold season in Calcutta, and supposed to be exceedingly injurious to the European constitution.

"Having proceeded along this road for a considerable time, we arrived at Mrs. Patterson's gate. Her house was a handsome puckah building, consisting of two stories, and standing in the centre of a walled garden. On each side of the house there was a thick cluster of trees; from the centre of each of these arose several exceedingly lofty palm trees, from which the place took its name; and to the right and left of the coach-ring in front were rows of aloes, plants much admired in Europe for their rarity and singularity, but which, from their extreme formality and the deep green of their leaves, convey, to the minds of those who have ceased to look on them with wonder, an idea of all that is mournful, dark, and sad.

"As our carriage wheeled into the compound, we put to flight a number of young ladies, who were at that time walking in the garden. 'Those are your future companions, Clara,' said my aunt, smiling, 'I hope that we have not frightened them away.'

"While my aunt was speaking, I was engaged in looking at them, as they had gathered together at a small distance. They were dressed in white, had neither caps nor bonnets on their heads, and were most of them thin and extremely sallow; a few of them were mere children, but there were also many who appeared to be women grown, and some even past their earliest youth. As I stretched my neck out of the window to look at them, they laughed, particularly the elder ones, and spoke to each other, seemingly exciting fresh merriment by some remarks probably on me. I was a little disconcerted by this exhibition of bad manners; for, though ill-mannered myself, I was as keenly alive to disrespect in others as pride and ill-temper could make me. I had, however, only time to say to my aunt, 'How rude those girls are! I hope Miss Carrisforth is not among them!' before the door of the carriage was opened, and we were ushered into the august presence of Mrs. Patterson.

"But before I introduce you, my dear friend, to the presence of this lady, I must give you the promised description of her house, in order that you may have a view of every scene of the short, yet, perhaps, not uninteresting drama of your Clara's life; that life which I am sensible will be closed in a few months, but not, I trust, before she has been made, through the divine mercy, fit for that glory prepared for those who shall be saved.

"The school-house was, as I have already said, a large puckah building, encircled by open verandahs above and below; these verandahs being supported by handsome pillars. The roof of the house was flat, crowned with a parapet; the apartments were disposed into two large halls, the one looking towards the front, and the other to the garden, where a broad gravel walk, running round a stone tank, was itself inclosed at the back and sides with a thick shrubbery. On each side of these halls was a large centre room, and four smaller ones at the corners; the rooms above being laid out precisely in the same manner. The furniture of the apartments was handsome, especially that of the halls and chambers; and each young lady had her own bed, which was hung with musquito gauze. It was in the inmost hall that we first saw Mrs. Patterson: she was sitting on a sofa, conversing with a young lady of European extraction and fine exterior, who, as soon as she saw us, immediately left the room. I was hoping that this young lady might prove to be Miss Carrisforth, but was convinced to the contrary, by hearing Mrs. Patterson address her by the name of Beaumont.

"Mrs. Patterson was the widow of an officer, and had, no doubt, had much difficulty in bringing her mind to that mode of life which her necessities had rendered inevitable. She had been undoubtedly very handsome, and she still retained much of that kind of majestic and commanding beauty which made every one who beheld her look upon her with awe. I immediately saw that my aunt was impressed with this feeling, for her usual volubility failed her in the presence of this lady, to whom she said very little more than was merely sufficient to recommend me to her care, and to request that I might, if it were perfectly convenient, be associated as much as possible with Miss Carrisforth; whose father, my aunt added, had sent by me a letter of recommendation to his daughter.

'Miss Carrisforth,' replied Mrs. Patterson, 'has also received a letter from her father on the same subject, and is prepared to be a friend to Miss Lushington. And indeed,' added Mrs. Patterson, 'you are happy, Miss Lushington, in having such a friend; and, if you will permit her to be your director, you will find an advantage which I could not promise you from the friendship of any other young person in my house.'

"This was much, very very much, for Mrs. Patterson to say, as I afterwards found that her sentiments were in general very impenetrable. My aunt was, however, evidently pleased to hear this character of my future friend, and begged the favour to be permitted to see Miss Carrisforth.

"The young lady was, accordingly, called; and, obeying the call immediately, she won every heart by her charming appearance. She seemed to be full seventeen years old, a circumstance which made her more fit to be the director of a young person of my age than if she had been younger. Her person was lovely, her complexion being pale, without any tincture of sallowness; her eyes of dark blue were soft and expressive; her features were regular; her person was delicate; and her hair of a glossy brown. Her manner was neither forward nor bashful: it was affectionate, without being familiar; and orderly, without being dull.

"When she entered the room, and understood who I was, she walked directly up to me, took my hand, kissed my cheek, and assured my aunt, who spoke to her, that she would do all in her power to make me happy.

"'And good, too, Miss Carrisforth, you would say,' said my aunt, graciously, and looking with pleasure on the lovely young creature who stood before her, 'if your modesty did not prevent.'

"Miss Carrisforth bowed, but said no more.

"My aunt then rose, and, kissing me, added, 'Clara, I now leave you with entire satisfaction; you will let me know if you want any thing.' So saying, she departed; and Mrs. Patterson following her to the door, I was left with Miss Carrisforth, with whom I, no doubt, displayed, for some minutes, no small degree of that bashful awkwardness which is more or less common to all ill-bred children.

"When Mrs. Patterson was gone, Miss Carrisforth proposed shewing me my room, and for this purpose she took me up stairs into a small corner apartment facing the front verandah, and containing two beds; the one standing close to the outer wall, and the other against a green jalousied door, which communicated with another chamber, but which was closed by the bed. 'There, Miss Clara,' said she, 'is your bed, (pointing to the one last mentioned,) and this is mine, (pointing to the other.) We may be very comfortable here if we please, and I trust that we shall be able in this place to devote our thoughts and conversation to improvement.'

'O! this is very nice!' I answered, suddenly recovering from my fit of bashfulness; 'and you are to be my companion! I am so glad of it. And how happy I am that my father chose this school, and you to be my friend, and nobody else! I am sure I should not have liked any one so well as I do you.' So saying, I remember that I threw my arms round her neck, and gave her twenty kisses before she had time to extricate herself from me, which she presently did, though in a manner sufficiently gentle.

"'O my dear child!' she said, 'how you startled me! Why, what further will you be able to say to me, or how will you be able to express your affection more strongly a year hence, when I have proved to you that I am really worthy of your love?"

"'O, now, Miss Carrisforth,' I said, 'you are making fun of me; I see you are.'

"'Do not call me Miss Carrisforth,' she replied; 'call me Amelia.'

"'Then you won't make fun of me, will you?' I said, hanging on her arm, accompanying my ungraceful mode of speaking with a motion no doubt equally awkward.

"'My dear Clara,' Miss Amelia replied, 'understand me once for all, that I dislike the habit of ridiculing, or, as you say, of making fun, of any one. I trust that I am too sensible of my own errors and defects, to presume to ridicule another person. If I see any thing amiss in you, my dear Clara, I will tell it you plainly and directly; and, to prove my sincerity, I shall now begin with you, and, therefore, beg you not to lavish upon me such tokens of regard as you just now did, till time has matured our friendship, and till you have more reason than you now have to be assured that I deserve your esteem.'

"'And must not I kiss you,' I said, 'and call you a dear sweet creature? for, indeed, I think you so.'

"'I don't doubt that you now feel all you express, my dear Clara,' she replied. 'But I will candidly tell you, I would rather that you should prove your regard for me in another way.'

"I looked very keenly at my new friend; for I began to suspect that she was proud, or that she did not like me: but she took no notice of my sudden change of humour, and nothing more passed between us till we were summoned, by the ringing of a bell, to go down into the hall to tea. 'I am now about,' said Amelia, 'to introduce you to your schoolfellows: you will be allowed to sit by me. After tea, we shall either work or draw, while some one reads to us. You will, no doubt, enjoy this?'

"'I don't love plain work,' I answered.

"'Perhaps you would prefer drawing?' said Amelia.

"'I am not to learn to draw,' I replied.

"'Not of a master, perhaps,' she added. 'But your aunt could have no objection to my teaching you?'

"I made no answer: for the truth is, I did not like the thought of learning any thing new but dancing. I then followed her down into one of the halls, where the tea-things were neatly arranged. It was well lighted up, with many wall-shades and standing-shades, and the young ladies were all assembled, with two teachers, a French and an English one, who were seated at the top and bottom of the table. Several kitmutgaurs were busy at the side-table, preparing the tea. There was a great buzz in the hall as we entered, which was hushed as Amelia drew near the table; when all the company turned round to look at us. Several at once left their seats and gathered round me; and among this number I particularly distinguished Miss Beaumont, (who kissed me affectionately,) and two young ladies, who were no longer, as I thought, of an age to be grouped among schoolgirls, although their unsettled and disorderly manners evinced more levity than those of the youngest child in the room.

"These young ladies, whom I shall call Atkins and Chatterton, were, as I afterwards found, parlour-boarders, or, rather, mere lodgers, who had the liberty of going in and out as they pleased, though at times they were obliged to submit in some degree to the control of the governess and teachers.

" How long these young ladies would have amused themselves with inspecting me, notwithstanding the entreaties of Amelia, who begged that I might be permitted to pass on to my seat, I cannot tell, had not a shrill voice from the further end of the long table reached their ears, in accents partly querulous, and partly imperious. 'For shame, mes Demoiselles!' said the voice just alluded to: 'how can you conduct yourself so impolite towards an etranger? Permit de young lady to sit down, I do pray, I do entreat. Sit down, my little Miss. Ladies, do come to your tea.'

"On hearing these words, which proceeded from Madame de Roseau, a widow lady, from the French settlement of Chandanagore, who was teacher at the school, the young people all hastened to their places, and Miss Carrisforth led me on to my seat.

"For a few moments after we were seated, all was still, excepting the noise made by the servants; till suddenly a burst of laughter, which first proceeded from the two young ladies, Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton, who sat by Madame de Roseau at the top of the table, and which was echoed by another party at the bottom, caused us to look up, in order that we might, if possible, be admitted into the secret. 'What is dat, mes Demoiselles?' said Madame de Roseau; 'what is de joke? where are your manners dis afternoon?'

"Notwithstanding this rebuke, the laughter continued, and I perceived that all joined in it, excepting Miss Carrisforth and Miss Beaumont; and, at length, it became so violent, that Miss Crawford, the English teacher, (who did not appear to be much fitter than the youngest child present to manage a school,) was thrown off her equilibrium, and joined heartily in the merriment.

"In the midst of this uproar, an alarm was raised, that Mrs. Patterson herself was coming; on which, all instantly became silent: but, on one of the kitmutgaurs accidentally overturning a plate of bread-and-butter, the mirth was renewed, though in a more smothered way, bursting out at intervals at different parts of the table like a running fire, and mingled with whisperings, none of which I could distinctly make out.

"In the mean time, Miss Crawford, who was sensible, perhaps, that she had acted imprudently, called on those immediately about her to be quiet; and, addressing herself familiarly to Miss Chatterton and Miss Atkins, said, 'You wicked girls! you are always getting me into a scrape.'

"By this time, the tea-things were removed, and the work-baskets put in their places. 'And now, ladies, said Madame de Roseau, 'Miss Crawford shall read. Where is da book? I desire you will be attentif.'

"The book was produced, and all was quiet for a few minutes; Miss Carrisforth having put a piece of muslin into my hands to hem. I thought it hard, however, to be obliged to sew the first evening: but I made no objection, although, instead of working with diligence, between each stitch I looked around me on one and another of my schoolfellows; and, at length, my eyes met those of a young lady about my own age, or perhaps older, though very small in stature, who sat directly opposite to me. There was something in the physiognomy of this girl, which, the moment I caught her eye, seemed to fix and fascinate me, as the cobra di capel, formerly described, had done in the gallery at Cawnpore. She was evidently, like myself, not wholly of European extraction; but her features were far from bad, and her large dark eyes were wonderfully expressive. But what they expressed I did not consider: I felt myself, however, strongly inclined to look at her, and was so entirely diverted by her from my work, that Miss Carrisforth spoke to me once or twice, and the last time, as I thought, in a manner very decided, before I could resume my employment.

"Shortly after this, there was some interruption in the reading, (I forget on what occasion,) and I took this opportunity to start some difficulty in going on with my work, and to call for a pair of scissars. Amelia checked me, though gently, for speaking so loud, and had already supplied me with what I wanted, when the young lady with whom I had been interchanging looks suddenly jumped up, ran round the table, and brought me her own scissars, begging me, in the most polite manner, to keep them as long as I wished.

"I was startled by Miss Carrisforth's manner on this occasion. She suddenly turned to the young lady, and, with a look and motion of the head which I thought severe, said, 'Gabrielle, take your scissars; I will provide Miss Clara with all she may want:' adding, in a lower voice, and with a steady glance, under which the eye of the young lady fell, 'Miss Lushington is under my care; I shall be obliged to you if you will not interfere with her.' So saying, she returned the scissars, and the young lady walked silently back to her chair. And there the matter would probably have ended, though perhaps not quite so soon my astonishment, had not a part of Amelia's address to Gabrielle been overheard by Miss Beaumont, who, reddening violently, instantly said, 'My dear Gabrielle, lend me the scissars. I will be obliged to you, though Miss Carrisforth is too proud to lie under obligations to any one.'

"Whether Miss Carrisforth had observed what had passed between Miss Beaumont and Gabrielle, I could not discover; but it was certainly not lost upon the rest of the company, as was apparent, from every one, at the same time, looking up from their various occupations. No one, however, spoke, and the matter would, doubtless, have rested where it was, had Miss Beaumont been disposed to allow that it should do so.

"The silence of Amelia seemed rather to have increased than diminished the anger of Miss Beaumont. She reddened excessively, her fine eyes flashed with indignation, and she further added, 'You do not choose, Miss Carrisforth, to make any remark on what I said: but, notwithstanding your silence, I shall take the liberty of speaking my mind to you. I cannot bear to see the cold contempt with which you always treat little Gabrielle. I know but little of her, and she is nothing to me; but I hate injustice, I cannot endure to see any one ill used, and I really think, Amelia, that you are behaving very ill to the poor girl.'

'If you think so, Julia,' replied Miss Carrisforth, calmly, 'you do right to speak. But perhaps you would have done better, had you kept your remarks for my private ear.'

"'If the whole company had not seen the insolent manner in which you treated Gabrielle,' said Miss Beaumont, 'I might, perhaps, have done so: but when I witnessed this public affront to an inoffensive child, I could not help animadverting upon it thus publicly. And I again repeat, Miss Carrisforth, that I think you behaved very ill to little Gabrielle just now; and I must plainly tell you, that I have more than once before been surprised at your conduct towards her.' So saying, she burst into a violent fit of crying.

"'Mademoiselle Beaumont is always de champion of de distressed,' said Madame de Roseau, now thinking it necessary to put in a word, 'de female Quixote, de friend of de unfortunate. Who so kind as Miss Beaumont?'

"Fresh bursts of laughter followed this remark, laughter in which all joined but Amelia and Miss Beaumont, the former of whom looked grave; and the latter, getting up in haste, left the room, followed by Gabrielle.

"As soon as Miss Beaumont had quitted the hall, Miss Chatterton exclaimed, 'Well, well, this is capital! this is very fine! So the two saints--the two best friends have quarrelled: this is excellent! It won't be Chatterton against Atkins, as it used to be, you know, Atkins, when we quarrelled about our partners on dancing-nights; but it will be Beaumont against Carrisforth. We must all take either one side or the other. I declare for Beaumont and little Gabrielle! I will uphold little Gabrielle! Don't you, Atkins?'

'Yes, yes,' replied Miss Atkins, 'I am for little Gabrielle; altogether for little Gabrielle.'

"New bursts of laughter now broke out on all sides, till Madame de Roseau, who looked much displeased, exclaimed, 'Ecoutez; hearken, ladies; be silent, ladies. For shame, mes Demoiselles: what conduite is dis? I shall tell Madame; I shall complain. Miss Crawford, cannot you use your autorité? What is all dis, ladies?'

"The uproar now subsided into low whispers and smothered titters; while the young ladies wrote little notes on small slips of paper, and tossed them over the table to each other. Thus passed the time till we were summoned to bed.

You may perhaps be surprised at the minuteness with which I have related these scenes: but it has pleased the Almighty to endow me with a very accurate memory, and, from childhood, I have been a minute observer of character; while in my aunt's house this habit was confirmed, my uncle being a man of clear and penetrating insight into character, and one who did not conceal his opinions. But to return to my story.

"As we were going up to bed, Amelia took my hand, and silently leading me through the crowd, conducted me to our own room. There finding a lamp burning, she directed me to undress myself, while, taking a small Bible from a drawer, she read aloud, sometimes pausing to make some short passing remarks on what she read.

"In the mean time, a confused noise of laughing, running, and screaming, continually reached my ears from the neighbouring rooms, which made me more than once exclaim, in the midst of the reading, 'What are those noises? what are they doing? what can they be about?'

"Amelia replied to these questions, 'O, nothing at all, Clara; never mind them: you may be thankful we have a room to ourselves.'

"'O, but I should like to see what they are doing,' I answered.

'Clara,' she at length replied, 'don't be foolish; let them alone, and attend to what I read.'

"There was something in her manner which awed me, I scarcely knew wherefore, and I was silent. When she had finished her chapters, she came, and, kneeling by me, offered up a short prayer; after which, she directed me to get into bed. I had scarcely time to obey her, before the gill-mills, or jalousies of the door, near which my bed stood, and which opened into the next room, were raised, and Miss Atkins, whose bed was close to that door, on the other side, putting her mouth to the jalousies, said, 'Amelia Carrisforth, Amelia, I say, here's Beaumont in hysteric fits! Have you any salts?'

"Amelia looked for a smelling-bottle, and, going round my bed, she gave it through the door.

"'Won't you come and see her?' said Miss Atkins.

"'I must not come into your room,' she replied.

"'What stuff and nonsense!' returned Miss Atkins.

"Amelia made no answer, but returned to the dressing-table.

"I could now distinctly hear the sobs of Miss Beaumont, and told Amelia that I did so.

"'I am sorry that she afflicts herself so much,' she answered; 'but I can't help it.'

"'But why,' I said, 'do you dislike that little girl they call Gabrielle?'

"'I never said that I did dislike her,' returned Amelia.

"'Then why would you not let her lend me the scissars?'

"'Clara,' she replied, 'if you wish to enjoy any peace in this house, or, indeed, in any other situation in this world, you must learn one important lesson, which is this--do not concern yourself with other people's business.'

"While I was pondering on this new idea, (for it was quite a new one to me,) I heard a loud knocking at the outer door of our room, for, as the season was at that time cold, all the doors. were closed. Amelia, however, immediately answering the summons, in came Miss Beaumont, sobbing bitterly, with her eyes swelled, and her whole frame in violent disorder. 'Amelia,' she said, 'you have grieved me excessively.' Then, lowering her voice, she added, 'If Chatterton, or Atkins, or twenty more whom I could name, had behaved as you did to-night, I should not have cared: but you, whom I loved, honoured, looked up to as the only Christian in the house,--to see you behave in a manner so cold, so insolent, to a poor unprotected child, I cannot bear it. Account to me, I beseech you, as a friend, for your conduct. This is not, I can tell you, the first nor the second time that I have observed your aversion to Gabrielle; but it never before broke out as it did this evening.'

"Amelia replied with surprising composure, saying, 'Do you understand, my dear, that Miss Clara Lushington has been placed under my care at the joint requests both of her father and of mine?'

'To be sure I do,' she answered.

"'And pray, my dear,' added Amelia, still lowering her voice, 'in your zeal for Gabrielle, are you not forgetting your duty to me?'

'In what way?' said Miss Beaumont.

"Amelia took her by the hand, and led her out into the verandah; where they both stood still, just without the door, which they closed.

"I immediately got out of my bed, and, prompted by curiosity of the meanest kind, crept close to the door, and listened: when I heard Amelia say, 'You are weakening my influence; you are greatly injuring Clara. Cannot you see that, my dear? You are hurting her more than you are serving Gabrielle.'

"'I cannot help that,' said Miss Beaumont: 'I hate injustice.'

"'So do I too,' rejoined Amelia. 'But how do you know that I am unjust?'

"'You are unjust,' returned the other, 'unless you think ill of Gabrielle: and thus we come to the point in question. Do you think ill of Gabrielle?'

"'Are you Gabrielle's friend?' said Amelia.

"'No,' returned Miss Beaumont, 'she is nothing to me; but I pity her as an orphan. I remember that you used to be kind to her: I see that you have lately neglected her, and, this evening, treated her with great contempt. She has no friend, and I, therefore, feel myself called upon to protect her. But you evade my question. Do you think ill of Gabrielle or not?'

'Permit me,' said Amelia, after some reflection, 'to answer this question to-morrow. You shall, in the morning, have a note from me on the subject.'

"'Then I am to understand,' returned the other, hastily, 'that you really think very ill of Gabrielle?'

"'I am weary of this foolish dispute,' replied Amelia, 'and could almost say, You may think what you please on the subject, provided you will but keep your thoughts to yourself.'

"'No,' said Miss Beaumont, 'I will not keep my thoughts to myself: and unless you speak out, Amelia, and tell me upon what principle you treat Gabrielle as you do, I shall certainly continue to defend and support her.'

"'I cannot help it,' returned Amelia. 'Promise me, however, only one favour, Miss Beaumont; let this matter rest till you have received my letter to-morrow morning.'

"I now, fearing lest Amelia should suddenly return to the room, flew back to my bed, and, in consequence, heard no more.

"Amelia sat up late that night, being employed in writing; and the next morning, when we were called to breakfast, she gave me a sealed letter to put into Miss Beaumont's hand. As I was afterwards favoured with a copy of this letter, I shall give it to you, my dear friend, in this place.

"'MY BELOVED JULIA,--(for still will I call you beloved, though none either of your former kindness or confidence have been discoverable on the late occasion,) I am at a loss how to answer the question which you last night proposed to me, because it is scarcely possible to reply to such an enquiry in words which might not include either too much or too little. You ask me publicly to pronounce upon a character in a case where such a decision is no part of our concern; and in my so doing, you would perhaps compel me to act in direct contradiction to the precept of Scripture--Judge not, that ye be not judged. [Matt. vii. I.]

"'But, to leave Gabrielle and her affairs, permit me, my dear friend, to repeat here what I have many times said to you on former occasions,--that I am convinced it would conduce greatly both to your happiness and to your permanent advantage, not only in this family, but in every other situation which you may hereafter fill, if you could bring yourself to cease from interfering with the affairs of others. I would, my dear Julia, gladly signify this sentiment by an expression which might be more acceptable; but as no other at present offers, I hope you will pardon the plainness of that which I have used. It is now not more than a twelvemonth since I lost one of the tenderest and most pious of mothers; and if, as I have heard my dear father say, there was any one quality in which she excelled more than in another, it was that peculiar and unusual control of the tongue, which rendered her at once lovely and beloved in the estimation of all who knew her--a quality which I fear is much more rarely found in females than in men.

"'It was during one of the last conversations that I ever had with my poor mother, but shortly before that final and dreadful illness which, in the course of a very few hours, deprived me of the best of parents, that she, as if foreseeing the loss that I was about to sustain, urged strongly upon me the duty and advantages of self-command in this respect: and I remember that, having first referred me to the well-known passage of Scripture--The tongue can no man tame: it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison; [James iii. 8.] she proceeded to remark, that that which no man could tame, might, nevertheless, be tamed by the power and grace of God. And she assured me that wherever religion produced the natural and complete effect, peculiarly its own, of humbling the individual who professed it, of emptying him of self, of inducing him to distrust his own judgment, and to conclude that others might be right as well as himself, its consequent result would be to silence him on those points relative to which he would otherwise be most liable improperly to interfere with the affairs of his neighbours.

"'You, my dear Julia, have a knowledge of religion, a much superior knowledge to what I have, and a consequent high sense of honour, justice,, and virtue; you are above every mean and low habit and custom; but you will not be offended, if I say, that you have not yet, I fear, learned to distrust yourself. And this self-confidence induces you to judge hastily and to speak decidedly on many occasions where you are not called upon so to do, and before you have had it in your power to weigh the subject on which you unguardedly venture to give an opinion: and by this haste and decision, you have not unfrequently, even since I have had the pleasure of knowing you, seriously injured those whom you have intended essentially to serve. In the moment of heat and high indignation, against what you fancy to be wrong, you sacrifice, without reflection, the interest of the dearest friend; and if an improper confidence is denied you, you indignantly throw aside every pledge of former regard.

"'The sin of bearing false witness against a neighbour, my dear Julia, may be committed in various ways, and is as often the consequence of a hot and fiery, though noble spirit, such as yours, as of one that is, sly, mean, and deceitful; and perhaps the hasty indignation of a noble character is more to be dreaded than the most cruel arts of one that is despicable.

"'O my friend, permit me, who am now in disgrace with you, still to avail myself of the privilege of your friendship, while I humbly entreat you, as you would honour your Christian profession in this house, to be more careful of what you say. Consider your youth and inexperience; not a year more advanced than my own! and consider, too, how imperfect is your acquaintance with the world, and how much more effectual would be your rebukes of whatever might be amiss, if they were given only in silence and by example.

"'Depend upon it, that a blameless and lovely example is ever, in youth especially, the most effective check upon that which is really sinful, and is much more strongly felt by the sinner than is the most loud and vehement expression of anger to which words can give utterance. It possesses also this valuable property, that it wounds only where it ought to wound, while its arrows play harmlessly about those whose consciences, humanly speaking, are at rest from evil.

"'Pardon, my dear Julia, all that in this letter may offend; and believe me to be your ever affectionate friend,

'AMELIA CARRISFORTH'

"'When I delivered this letter to Miss Beaumont, she opened it hastily, and stood up to rend it, while all the rest of the party were seated at the breakfast-table. It was evident, however, that she was not satisfied by its contents; for, as she again folded it up, and put it into her work-bag, she said to Amelia, over the table, 'You have not now answered my question, Miss Carrisforth; partial confidence.' Then, with a certain toss of her head, which was habitual with this high-spirited young lady whenever she happened to be displeased, she began to eat her breakfast with as much unconcern as if nothing unusual had occurred.

"At this moment, the attention of the company was diverted to another subject by one of the young ladies exclaiming, 'Tonight is dancing-night!'

"'Yes,' said Miss Atkins; 'and we know who is to be here, don't we, Chatterton?'

"'Some of your favourites, I presume, Miss Atkins,' said Miss Crawford, laughing.

"'Miss Atkins has many favourites,' remarked Madame de Roseau: 'Miss Atkins is herself also de great favourite wid de fine gentlemen. No chance for a partner till Miss Atkins is provided.'

"Several whisperings and loud bursts of laughter then followed, which were suddenly hushed, as was an uproar of the preceding evening, by the report that Mrs. Patterson was at hand; and as she actually did appear, within an instant, at the upper end of the hall, we then heard no more of the whisperings and titters.

"Mrs. Patterson came up to the table, addressed the young ladies politely, (who all for the moment rose,) and then left the room, without descending from her usual dignity of manner.

"When breakfast was concluded, we went into one of the large side-rooms, which was furnished as a schoolroom. There we found our governess, and there we were employed for three hours. My station in the school-room was by Amelia, and she took unwearied pains in helping me forward with my studies.

"At twelve o'clock our liberty was given us, and, as it was not the custom to go out of doors at that hour, we were presently scattered all over the house. I asked Amelia if I might play with the other children; but she said that she would walk with me in the verandah, near our own apartment. I was not pleased with this restraint; notwithstanding which, I submitted, and went up with her accordingly.

"When we entered the verandah, she offered me her arm, and took several turns with me, talking to me about Cawnpore, where she had resided some time; introducing also other subjects, by which conversations she made herself so agreeable, that I no longer regretted my being restricted to her society, and I should no longer have thought of the restriction, had not Miss Beaumont again come up to us. 'And so, Amelia,' she said, 'you are determined to leave me in the dark? You will not grant me satisfaction?'

"Amelia uttered a slight expression of fretfulness, as much as to say, 'Is there to be no end of this?' Then, turning good-humouredly to Miss Beaumont, she said, 'What a talent you have, Julia, of making yourself miserable! Cannot you forget Gabrielle and her imaginary grievances?'

"'They are not imaginary,' returned Miss Beaumont.

"'Imaginary, or not so,' replied Amelia, with firmness, 'I shall be obliged to you, Julia, if you will let this matter drop, and be content with the reply which I have given you; for I am resolved that I will add nothing more to what I have already written and said on this subject.'

"'Upon my word, Amelia,' said Miss Beaumont, 'you are very short!'

"'And perhaps,' returned Amelia, smiling, 'there are some subjects on which one cannot be too short; especially such as relate to the concerns of our neighbours.'

"Miss Beaumont was going to reply, when a loud laugh burst from an opposite door, where, at the same time, appeared a cluster of heads, among the foremost of which I saw the faces of Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton, which were pushed forward, with the crowd between. 'There, there they are, at it again, carrying on the war!' exclaimed Miss Chatterton. 'This is excellent! These are the pious ones! the intimate friends! the inseparables, as it is used to be! There is war now in heaven, Atkins, and we may soon expect to see some of the angels falling!'

"'Julia,' said Amelia, blushing violently, 'do you hear what they say?' adding, in a lower voice, 'what disgrace are we bringing upon our religious profession by this absurd quarrel!'

"A call to tiffin prevented any thing, at that time, being further said on the subject; and, as Mrs. Patterson herself was present at that meal, all was orderly and peaceable while we continued at table. Mrs. Patterson left us as soon as the tiffin was concluded; but before we had gone from the hall, a company of box-wallas appeared in the verandah: on seeing which, all the young ladies, together with the teachers, rushed out at the front door, leaving me standing with Amelia, who had taken my hand to hold me back, as soon as the arrival of these visitors was announced.

"The box-wallas or sundook-wallas are native pedlars, who travel about, from house to house, selling a variety of European and Indian articles, and who are employed by persons of every denomination in Calcutta.

"In common with most other young people in India, I was exceedingly fond of spending my pocket-money with these persons, and of looking over and cheapening their treasures even when I had no money; I was therefore a good deal chagrined when Amelia proposed that we should go up stairs, instead of joining the party in the verandah; nor was it till after I had for some minutes endeavoured to prevail, that I was able to persuade her that I wanted several things which I said I could not possibly any longer do without. Seeing me, however, so strongly bent upon this purpose, she gave way and followed me into the verandah.

"And now it is scarcely possible for me to give you an idea of the scene of confusion that presented itself when we approached the door of the hall. There were no less than four of these sundook-wallas squatted on the pavement, their boxes being open before them, and their goods spread out upon the floor. The young ladies and the two teachers, together with sundry dirges, bearers, and ayahs, were mingled together in one promiscuous mass around them, all talking together, choosing and refusing, bargaining, scolding, snatching, rejecting, triumphing, condoling, cheating, and being cheated, some speaking in Bengalee, some in Hindoostaunee, some in broken English, some in French, and some in a compound of one or more of these different jargons. A long time elapsed before I could distinguish one voice from another; at length I heard Miss Chatterton say, 'I wonder at you, Atkins! I am amazed! and so you don't think I shall look well in pea-green? Why, my friend, Miss Biddy Jackson, used always to tell me that pea-green was the most becoming colour I could put on.'

"'I wonder, Chatterton,' returned the other, 'that you should think of bringing forward Biddy Jackson's opinion on matters of taste; for of all the dressers I ever saw, in all my life, she is the worst; and to tell you, with your sallow complexion, that pea-green was proper, I am sure she could have been no sincere friend.'

"'Sallow! sallow!' repeated Madame de Roseau; 'for shame, Miss Atkins; Miss Chatterton is not sallow, she is only pale. Where is your politesse?'

"A violent uproar was at that moment excited at the other end of the verandah, by the opening of a box of artificial flowers, and, for a moment, I heard nothing but exclamations in favour of this and that flower. At length, as I was standing by Amelia, endeavouring to select a tortoise-shell comb to fasten up my hair, Miss Crawford came up triumphantly towards the place where we stood, exclaiming, 'I have carried the day; I shall wear the rose to-night.' And, so saying, she shewed us a beautiful English rose, which she said she intended to wear in the evening.

"'Ah, la belle couleur! de beautiful couleur!' said Madame de Roseau. 'Miss Crawford is very cruel: she means to be de belle dis afternoon. No one will have any chance wid Miss Crawford dis evening.'

"While Madame de Roseau was speaking, and Miss Crawford was holding her rose up in triumph, Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton, with several others of the greater girls, came round her, and, with voices so loud and shrill as to make the whole verandah ring, half playfully and half angrily charged her with having forestalled their market; Miss Chatterton actually declaring that she herself had ordered Rammohun (for so the flower-merchant was named) to bring that very rose for her.

"On hearing this, all the young people gave up their pretensions but Miss Chatterton, who attempted to snatch the rose from Miss Crawford; when a kind of romping bout ensued between the young lady and her governess, to the great amusement of many present, and which continued till Madame de Roseau, by dint of loud scolding, contrived to restore some little order.

"In the mean time, Amelia was endeavouring to find such a comb as I described but not being able to succeed, she proposed that we should go up stairs, and had actually taken my hand to lead me out of the verandah, when we were forced from each other by the bustle occasioned by the two ladies already spoken of, who, in their contention for the rose, pushed in between us, one of them running away, and the other pursuing.

"In the confusion, I was, as I before said, parted from Amelia, and pushed in among a group of my young companions; and, before I well knew what I was about, I found myself standing by Gabrielle. She had not time allowed her to speak to me, before Amelia's eye was again upon us: but, with a quickness at which I was astonished, the young stranger had caught hold of my hand, in which, drawing it behind me, she placed a small paper, containing a few almonds and raisins, at the same time stooping and kissing my hand, pressing it closely as she let it go.

"Almost at the same moment, my other hand was seized by Amelia, who, exerting a gentle force, such as an angel might be supposed to employ in order to prevent some careless sinner from committing an action that would offend his God, led me through the hall up into her own room, where, shutting the door, she sat down to work, advising me to look over my lessons for the next day.

"On her proposing this, I complained of fatigue.

"'Then lie down upon your bed, Clara,' she said, 'and learn as you are resting yourself.'

"I so far complied as to lie down, taking the book in my hand.

"We remained silent for some time, the rest of the party still being below: but on a loud sound, as expressive of mirth, reaching us from beneath, I could contain myself no longer; but making use of a deception not unfrequently in the mouths of those who love sin, and yet do not wish to be thought to do so, I began to express great horror at the noise, remarking, that I had never before met with such rude girls.

"Amelia made no reply to this remark: on which, I pertly added, 'Where is Mrs. Patterson all this time? But I suppose that she makes a point of shutting her eyes and ears when she has a mind to spare herself the trouble of finding fault.'

"There was a-good deal of truth, as I afterwards found, in this observation, and most people would have smiled to hear it from the lips of so young a person: but I did not observe the least tendency towards a smile on the placid countenance of Amelia. I thought, however, that she sighed, as she thus answered me:--'Clara, my dear, let me beg of you to refrain from these remarks. You and I shall have enough to do, and more than we possibly can do without the divine help, to conduct ourselves prudently and blamelessly in this family: and of this I am well convinced, that, if we begin to busy ourselves with other people's affairs, we shall very shortly forget properly to manage our own.'

"Being thus rebuked, I again looked at my book for a moment, and then, yawning, and throwing it down, I said, with considerable impertinence in my manner, 'Of all the young people I ever saw, I think you are the most steady, Miss Carrisforth. One would think you sixty, rather than sixteen. Are you not tired of this little room and that sewing? Do come out, and walk in the verandah.'

"Amelia made no answer.

"I yawned again, still louder than before. The idea was running, in my head, an idea which had been first suggested by Miss Beaumont, (for I had sense enough to think meanly of the rest of my companions,) that there was somewhat of unnecessary harshness or strictness, or I knew not what, in Amelia; and I, accordingly, resolved to try whether I could not free myself from the restraint under which she held me. On her not appearing to notice me when I yawned the second time, I jumped from the bed, slipped on my shoes, which I had taken off, and walked to the door, which I was in the act of opening, when Amelia said, 'Where are you going, Clara?'

"'To walk in the verandah,' I answered, decidedly, or, I should rather say, insolently.

"'Lie down again, my dear,' said Amelia; 'for I cannot go with you now.'

"'I can go by myself,' I answered; 'I don't want you to come with me.'

"On this, she repeated her request previously made, that I would return to my tasks.

"'I choose to play now,' I answered, and was proceeding to open the door, when she calmly got up, and, with a strength superior to mine, drew my hand from the door, which she immediately closed and bolted.

"I then asked her who gave her authority to rule me. 'Your father,' she replied; 'and if you dispute my authority, I will sit down this minute, and refer the case to him. Understand, Clara, that it is no advantage to me, but, on the contrary, a considerable trouble, to be charged with you as I am. But, as I have undertaken the charge, I will go through it. I will not trifle with your father; I will persevere in what I have engaged to fulfil, the Lord assisting me, not as if I were doing eye-service, to please men, but as to the Lord.'

"On hearing this, and seeing, at the same time, her stedfastness, I threw myself down again upon my bed, and sobbed and wept violently.

"While thus occupied about my imaginary sorrows, a person came to the door, to inform Amelia that Mrs. Patterson wished to speak with her. She immediately arose; and, charging me not to leave the room during her absence, went to her governess's apartment.

"After Amelia had left me, I remained for a while alone, crying and sobbing violently, the noise and laughter still going on in the verandah beneath. At length, I thought I heard a soft step in the adjoining chamber, which sound was followed by a slight shaking of the jalousies near my bed. A short silence then succeeded, and I plainly saw, that some one was peeping through the interstices of the wooden blinds. 'Who is there?' I said: and immediately the jalousies were thrown up, and a voice answered, 'It is only me, Miss Clara.'

"'And who are you?' I asked.

"'I am Gabrielle, and I am come to offer you a tortoise-shell comb. You were enquiring for one below, to fasten up your hair; and I have now got one for you.'

"'O! that is very kind of you, Gabrielle,' I answered, holding out my hand to take it, 'very kind indeed!'

"'Is Miss Carrisforth in your room, Miss Clara?' whispered Gabrielle, asking a question which she no doubt could have answered as well as myself.

"'No,' I said, 'she is gone down.'

"'Sweet, dear Amelia!' returned Gabrielle, 'how dearly do I love her! I would give all I have in the world to be loved by her in return.'

"'But do tell me, Miss Gabrielle,' I said, 'what have you done to offend her?'

"'I cannot say,' she answered, with a deep sigh; 'but I am sure that, if she does not love me, it is my own fault, not hers: for she is the sweetest creature in the world, and I am not worthy to wipe her shoes.'

"'Yes: but she should not persecute you, Gabrielle,' I answered; 'she ought not to hate you. That surely cannot be right.'

"'Don't say any thing about me to her, Miss Clara, I beg,' replied Gabrielle. 'I shall always love her: but I have been used to her coldness, and I must submit to my sad fate.'

"At that moment we heard somebody at the outer door of the room, on which Gabrielle instantly slapped down the jalousies, while I as quickly took my book in my hand; and thus closed my first conversation with this girl.

"At that instant Amelia entered the room, and I was at the same time aware of the breaking up of the party below, to which a confused noise in the chambers above, and in the veranda/i all around us, immediately succeeded. It was then perhaps three o'clock in the afternoon and from that time till five, every individual in the house appeared to be engaged in the great business of dressing, with the exception only of Amelia and myself.

"In the chamber on the left of my bed Miss Atkins, and Miss Chatterton, and several others of the elder girls, usually slept; and. Miss Chatterton's bed was separated from mine only by the jalousied door through which Gabrielle had spoken to me. I therefore, as I lay, could hear much of what was said in this next room and as this was a kind of amusement for which, at that time, I had a high relish, I took care to avail myself of this privilege, as much as possible, without letting Amelia know what I was about.

"In order, therefore, on the evening above mentioned, that I might hear these edifying discourses to the greatest possible advantage, and yet, at the same time, be unnoticed and unsuspected by Amelia, I pretended to be holding my book in my hand for the purpose of learning my lessons, when my ears and my heart were, in fact, on the other side of the door.

"'O that vile Crawford!' said Miss Chatterton. 'Only think, Atkins, of her getting my rose; and I meant this evening to have worn it in my hair with my pink sash and beads. Well, I declare now, is not it provoking?'

"'Why you will be forced to wear pea-green after all,' said Miss Atkins, 'to please Miss Biddy Jackson.'

"'How ill-natured you are, Atkins, now!' returned Miss Chatterton; 'but I won't, to spite you. I shall wear my purple wreath, and you know I always look well in that.'

"Sundry whisperings and titterings then followed; out of which, however, I could make nothing, though I listened with all possible attention: and these continued for some time, till one of the young ladies, I suppose, pinching the other, a loud scream brought Madame de Roseau into the room, to call the delinquents to order with her broken English, which always greatly amused me; though I afterwards had reason to think, that she was more entitled to respect than many others who were in the house.

"But, I suppose, my dear friend," proceeded Miss Clara Lushington, "that you are already satisfied with the specimens that I have given you of the conversations of Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton. I shall, therefore, in future, introduce no more of them than my narrative may actually require.

"At five o'clock, a bell summoned us down to tea, which was this evening prepared in the school-room; the two halls having been got in readiness for company: and I found, that, on this occasion, those of the elder young ladies who learned to dance were all absent, being engaged with Mrs. Patterson and her company in the inner hall.

"And now, my friend, I am about to mention to you a custom of a most extraordinary nature, at that time prevalent in almost all the schools in and near Calcutta; a custom, which, no doubt, in a few years hence, will be considered as monstrous and incredible. This is the practice of admitting young gentlemen, who are nearly total strangers, and without any formal invitation, to frequent the schools on dancing-nights, in order that they may form acquaintance with the young ladies.

"I had heard of this custom before, and was therefore not at all surprised, on being told that there were as many as six or eight of these gentlemen already arrived, and that it was expected they would all join in country-dances as soon as the younger children had taken their lessons.

"The only two young ladies in the house, who did not learn to dance, were Miss Carrisforth and Miss Beaumont, whose friends were, no doubt, possessed of too much delicacy to allow of their mixing in parties of such a nature as that just described. Consequently, they were the only two elder girls who remained with us in the school-room.

"Immediately after tea, Amelia introduced a pleasing little girl to me, one of the youngest of my schoolfellows, at the same time telling me that she had engaged little Flora to dance with me, and also expressing her desire that I would make a point of choosing no other partner during the evening. So saying, she kissed little Flora, and said, 'You will not deceive me; I think that you never yet have done so.'

"I was then left by Amelia to follow the rest of the young people into the hall, whither the tones of violins were at that time calling us. We found the hall illuminated, the tables removed, and the dancing-master and the musicians assembled. As this was termed a public night, very few of the preliminary lessons were to be given, but we were immediately to enter upon our country-dances. Accordingly, the master had given us the orders to stand up, and I was actually placed opposite to my little partner, whom, by the bye, I heartily despised, when Mrs. Patterson, elegantly dressed, entered the hall, advancing with her usual dignity, and followed by her elder pupils, together with several female visitors, and a number of young gentlemen, some of whom were military men belonging to a European regiment lying in Fort-William, others were young gentlemen from Writer's Buildings, besides one or two officers of merchantmen at that time lying in the river.

"These young men selected their partners from among the elder ladies of the family, and I was not a little mortified to find that not the slightest notice was taken of me, although Gabrielle, who was somewhat shorter than myself, met with a partner in a little midshipman about her own size.

"And now, my dear friend, did I not think that I had already given you sufficient specimens of the follies of Palm-Grove, which was the elegant name of this house in the Circular Road whither I was sent to finish my education, I could introduce to your notice a scene of vanity which must shock every reflecting mind; especially when it is considered that similar occurrences are daily taking place at the Upper Orphan-House, and at other seminaries for young ladies in Calcutta. But I leave, you, my friend, to consider what would be the effect in any school in the world, if the young ladies were allowed, once a month, or oftener, to receive as visitors, and companions in a dance, any young men in the neighbourhood who might choose to favour them with their company.

"I did not, however, witness so many of the humours of this evening as I had wished. I heard frequently indeed, but it was at some distance, the loud titters of Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton and was not unfrequently amused by the broken English of Madame de Roseau calling one and another to order.

"By the time that I had danced about four dances, Amelia sent a servant to request that I would come to her; which call I complied with, though in an excessive ill humour. I found her sitting in her own room, reading. She immediately addressed me with much affection, saying, 'Clara, my love, it would be better for you now to go to bed. They will dance till it is late: and if you stay with them, you will not be fit for your lessons to-morrow.'

"I began to plead with her; on which, she arose, left the room, and returning in a few minutes, said, 'Mrs. Patterson wishes you to acquiesce in my desires. You will therefore either go to bed, Clara, or read awhile with me.' I preferred doing the former, and commenced undressing in a high state of ill-temper; which I evinced, by throwing my clothes on the floor, kicking my shoes about the room, and pulling my strings into knots.

"Amelia very calmly, and as if not noticing the hidden cause of all these disorders, made me immediately correct them; and, taking up her Bible, she read to me, and prayed with me, and then directed me to get into bed. Miss Carrisforth and I had both been in bed and asleep for some time, before the company below broke up; of which I soon after received intimation, by the talking in the next room, which was, at first, very loud, but, presently subsided into whisperings, some of which I, however, overheard, as the whisperers, to wit, Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton, were close to my door. These whispers I shall repeat, because they will be found to have reference to the subsequent part of my history.

"'Who is he?' whispered Miss Atkins.

"'Did not I tell you before?' replied the other. 'The first lieutenant of the Ariadne.'

"'A very fine young man!' returned Miss Atkins.

"'I thought you would say so,' whispered Miss Chatterton.

"'And the little stout man, you say, is captain of the Ariadne?'

"'Yes,' returned Miss Chatterton; 'the gentleman who danced with me at first, Captain Besbrook, first cousin to my friend Biddy Jackson.'

"'And where did you meet with this Lieutenant What-do-you-call-him?--for I have not heard his name yet,' asked Miss Atkins.

"'Lieutenant Gordon,' returned the other. 'O, I have seen him often at Mr. Jackson's. He is always there when the Ariadne is in the river.'

"The young ladies then lowered their voices so much, that, notwithstanding I listened with all my might, I could distinguish nothing further; although the whispering continued for a long time.

"I have now given you, my friend, a very minute account of my first two days' residence at Palm-Grove: and in endeavouring so to do, with any tolerable degree of accuracy, I have

been forced to lay before you no small portion of nonsense. I wish that it were only in places decidedly vain and frivolous, such as this school of which I have been speaking, that scenes of similar description were to be met with; but, alas! I fear that it would be found, were matters closely looked into, that much vain, light, and foolish, if not vicious conversation, often takes place in the families of persons making high professions; and that many, many young people in this enlightened country, who would be sorry to be thought unholy, do yet allow themselves in great freedom of discourse among their chosen intimates: while, into this error, it cannot be doubted that many persons fall, who, nevertheless, desire to do well; and who, when they have yielded to this temptation, are sorely cut down, and grieved to the heart, by their subsequent consciousness of the offence.

"Wherefore, then, do young people, I mean pious young people, so earnestly desire those familiar intimacies with others of their own age, which frequently urge them into this sin of unguarded and injurious communication by words? Why do they so often seek opportunities of being alone with other young people, thus administering occasion of evil both to themselves and to their companions? Why, but because they are not aware of their own weakness in this particular?--they are not sensible of the great difficulty of restraining and directing the tongue; they do not recollect, or, if so, they do not understand, that strong assertion of the Apostle, who, speaking in the Spirit of the Lord, says. If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body. [James iii. 2.]

"But to leave these reflections, and return to what I was about to say. I have given you, my friend, an account of my first two days at school; and, as those days passed, much in the same way were spent several of the ensuing weeks. Of the circumstances that occurred during that time, I recollect only one or two worth mentioning. I was constantly so much with Miss Carrisforth, and so carefully watched by her, that, with the exception of one or two occasions which offered across the jalousies, I had no manner of intercourse with Gabrielle, although this unaccountable girl, by her fascinating and expressive glances, darted at me whenever she thought herself unobserved, had taken strong hold of my imagination. I cannot easily convey to you the impression which her extraordinary behaviour had made upon my mind. My feelings towards her were an indescribable mixture of fear and desire of further intercourse, of aversion and of attraction. I use this last term, from my not being able to find another equally expressive of my meaning. And here I would remark, that this peculiar influence of Gabrielle over my mind, originated in the improper interference of Miss Beaumont; and to this interference I must attribute all the consequences which afterwards followed. Here, then, is one proof, among thousands which daily occur, of the extreme mischief that is frequently done by meddling and interfering persons; a mischief which usually proves more or less extensive, in proportion to the influence and respectability, in other respects, of the character thus interfering. And this, at least, is very certain, that, as we advance in self-knowledge, and as we acquire more worldly experience and further insight into the various and complicated difficulties attending on the different situations of individuals in this life, we become more backward in forming decisions upon the conduct of others.

"In the mean time, while Gabrielle was thus silently gaining influence over me, the lovely and excellent Amelia relaxed not a moment in her tender care towards me. Under her, I acquired much knowledge of various kinds, and many orderly and industrious habits. She also did for me all that it was possible for one human creature to do for another with respect to religion. She made me accurately acquainted, as far as head knowledge could go, with its doctrines and precepts. If these doctrines and precepts had no influence over my private thoughts and feelings, it was not her fault: she did what she could; and the failure must be set down to the account only of my own evil heart and my determined depravity.

"The disagreement between Miss Beaumont and Miss Carrisforth was not made up, as I well remember, for several weeks after my arrival at Palm-Grove; and, during this period, I observed that Miss Beaumont looked very unhappy, although she continually refused to meet any advances towards reconciliation that were made to her by Amelia.

"This disagreement between these two young ladies, or, rather, I may say, this ill-humour of Miss Beaumont, (for it was all on her side,) afforded occasion for high merriment in the family; and many of the young people diverted themselves by carrying tales, and making false representations of Amelia's conduct and remarks, to Miss Beaumont, whereby her ill-humour was constantly kept alive.

"The wise man says, The beginning of strife is as when one letteth out water; [Prov. xvii. I4] and this was truly the case in this house. Miss Beaumont and Miss Carrisforth, when they were mutually united by the cords of love, had, no doubt, been able to make a considerable stand against sin; but the influence of both of them was greatly weakened by this culpable division. If a kingdom be divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. [Mark iii. 24.]

"The votaries of Satan are fully apprized of this circumstance: and therefore, being wiser in their generation than the children of light, they are ever ready to foment and increase all petty disputes among Christians; and thus have they been enabled, by the means of these unholy discords among the children of light, to obtain innumerable signal triumphs, through every age, and in every period of the Church.

This system of private backbiting and tittle-tattle had been upheld for a long while, and many calumnies against Amelia had, no doubt, been listened to with much complacency by Miss Beaumont, who perhaps felt that she wanted some excuse for her ill-humour, when, at length, the quarrel broke out more violently on her part, owing to the following circumstance. One night, after retiring to her room, she was provoked to say many things against Miss Carrisforth, and to utter expressions which nothing could justify, and for which passion itself could not plead any excuse. Her teasing companions having drawn from her, on this occasion, all that they desired to hear, next became solicitous to make Amelia, if possible, acquainted with what had passed; and as they were aware that it was no easy matter to get her to listen to reports at all prejudicial to any one, they were obliged to manage the affair with considerable art.

"The only person whom they could employ in this business was Miss Crawford, who, being a teacher in the family, and, as such, entitled to Amelia's apparent respect at least, was the only one who was thought fit for the work in hand: and, accordingly, when Miss Carrisforth and I were one evening in our little room engaged in work, she came thither to us, and, seating herself at the foot of Amelia's bed, she said, 'I wish, Miss Carrisforth, you would just make up this bandeau for my hair. I know your pretty talent at things of this kind.'

"As Miss Crawford was possessed of some authority in the house, Amelia could find no excuse for desiring her to leave the room, which she commonly did when any of her schoolfellows came in; as it was contrary to the rules of the house for any of us to go into each other's bed-chambers, although this was a rule which, for the most part, like some old acts of parliament, had fallen altogether into disuse.

"Amelia took in her hand the riband which she was requested to make up; and while she was twisting and modelling it according to the directions given, Miss Crawford entered upon the real purport of her visit.--'La, Miss Carrisforth!' she said, 'what a passion Beaumont was in last night! what have you done to make her so angry with you?'

"Amelia made no answer.

"'But I know,' continued Miss Crawford, 'you are too pretty, Amelia, too quiet, too reserved, too delicate, to please. You will never have a female friend.'

"'Miss Crawford,' said Amelia, tossing the riband over her hands as if out of humour with it, 'how can you buy riband of this kind! It is all gum, and no substance. I hope you did not give much for it.'

"Miss Crawford took the alarm at this remark; and a long discussion then followed, about the nature of stiffened ribands, and the tricks of the box-wallas: after which, she returned to the point in question. 'I am sure Julia Beaumont is angry with you, Amelia,' said she, 'because you are reckoned incomparably the most genteel girl in the school: to be sure, Miss Beaumont comes next, but it is far behind; and she knows that.'

"'If gentility consists in not loving gossip, Miss Crawford,' replied Amelia, 'and I have often heard my dear mother say that this is a necessary ingredient of real gentility, I think I may venture to allow, that, in that respect at least, I have some pretensions to it: but these are pretensions which every one, if they chose, might possess as well as myself. But, Miss Crawford,' she added, 'do tell me, shall I put two bows on your bandeau, or only one? and would you choose the ends of the riband to be notched?'

"Another discussion now followed upon the nature of bows, and the fashion of notching ribands.

"I have before remarked, my dear friend, that even at that time I was a close observer; and, young as I was, I was so fully aware of Amelia's contrivances to divert the conversation from the subject that she disliked, that I could not help bursting into a laugh.

"Amelia and Miss Crawford both looked at me; and the latter exclaimed, 'You little impertinent thing! what are you quizzing now?'

"Being thus rebuked, I pursed up my mouth, and was silent, but not the less attentive to what passed.

"'Well,' said Miss Crawford, 'as I was saying, Julia Beaumont was in such a strange way last night. O how she did run on about you, Amelia! She called you proud, and cold, and distant, and insolent! Yes, she called you insolent, and said you were become so conceited ever since you had had a pupil, that there was no such thing as associating with you with any comfort.'

"'Clara,' said Amelia, "go to Madame, and borrow a little silk of the colour of this riband.'

"'O,' said Miss Crawford, 'that is quite unnecessary.' So saying, she produced a needle-book, full of ends of silk of all colours: which being done, she returned to the charge, and ran on for a considerable length, till Amelia suddenly exclaimed, 'Dear Miss Crawford, I wish you would be silent for a few minutes, for I shall spoil your bandeau. I have actually now notched it in the wrong place.'

"'Pooh!' said Miss Crawford, rising and looking at it, 'you have nothing now to do but to piece it under the rose; it will never be seen. But, as I was saying, Julia was shockingly out of humour, and Chatterton, who was in the room, in her funny way, (you know Chatterton's droll way,) she provoked her, and at last the poor girl became so highly irritated, that she told us of some things which I am sure you would not have had mentioned for all the world.'

"'What could she tell?' said Amelia, now thrown a little off her guard.

"'O, something that she heard when your father was here, and when you spent a week with him at the fort, you and Beaumont together; something she then heard of your brother, the ensign; something he did which made your father very angry.'

"The poison now began to work, for it was evident; as Amelia coloured, and her hand trembled: but still controlling her feelings, she asked how her brother's name came to be mentioned.

"'O, I don't know,' returned Miss Crawford; 'I think I mentioned him first. You know I saw him once with you, and I was saying he was like you, very handsome; and then Miss Beaumont said, it was no credit to be like Charles Carrisforth, and so the story came out.'

"Amelia was silent for several moments. At length, with an effort, which did the highest honour to her Christian profession, she arose, gave the bandeau to Miss Crawford, calmly saying, 'I hope it will please you,' and then taking my hand, she added, 'Clara, come with me, you have not practised your music today. I will now give you a lesson.' On saying which, she accompanied me to the instrument, which stood in one of the halls.

"While taking my lesson, I perceived that her cheeks were still flushed, and I saw two or three tears running down her sweet face: but these she presently wiped away; and in less than half an hour her usual composure, the effect of habitual rectitude and humility, recovered its accustomed influence.

"O, lovely Amelia, my sweet instructress, and incomparable friend, the more I meditate upon your charming character, the more am I filled with love and admiration; and overwhelmed with shame and regret, at my own coldness and ingratitude towards you. How wonderfully did the power of grace shine forth in the conduct of this excellent young creature! As the lily among thorns, so was my Amelia among her companions.

"While we were sitting in the hall, at the time that I am speaking of, one little circumstance somewhat touched my hard and unfeeling heart. Little Flora, who was the youngest child in the school, and an orphan, passed through. Amelia called her to her. She came with childlike innocence, and jumped upon her lap. Amelia kissed her, and said, 'My little Flora, you do not come to see me now as you used to do. You know I always open my door when little Flora knocks.'

"'I will tell you,' said the child, whispering; 'Miss Beaumont will not let me.'

"The little girl, I found, was under Miss Beaumont's protection; although she had not found in her protectress that watchful guardian which I had met with in Amelia. The tears again trembled in the eyes of Amelia, as she kissed the child; but she said no more.

"On that very same evening, just after this conversation between Amelia and Miss Crawford, there was a violent dispute, at tea, between Miss Chatterton and Miss Atkins. What was at the bottom of their difference, I could not tell; but I believe that it was some breach of confidence on the part of Miss Atkins. Be it, however, what it might, it seemed to affect several individuals of the family, as much was said about listening, and tale-bearing: and Miss Beaumont involved herself in the affair by uttering a variety of unqualified expressions against persons guilty of such practices. These censures were taken to herself by Miss Crawford, conscious, no doubt, of what she had been about in Amelia's room; and such was the violence on all sides, that Mrs. Patterson was called in, by Madame de Roseau, to still the tumult.

"The appearance of this dignified lady, had much the same effect as that produced by the presence of Neptune, when he comes, according to the poet, to still the tumult excited by the queen of heaven and her devoted servant Eölus, the ruler of the winds:--all was hushed, and apparently calm in a moment. And as Mrs. Patterson staid with us during the rest of the evening, our reading, work, and drawing went on with their usual diligence.

"I think it was only the very day after this, that, as Amelia and myself were taking the air, in the afternoon, on the shady side of the house, we were surprised by Miss Beaumont, who, having been brought to a sense of her error, and that probably by the ill conduct and violence of her companions the night before, came up to Amelia, and, soliciting pardon for her late behaviour, assured her that she would give her credit for all that was right respecting Gabrielle, begging that she would, if possible, restore her to her affection.

"This request, which was made not without many tears, was instantly granted by Amelia, and that without the slightest reference to her friend's breach of confidence respecting her brother.

"This reconciliation having taken place, I had an opportunity of seeing and observing more of Miss Beaumont than I had ever done before. There was, undoubtedly, no one in the house to be compared with her but Amelia. Her person was fine, her countenance animated, and her sentiments were pure. She was entirely above disguise; a proof of which she presently gave, by readily acknowledging in what manner she had been led to abuse Amelia, and betray her confidence, on a late occasion, through the violence of her passion. She lamented the heat of her temper; but still pleaded, in her own behalf, her hatred of what she considered coldness and haughtiness: 'and I did think, Amelia,' she added, 'that you manifested both in your conduct to Gabrielle.'

"Amelia smiled, but it was a sorrowful, not a reproachful smile. 'And so, Julia, you were ready,' said she, 'to renounce a dear friend, on the bare suspicion of her treating with apparent coldness a person for whom you had no regard. You gave me up at once, and exposed me publicly, without even allowing me a trial. O, Julia,' she added, lowering her voice, 'how often might I have given you up, had I weighed in a scale so nice your conduct towards your pretty protegée, that lovely child, the little Flora! Permit me to be sincere with you. You have fallen into the error of all those persons who busy themselves with concerns which are not their own. Man is a finite creature; his comprehension is narrow: in attending to one thing, he forgets another; and, therefore, it usually follows, that he who busies himself about that which does not concern him, becomes proportionably careless and unfaithful in that which does really belong to him.'

"Miss Beaumont acknowledged the justice of Amelia's rebuke; and immediately going in search of Flora, she brought her to kiss Amelia, and added, that she hoped in future to be preserved from all such unguarded and violent expressions of her feelings as might give pain to the friend whom she most loved on earth.

"'Rather,' returned Amelia, 'pray for the subjugation of those feelings; and that they may be rightly controlled and directed by the Holy Spirit of God; for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. [Matt. xii. 34.] The tongue is but the index of the heart, and words are but the expression of the thoughts of the heart. Seek that wisdom, my Julia, which is from above; and which is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy. And the fruit of righteousness is sown in peace of them that make peace.' [James iii. I7, I8.]

"From that time, Miss Beaumont and her little protegée were often with us in our room: but, as Flora was not seven years old, and I nearly fifteen, I always looked upon her as so much my inferior that I never played with her, which haughtiness of mine was probably no disadvantage to the child.

"Miss Beaumont had not the advantage of having a sleeping-apartment to herself. Amelia had therefore requested permission of Mrs. Patterson, for her to come at certain times of the day into our room; a privilege which Miss Beaumont had not availed herself of from the period of my arrival till after the reconciliation. But now she came every day, and passed a good deal of time with us.

"Ladies in India spend, throughout the greater part of the year, many more hours in their bed-rooms than it is customary so to devote in Europe. Persons who are not very strong are obliged to lie down after tiffin: and I leave you, therefore, to conceive what scenes of riot and confusion are likely to occur among a number of young people, lying half asleep and half awake on their beds in broad daylight; and what care should be taken, by persons who have the management of such young people, to render these seasons of refreshment times also of propriety and holiness. By pious and careful parents and teachers, Bibles, and other instructive books, are, on these occasions, put into the hands of their young people: talking is forbidden, and all are urged to convert their little resting-places into temples of the Lord. But no caution or care of this kind could be expected in a household such as was that at Palm-Grove. As long as the laughing and chattering in the several apartments at these hours were kept within such bounds as not to disturb Mrs. Patterson, no notice was taken of the noise; and if ever the uproar exceeded these limits, then one or two of the younger children were brought forward as the delinquents, and made to suffer the punishment due in general to their elder schoolfellows, and not unfrequently to their teachers: for even Madame, who was by far the most conscientious of the two aid-de-camps of Mrs. Patterson, would not unfrequently indulge herself in telling stories, to make her companions laugh; and then, having excited a merriment which she feared might become excessive, would be obliged to exercise her utmost knowledge of English and Bengalee, in order again to restore things to their proper equilibrium.

"Such being the state of the case, Miss Beaumont and little Flora had reason to think themselves highly privileged in being admitted into our quiet little room during the hours of rest; though Miss Beaumont, when her good humour towards Amelia and her own self-complacency were perfectly restored, would sometimes murmur because at these times Amelia insisted upon being left to read in quiet. 'You come here, Julia, to avoid talking,' she would often say, 'and if we are to begin gossiping in this room, what do you gain, and what do I lose? Why, all my comfort, and all my peace of mind. I will not talk, and there is the end of the matter.'

"One day, Miss Beaumont, being in higher spirits than usual, said to Amelia, 'What, I pray you, Amelia Carrisforth, is the use of a friend, if one must not speak to her?'

"'O,' said Amelia, smiling, but still not ceasing to read, 'a friend is a pleasant thing to look at.'

"'That depends,' said Julia, 'on her external appearance; I hope you don't think yourself an agreeable object for contemplation.'

"'Perhaps my friends,' returned Amelia, 'may like me well enough to think so, but do, dear Julia, attend to the book you have in your hand.'

"A short silence followed, after which Miss Beaumont said, 'Do, Amelia, dear, put down your book for one moment; I have something of great consequence to say to you.'

"'Indeed,' said Amelia, 'I have no time to listen to you. I have something to do every minute of the day; and if nothing else can be said against talking, one may say this, that it is a great destroyer of time.'

"'I don't see that,' replied Miss Beaumont. 'A great deal is to be learned from talking, Amelia.'

"'Then,' returned miss carrisforth, 'we ought to be very Clever people in this house.'

"'Very well, Amelia, very well,' said Miss Beaumont, laughing, 'I see that you can say severe things as well as your neighbours; but, jesting apart, I am sure that nothing is more improving than conversation. The cleverest persons are often made so by conversation; much knowledge is acquired by it; I have even heard that more is derived from it than from the best written books.'

"'Yes,' said Amelia, 'but not from such conversations as take place between school-girls.'

"'School-girls!' repeated Miss Beaumont.

"'Yes,' returned Amelia, 'such as we are, young girls of seventeen and eighteen. Depend upon it, Julia, that the less we talk at present the better. And now we are on the subject, I must plainly tell you, that I never am happy when I allow myself to talk much, and that, in every instance, I find it exceedingly difficult, when forced to talk, to say what I ought, and to refrain from saying what I ought not. The wise man saith, In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin; but he that refraineth his lips is wise.' [Prov. x. I9.]

"'Well but, Amelia,' said Miss Beaumont, 'you ought to consider that in this house I have no friend but you, no one to whom I can open my heart on any subject, especially on the subject of religion, no one to whom I can tell a single feeling. I have--'

"'No one, in short,' said Amelia, 'to whom you can talk about yourself, without the fear of being betrayed.'

"'Oh, Amelia!' replied Miss Beaumont, 'what a turn is this to give my words! Talk about myself! I don't want to talk about myself.'

"'Then, my dear friend, of what, or of whom, do you want to talk?"

"'O! of a thousand things!' returned Julia.

"'If you wish to tell me any thing about my neighbours,' replied Amelia, 'I had rather not hear it, unless it is necessary that I should know it.'

'" I have nothing particular to tell you about any one,' returned Miss Beaumont, 'for you know the people here as well as I do, and I have no doubt that you think much the same of them.'

"'It is desirable,' rejoined Amelia, 'that we should all have such an insight into the characters of those with whom we live, as to know where to place our confidence, and choose our friends. But this may be done in general, Julia, without talking much about them; for, indeed, when I consider the commandment, "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour," I am astonished at the carelessness with which many of us, calling ourselves Christians, incur this guilt, at the very time, perhaps, when we should tremble openly and rashly, to run the hazard of breaking any other of the commandments. Cannot we let our neighbours' characters alone? If they do wrong, they must answer for it to God; or, if we think we can benefit them, then let us to their own faces tell them of their fault.'

"'Well, but I was not going to speak of any one, Amelia,' returned Julia. 'Why are you so warm? I was speaking of conversation in general, and I was regretting that you would not allow me the common privileges of friendship, that is, the sweet intercourse of mutual confidence and interchange of sentiments.'

"Amelia smiled. 'It is a pity, Julia,' she said, 'that we cannot think of some pretty copy of verses, in which all the tender sympathies which you so sweetly imagine, relative to the interchange of sentiments between bosom friends, are described with all the pathos of poetry. How very treacherous my memory must be, not to present to me one single specimen of the kind, when there is hardly a magazine, a newspaper, or a memorandum book, in which one might not be found., But, seriously speaking, what are these privileges of friendship, and those sweet interchanges of sentiments, but, in plain English, an agreement made by two young people to impart to each other, without reserve, things that ought not to be spoken of? If you have any faults to confess, dear Julia, confess them to your God; if you have any advice to ask, ask it of your guardians; and if you have any secrets to reveal, get rid of the need of them as fast as you can.'

"'Very laconic,' said Miss Beaumont, laughing, 'and very saucy too! Well now, I declare, Amelia, if it were possible that I could find any thing tolerable in the shape of a friend in this house, I would renounce you, and take another to my heart. But, surely, such a pack of owls, bats, jays, crows, peacocks, parrots, and adjutants, were never met under one roof. In the first place, there's my stately governess, moving about like a peacock with its starry tail spread to its utmost extent, though, by the bye, the eyes are wanting. Madame de Roseau, dressed in twenty colours, and squalling like a paroquet, and--'

"'Stop! stop!' said Amelia: 'let me beg you, Julia, to give us no more of this.'

"'No, no, I won't stop,' said Miss Beaumont: 'the fit's upon me; and you shall hear me out. There are Chatterton and Atkins, as vulgar and impudent as the crows in the verandah; and Miss Crawford, bridling and stretching her long neck, like one of the adjutants upon the gate of the burying-ground.'

"'Julia,' said Amelia, 'I am ashamed of you. I wish, I heartily wish, that there were more humility in your religion. Surely, surely, if you had a proper view of the depravity of your own nature, it must have some effect in regulating your words.'

"'You are angry, Amelia,' said Miss Beaumont.

"'Yes, I am,' replied the other.

"'I do not care what you are,' returned Miss Beaumont, 'provided you will but be persuaded to talk.'

"'To talk?' said Amelia. 'And so, it does not matter what I say, provided I will but talk? Well then, if this is the case,' she added, getting up, and sitting down on a chair by the table, 'I will avail myself of the opportunity that you now give me, to speak my mind to you on a very important subject, and one on which I have long had serious thoughts. You are a high professor of religion, Julia, and I cannot but think that you often feel its influence. But how is it that your religion does not humble you? I have always understood, that the Holy Spirit begins his work of conversion by convincing the individual of sin, and by shewing him, that, if he is to be saved, or to be made in any degree to differ from other men, he is in nowise to attribute any glory to himself. This is what my dear mother has again and again told me, and particularly urged on my attention; declaring, that a real work of grace will discover itself most strikingly by its producing deep humility, and cherishing an abiding sense of one's own unworthiness. But how can an habitual sense of sin exist in the individual who feels and gives way to a censorious or insolent spirit? a spirit such as you, Julia, this moment evinced, and which you would be glad to indulge every hour of the day, if I would but encourage you?'

"'You are really angry, I see,' said Miss Beaumont.

"'I am,' returned Amelia; 'I am angry and vexed: you have vexed me, my friend.'

"Miss Beaumont got up, and went to Amelia. 'I am sorry,' she said; 'I know I have been foolish. Pray, excuse me.'

"'O, Julia, Julia!' said Amelia, throwing her arms round her neck, 'let us either altogether cease to associate, or else let our intercourse be such as Christians should not be ashamed of.'

"Miss Beaumont again acknowledged her fault, and begged Amelia's pardon: after which, we all returned to our books, and continued engaged with them, till it was time to dress.

"The next evening, if I remember aright, Mrs. Patterson called Amelia down stairs before I was quite dressed; for we always changed our dresses, according to the Indian fashion, about five o'clock; I was, therefore, left alone in our room, the doors being open into the verandah, for the hot season was arrived. The rest of the young ladies were, I thought, gone down, when suddenly a tapping at the gill-mills, near my bed, caught my attention, and Gabrielle called to me, saying, 'Miss Clara, I have brought you a few Aru Bochara, which I bought on purpose for you.'

"I hastened to take these through the jalousies, and we then entered into a conversation, which lasted some time. She told me that she had been in the next room on the preceding evening, and had heard Amelia speak angrily to Miss Beaumont; adding, that she could not hear the occasion of the dispute, and asking if it referred to herself.

"After some solicitation, I was weak enough to repeat to Gabrielle Miss Beaumont's foolish speech about the birds, and I continued talking to her till Amelia's step in the verandah obliged us to break off our discourse.

"The next day, there was put upon Miss Crawford's table a note, written in a feigned hand, in which notice was given of the strange liberties which Miss Beaumont, in conversation, had taken with the characters of her governesses and of others of the inmates of the house.

"This note Miss Crawford produced in the school room, when all the family were assembled; and, reading it aloud, she excited such a tumult as I hardly ever witnessed. Mrs. Patterson looked highly offended, but preserved her composure; Madame de Roseau reddened, and, forgetting her English, scolded fluently in her native tongue; and Miss Crawford burst out into a torrent of abuse, in which she was joined by the two young ladies whom Miss Beaumont had very politely compared to crows. The rest of the young ladies tittered and whispered, winking and nodding at each other behind their governesses' backs. Miss Beaumont reddened violently, and looked thoroughly vexed; little Flora stared; Gabrielle's countenance was impenetrable; and I trembled violently, conscious of having whispered the secret through the gill-mill. 'Do you confess having made use of these expressions, Miss?' said Miss Crawford.

"'I do,' said Miss Beaumont: 'I will not utter an untruth.'

"'Insolente!' said Madame de Roseau.

"'At any rate,' said Mrs. Patterson, with great composure, 'Miss Beaumont has spared none of us: she has been impartial in the treatment of her friends.'

"'I beg your pardon, Madam,' said Miss Beaumont: 'I acknowledge my fault.'

"'This is what now alone remains to be done,' said Mrs. Patterson, with dignity. 'I freely forgive you, which is more, I fear, than you will be able to do to yourself. But to whom did you use these expressions?'

"'To Miss Carrisforth,'

"'And she encouraged you?' said Mrs. Patterson.

"'No, Madam,' returned Miss Beaumont; 'she spoke to me with more severity than she ever used before in her life towards me.'

"'That is like her, like my Amelia,' said Mrs. Patterson, while the tears stood trembling in her eyes. 'Thank God, I have not hitherto been disappointed in my Amelia.' So saying, she took Amelia by the hand, and left the room; leaving us all in amazement at a compliment paid to Amelia, at the expence, as we thought, of every one else in the house, but a compliment, however, at the same time, which every heart must have acknowledged to be well deserved.

"After the departure of Mrs. Patterson, a very low and degrading scene took place among those who were left behind. This consisted of mutual upbraidings between Miss Beaumont and those whom she had offended, which ended in her leaving the room, and in the young ladies being set down to their needlework for the remainder of the morning.

"At twelve o'clock, I went to our own room, where I found Amelia. She had been crying, but at that time appeared to be calm, though sorrowful. As soon as she saw me come in, she said, 'I hope, Clara, that it is not you who have betrayed Julia; she spoke so low, that I am convinced it was impossible that she could have been heard by the closest listener without the room.'

"You will not be surprised to learn, my dear friend, that I solemnly denied the charge, declaring that I neither had had opportunity nor inclination to betray Miss Beaumont.

"She seemed to believe me, though she evidently appeared puzzled; and took the occasion to say, that, although she blamed Miss Beaumont for her want of caution in speaking, and for her want of respect to her superiors, yet that she considered the person who had conveyed the intelligence to those aggrieved as being incomparably more to blame than Miss Beaumont: for, as the wise man says, where no wood is, there the fire goeth out; so, where there is no tale-bearer, the strife ceaseth. [Prov. xxvi. 20.]

"While Amelia was still speaking to me on this subject, Miss Beaumont and Flora came in. The former was in violent agitation; her face being swelled with crying, and her countenance strongly expressive of resentment. Amelia ceased to speak when her friend entered, and an awkward silence followed for some moments, Miss Beaumont having seated herself at the foot of my bed, continuing to cry violently. At length, Amelia said, 'Julia, my dear, do not distress yourself so much. The thing is now done: let us, then, try now to repair it.'

'But,' said Julia, 'to be so disgraced, so humbled, and that in the eyes of a parcel of people whom one cannot but heartily despise!'

"'Heartily despise!' repeated Amelia. 'Oh, Julia, Julia! you are incorrigible!'

"'I am not incorrigible,' returned Miss Beaumont, angrily; 'I am no worse than many others: but I am too sincere, too open, too unguarded, for my company.'

"Amelia replied, 'It may often teach us a good lesson, my dear Julia, in early life, for us to be obliged to associate with such persons as compel us to be on our guard. These difficult situations and circumstances teach us self-command; and if we really possess Christian principles, the perplexities in which we become involved by our carelessnesses induce us to look inwards, and to enquire if all is right there.'

"'Exceedingly wise, indeed!' returned Miss Beaumont, with bitterness.

"'Julia,' said Amelia, 'I don't understand you.'

"'You will then, by and by,' returned Miss Beaumont, 'perhaps as well as I now do you.'

"Amelia looked with amazement, and said, 'Why, Miss Beaumont, what is the matter now?'

"'Mrs. Patterson's own dear Amelia!' said Julia, sneeringly. And then, taking the note out of her bosom, the note which had excited such tumults, 'Whose hand is this, Amelia?' she asked. 'Though disguised, I see in it many lines which mark it too plainly to be yours.'

"'Mine!' said Amelia, her face flushing high, 'mine, Julia? And do you actually suspect me?'

"'I do,' said Miss Beaumont: 'for who else could it have been?'

"'Who else!' repeated Amelia.

"'Yes,' said Miss Beaumont, 'I do suspect you; because I spoke too low, I am confident, for any one out of the room to hear me; and there were no persons present but yourself, Flora, and Clara. Flora has never left me; she, therefore, is clear; and, if you can answer for Clara, the suspicion must fall upon yourself. At any rate,' she added, insolently, 'the matter lies between you and your pupil.'

"Amelia looked perplexed. 'I know my own innocence,' she said, 'and I think I can answer for Clara's. I do not know that she has one single person in this house with whom she communicates familiarly. I do not think that she is capable of writing the note herself, her hand being, as you well know, wholly unformed; neither have I ever left her since the period of the unfortunate conversation, excepting for a few minutes when I was called to Mrs. Patterson, and I have reason to conclude that she was not out of the room during that interval.'

"'No, indeed I was not,' I said.

"'And you neither saw nor spoke to any one?' asked Amelia.

"'How should I?' I said. 'I have no person in this house with whom I speak familiarly.'

"Amelia and Julia looked at each other; and Amelia said, 'I think that Clara cannot be concerned in this affair.'

"'Then, Amelia,' returned Miss Beaumont, 'the suspicion again rests upon you.'

"'I am sorry that you suspect me,' said Amelia, calmly. 'You are unjust in so doing, Julia but I cannot help it.'

"'You cannot help it!' said Miss Beaumont: 'what a cold expression! You do not even attempt to clear yourself.'

"'Because,' returned Amelia, 'when confidence between friends is once gone, no arguments will restore it. Julia,' she added, 'I have borne long with you. You have often tried me; but I still believe that you loved and esteemed me. You have, however, now proved the contrary; and it would be better for us, in future, to meet only as we must meet--as common acquaintance.'

"This speech was succeeded by a pause, during which, Amelia wept, but it was gently. This pause was, however, quickly interrupted by little Flora, who, bursting into an agony of grief, and throwing her arms round Amelia's neck, said, 'O, Miss Carrisforth! and shall I then, too, be parted from you? It was not me, indeed it was not me who told about Miss Beaumont.'

"'Beloved child!' said Amelia, pressing her own lovely face against that of the little girl, 'I hope not; I hope, my sweet Flora, that Miss Beaumont will sometimes let you come to me.' So saying she again kissed the child, and then left the room.

"When Amelia was gone, we all remained for some time in a state that was any thing but enviable. Little Flora cried, and lamented herself aloud. 'O my sweet Amelia!' she exclaimed, 'my dear Amelia! O! I wish that Amelia was my mamma! my sweet Miss Carrisforth! my lovely, lovely Amelia!' and then she wrung her little hands in an agony of grief, which touched even my hard heart, and filled me with a strong feeling of compunction, yet not sufficiently strong to induce me to confess what I had done.

"Flora continued to cry, till Miss Beaumont, turning angrily to her, said, 'You little simpleton, cease your disturbance. What an uproar you are making! I heartily wish you had the mamma you desire. Say another word, and I will turn you over to Miss Carrisforth, and she shall have the plague of you.'

"'O! will you, will you be so kind?' said the little girl. 'Will you give me up, dear Miss Beaumont? I shall be so happy. Dear, kind Miss Beaumont, will you let me be Amelia's child?'

"It is perhaps impossible to conceive of any circumstance that would at that moment have been more provoking to the inflamed mind of Miss Julia than this request, made by little Flora: and such was its effect upon the young lady, that she instantly arose, and going to Mrs. Patterson with Flora, requested permission to deliver her up to Amelia.'

"'Is it at Miss Carrisforth's own desire?' enquired Mrs. Patterson.

"'It is, I am sure,' answered the little girl, 'because I love her so much.'

"'Do then as you please,' said Mrs. Patterson. And the joyful little Flora flew to tell Amelia that she was to be her child.

"Miss Beaumont did not appear at tiffin, but Flora, full of delight, sat on one side of Amelia, while I took my usual seat on the other.

"Nothing very remarkable happened from the time of this second quarrel with Miss Beaumont till the arrival of the holidays. Flora, in the interim, remained under Amelia's care, and seemed truly happy, and desirous of improvement. Miss Beaumont continued alienated from Amelia, though it was plain enough that this separation cost her much, for she was always silent and melancholy. In some respects I improved rapidly; but, then, it was in matters with which the head was more concerned than the heart.

"As Flora was a child of a disposition peculiarly open and ingenuous, and who would tell Amelia of every thing that she saw, she entirely put a stop to my private interviews with Gabrielle. It would have been, I found, a very dangerous experiment to attempt to corrupt her, as she invariably made a point of shewing to Amelia every thing that was given to her; and if, by chance, I was ever left alone with her for a few moments, she would, when Amelia again returned, give her a minute and exact account of what had passed during her absence.

"Thus this little creature, by her extraordinary openness, was by the divine mercy enabled to be as it were a guard to herself; for it was a common saying throughout the school, 'Mind what you do before Flora; for she will tell all to Amelia Carrisforth.'

"When the Midsummer holidays arrived, most of the family were dispersed. Amelia had made interest for little Flora to accompany her to a friend's house at Serampore, where she was to spend the recess, and I went to my aunt's, where I was thought to be much improved.

"About this time I completed my fifteenth year.

"When I had been at home about a fortnight, a certain circumstance, not worth detailing in this place, obliged my aunt to take a short journey with her daughters, and I was, in consequence, sent back to school.

"On arriving at Palm-Grove, I found no one there but Miss Crawford and Gabrielle, a circumstance which proved very unfortunate for me; for, as Miss Crawford was any thing else but watchful, I was left at entire liberty to do, and say, and learn every thing to which my evil inclinations either prompted or disposed me.

"I was put to sleep alone the first night in my usual apartment; and the first person I saw, when I opened my eyes in the morning, was Gabrielle, sitting by my bedside, this girl having been from home the evening before, when I arrived.

"'O! Clara Lushington,' she said, 'how glad I was when Miss Crawford told me that you were come, and without Amelia Carrisforth, to watch you, and cross you, and plague you, as she did. What a torment that girl must have been to you, Clara!'

"'Why, Gabrielle,' I said, 'is that you? I thought you liked Amelia above all persons in the world.'

"'O, yes, she is well enough,' she answered. 'But we shall have such fun now. Miss Crawford lets us have every thing all our own way in the holidays. We shall have such fun.'

"'Fun?' I said; 'and of what sort?'

"'O, all sorts. Do you know, that, the day before yesterday, we had the putully-nautch in the verandah, and I saw it over again in the bawergee khaunah, when Miss Crawford thought I was in bed and fast asleep. And then Fijou,--you know Fijou, the kitmutgaur,--he tells such droll tales; and the ayahs and the bearers, we all meet together, at night, in the back verandah, and they amuse me so! And I have been out twice; I will not tell you where, neither: but Miss Crawford thought I was at Mrs. Sandford's, my papa's friend, in Tank Square. But I was not there; I was with Atkins and Chatterton.'

"'Where?' I said.

"'O, what's that to you? I'll tell you, some time or other; but not now.'

"'But how could you deceive Miss Crawford?'

"'Deceive her!' said Gabrielle, 'deceive her! Indeed I must be a fool, if I could not deceive her! Why, could not I write a note in Mrs. Sandford's name, and get it brought here; and then go out in a hired palanquin, and go where I pleased? O, you are but a simpleton yet, I see, Lushington,' she added, laughing 'but you will be wiser by and by. When I have told you all the tricks of Palm-Grove, you won't wonder and stare as you did when the chit was found on Miss Crawford's dressing-table; a chit which nobody wrote, but which every body read.'

"'O, Gabrielle!' I said, 'I always suspected that you were at the bottom of that trick.'

"'How wonderful that you should have suspected me!' she added, laughing; 'how came you to think that I was so clever?'

"But enough, and too much, of this detestable conversation. Suffice it to say, that by the time that the three remaining weeks of the holidays had elapsed, I was as corrupt as such a companion could make me, and I had fully resolved, either to break Amelia's yoke from my neck, or, if I could not in any way do this effectually, to circumvent her by some other means.

"After the midsummer vacation, when we were all reassembled, I found that our party was but little varied. During the vacation, Miss Beaumont (her irritation having been no longer excited by her spiteful companions) had become convinced of the impropriety of her conduct, and had, therefore, written not only a letter to Amelia, fully expressive of contrition for the unkind suspicions that she had entertained against her, but she had also sent letters of apologies to the other ladies of the family whom she had insulted.

"In consequence of her having forwarded these letters, she was, on her return, received with affection by Amelia, and with politeness by the rest of the party; and as she now appeared humbler and more amiable than she had ever done before, her concurrence and cooperation considerably strengthened the influence of Miss Carrisforth in the family: whereas, formerly, by her want of watchfulness and self-command, she had greatly weakened that influence, as must have appeared on many occasions which I have already related.

"This assistance on the part of Miss Beaumont was certainly very seasonable; for no sooner was Amelia returned, than I plainly told her that I would not be ruled by her as I had been before; that it was well enough for her to keep such a child as Flora under control, but that, as I was in my sixteenth year, I had no notion of submitting to a person who was only eighteen.

"She replied, 'You do not consider, Clara, that when you obey me, it is not to my authority that you submit, but to the delegated authority of your father.'

"'I do not care,' I answered, 'whose delegated authority it is; I will not submit.'

"'That is your determination?' said Amelia, calmly.

"'It is, Miss Carrisforth,' I answered.

"She immediately arose, and brought me a pen, ink, and paper.

"'What's that for?' I said.

"'You will be pleased,' she replied, 'to write down on paper what you have just said; that is, if you are in earnest in saying so.'

"'To be sure I am,' I answered.

"'Then write it down,' said Amelia.

"In a spirit of insolence I obeyed, and, tossing the paper towards her, exclaimed, 'There, it is written: you may read it, and shew it to Mrs. Patterson.'

"'No,' said Amelia, taking up the paper, 'I do not intend it for Mrs. Patterson, but for your father. To him I shall send it, and to him, as a proper person, that is, as the person who intrusted you to my care, I shall refer the case.'

"I forgot to say, that, during the holidays, I had heard from my aunt of my father's marriage to a widow lady up the country; and my aunt had, at the same time, availed herself of that occasion to suggest to me, that, as my father might now have a second family, it behoved me to act with great circumspection towards him, lest I should lose his regard. And as I, in common with most other young people of my age, was by no means insensible to notions and feelings of self-interest, I was, therefore, a little startled at this proposed reference to my father, and, consequently, thought proper to change my measures on the occasion. I, accordingly, begged Amelia's pardon, and promised to behave better in future, though, at the same time, I secretly resolved on doing all that I could to spite and deceive her.

"When I humbled myself, I obtained her immediate forgiveness, and all things then returned to their usual course, or at least appeared to do so: for, although I was now most carefully and closely watched, not only by Amelia, but also by Miss Beaumont, I contrived to correspond with Gabrielle by means of the jalousies near my bed, through which she put her notes, and through which I conveyed my answers.

"This correspondence had been carried on for some weeks, when Gabrielle, one night, slipped a chit through the door, the purport of which was to ask me if I could not possibly contrive to escape by the door near my bed, after Amelia was asleep; Gabrielle adding, that she would draw all the bolts, and set the door a little ajar while the family were at tea.

"I wrote a short answer, which I put under the door early in the morning, to announce my concurrence with this plan.

"I observed, during the day, that many significant looks were directed towards me by Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton, from which I understood that they were abettors in this scheme; and, indeed, it could not be carried into effect without their assistance, for, in going out, I must needs pass between the beds of these two young ladies.

"'With what impatience did I look forward to the approaching night, and how, in my own wicked heart, did I triumph and exult over Amelia!

"At length, the hour for retirement came, and my heart danced with eagerness at the prospect. I made haste to get into bed, having put my dressing-gown over my night-dress, in order to be ready for my midnight excursion, whatever it was intended to be. But what was my mortification, just as I had got into bed, to see Amelia's eyes intently directed towards the door! 'Clara,' she said, 'get up, and bolt that door which is by your bed; I see that both of the bolts are drawn. Who can have opened it?' she added; 'what is the meaning of this? But I will take care that it shall not happen again.' So saying, she forced her way into the corner by my bed, fastened both the bolts, and, taking a riband from a drawer, twisted it through the openings of the jalousies, and tied it in twenty knots.'

"'Why, Miss Carrisforth,' said Miss Chatterton, who was standing on the other side, 'what's the matter now? what are you doing there?'

No harm,' said Amelia: 'but I will prevent the matrannee from passing through this door again.'

A violent burst of laughter, in which there was more indignation than merriment, then followed from every individual in the next room; and Miss Chatterton exclaimed, 'Amelia Carrisforth, you need not take such pains to keep us out: we are not so over fond of your company.'

Amelia made no answer; but, turning to me, 'Clara,' she said, 'get up, and pull off your dressing-gown: you surely cannot need it this hot night.'

"I arose, trembling, and not knowing how far she suspected me.

"'Get up, Clara Lushington,' she said, 'get up, you unprincipled girl: put on your clothes, and follow me to Mrs. Patterson's room.'

"I instantly left my bed, guilt causing every limb to tremble, and, falling down on my knees before my youthful and lovely monitress, I solemnly assured her that she suspected me wrongfully, if she thought that I knew any thing of the door being open.

"Amelia turned from me with an air of that beautiful severity which we find so admirably described in the Paradise Lost, by Milton, who, when speaking of the rebuke given by the angel to the archfiend, says,--

"'So spake the cherub; and his grave rebuke,
Severe in youthful beauty, added grace
Invincible.'

I pleaded long and earnestly in behalf of my innocence, and, at length, so far prevailed, that she bade me get into bed again, saying, 'Clara, I do not know what to think of you; but I believe you to be utterly destitute of principle.'

I was surprised and abashed. I could not utter another word. But Amelia added, 'Remember, Clara Lushington, that if you fall, it is not through temptation,--for I have shielded you from that,--but it is because you love sin: you relish it, you delight in it, it is your element, and in sin alone you exist.'

"Hardened as I then was, I was shocked by these strong expressions; and the more so, because the habitual language of Amelia was so decidedly gentle, and, though conscious myself of my own deceitful character, I was not aware that she was acquainted with it. As I before said, I was unable to speak. I made her no reply; but Miss Chatterton, who, on the other side of the door, had been listening to what was passing, would not suffer her to go on unanswered, but, raising the jalousies with a motion so violent as to make us both start, she poured forth such a torrent of abusive language as surely is seldom propelled, even by passion itself, from the mouth of any being calling herself a lady.

"Amelia permitted her to proceed, unreproved, till she was compelled to stop for want of breath; and then calmly said, 'Miss Chatterton, do not compel me to conclude that there is more in this affair than I suspected, or, at least, do not induce me to imagine that it is any particular concern of yours: as I have always treated you with politeness and respect, I have a right to require the same from you.'

"'Chatterton, hold your tongue,' said another voice behind, which we knew to be Miss Atkins's. 'What Miss Carrisforth says is very true; she has always behaved very obligingly to you: and wherefore, then, should you meddle with what can be no concern of yours? come away from the door.'

"At the same moment, the jalousies, which had been forcibly held up, flapped violently down; and we heard Miss Chatterton's voice, though not so near, exclaiming, 'But she is so provoking, so insolent, to come and fasten the door between us, as if our very breath were poison! I hate that cool command of temper, too, by which she carries all before her. Beaumont is worth a hundred such: one may do something with her.'

"'Hold your tongue, can't you, Chatterton?' said Miss Atkins. 'You are so unaccountably imprudent!'

"'Qu'est ce que c'est? what is all dis noise? what is dis uproar, mes Demoiselles! my young ladies?' said a voice, at that instant issuing from a distant room, and every moment becoming louder, as its owner, Madame de Roseau, approached from her own chamber. 'Is dat you, Mademoiselle Chattertone? is dat you? Well, I never did see such young ladies. And what do you here, Mademoiselle Gabrielle? Did I not see you in your own room two minutes past? For shame! what an uproar is here! I shall tell Madame; I shall call Mrs. Patterson. Miss Chattertone! pourquoi, wherefore do you shed tears? are you sick?'

"'No,' said a young lady, who was present: 'she has been quarrelling with Amelia Carrisforth.'

"'Quarrelling!' repeated Miss Chatterton; 'no, I have been grossly insulted by her.'

"'In what way? Comment? how? expliquez,' said Madame. 'How is dis? Miss Carrisforth est toujours, always polie. What is de quarrel?'

"'Nothing at all, Madame,' said Miss Atkins; 'Only she heard Amelia, through the door, scolding Clara Lushington, and that offended her.'

"'O! O! Miss Chattertone is become de female Quixote,' added Madame de Roseau, 'since Miss Beaumont has renounced de caractere! Eh bien! very well! very good! But, ladies, you now must please to go to bed; let us enjoy de peace à present, s'il vous plait; let me hear no more of dis noise.'

"All was now hushed, and I endeavoured to sleep; but shame and disappointment kept me long awake.

"The total failure of our scheme, on this occasion, so depressed our spirits, that I did not receive even a single line from Gabrielle for several weeks; at the end of which period one of our monthly public nights arrived, and Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton were made very gay by the reappearance of the captain and lieutenant of the Ariadne, before mentioned, both of whom had been for some time absent.

"It happened, that on this dancing-night just spoken of, I overheard a conversation between Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton which filled my mind with strange thoughts. These young ladies were just without the door so often mentioned, and I was in my bed; but it was evident that they did not wish that any one should hear their whisperings, as they were unusually low.

"'The Ariadne is in the river, almost opposite my uncle Jackson's door,' said Miss Chatterton.

"'When does she sail?' said Miss Atkins.

"'O, very soon,' said the other; 'her cargo is complete.'

"'It consists of buffalos' horns and skins,' said Miss Atkins, 'does not it?'

"'Yes,' said Miss Chatterton. 'But what of that?'

"'O, nothing,' said Miss Atkins. 'But what day does the captain talk of?'

"'Thursday next,' answered Miss Chatterton: 'you know, that we can pretend to have an invitation from my uncle Jackson's.'

"'What, and go from thence?' said Miss Atkins.

"'Pooh, you simpleton!' returned Miss Chatterton: 'don't you know that my uncle Jackson is not to know any thing about it?'

"'Well, but is not Biddy Jackson invited?' said Miss Atkins.

"'To be sure she is,' returned Miss Chatterton; 'but we are all to meet her at Gordon's quarters, which are just by the dock near which the vessel lies.'

"'And Captain Besbrook says we shall have a dance, does not he!' said Miss Atkins.

"'To be sure he does,' said Miss Chatterton. 'Biddy Jackson and I were on board the Ariadne the last time she was in port: we had a supper and a ball, and came home about four in the morning. We had a charming evening!'

"Sundry whisperings followed, which I could not hear. After which, however, I heard Miss Chatterton say, 'Captain Besbrook asked me whether I could not bring two or three more of my schoolfellows: but we shall be enough without them. Besides, I don't know whom we could trust.'

"'Hush! don't speak so loud,' said Miss Atkins: 'they say that walls have ears.'

"The young ladies then lowered their voices so much, that I could distinguish nothing more; but I had already learned enough to render me excessively anxious to make one of this charming party.

"The next day, while we were in the school-room, Gabrielle contrived, in passing by me, to give me a chit, which, when I had an opportunity of reading, I discovered to contain an account of her having found out the captain of the Ariadne's invitation to Miss Chatterton. She would not tell me how she had effected this discovery, although she plainly declared to me the use that she meant to make of it. 'I am resolved,' said she, 'either to be of the party, or to betray them; and, if you please, you also shall accompany us.'

"I watched my opportunity, and, in a short note to Gabrielle, stated, that nothing would give me greater delight than to join this party, if she could in any way obtain my liberty for that day.

"No further communication passed between me and Gabrielle till, on the evening before the appointed day, when I was walking with my usual companions in the garden, Gabrielle again contrived to give me a short note, affirming that all was settled, and that I should have an invitation from my aunt on the following evening.

"On the morning of the Thursday, although I had a prospect of obtaining my wishes, I think that I was more uneasy than I ever was before in my life. I had a kind of horror upon my mind which I could not easily express, and which I thank God I have never since felt, and am assured that I shall never feel again; for he is faithful who has called me, and will not suffer me to fall. No, I trust that he will henceforth uphold me: for I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day. [2 Tim. i. I2.]

"It was an exceedingly hot and oppressive day, and the anxiety of my mind was considerably increased by an evident uneasiness and restlessness which plainly appeared in the countenances of those who were to be my companions in the evening exploit. I had also two other sources of solicitude, independent of that usual dissatisfaction which is felt by all guilty persons, however seemingly prosperous they for a time may be: one of which was, lest my aunt should really send or call for me; and the other, lest the promised invitation, which Gabrielle had undertaken to provide, should not arrive.

"At tiffin we heard it mentioned that Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton were going to Mr. Jackson's, and would not be at home till late, as a party was expected there; and it was also said that Gabrielle was to accompany them. I also saw these three very busily employed in the verandah with the sundook-wallas, as I passed through the outer hall with Amelia, to go to our own room, after she had given me and little Flora our music lessons. When I had reached our room, my anxiety became still greater. Sometimes I wished that I had never had any thing to do with the proposed scheme, and sometimes I felt exceedingly uneasy lest I should, after all, be disappointed.

"In order to conceal my restlessness, I lay down on my bed, taking my book in my hand, and I now well remember the peculiar feelings which I had as I lay contemplating the sweet and peaceful countenances of Amelia and little Flora, the one sitting writing at her table, and the other placed on a mora at her feet, employed in making a frock for her doll. 'Happy little Flora,' I more than once said to myself, 'what would I give to be like little Flora?'

"It was after five o'clock, as I perceived by the shadows on the verandah, when Miss Crawford came to the outer door and said, 'Make haste, Clara Lushington, your aunt has sent for you to meet some friends; the bearers are waiting below: come, come, get up. Where are your clothes? on with them in a minute!'

"I jumped from the bed, and my first question was, 'Are you quite sure? is it indeed my aunt who has sent for me?'

"'Why, who else should it be?' she said; 'who else ever sends for you?'

"This remark reminded me that I must be more guarded in my enquiries; I therefore began to dress, trembling, however, so violently that Amelia said, 'Clara, don't agitate yourself so; the bearers can wait a little.'

"It was in vain to tell me to be composed, I was too unpractised in such awful guilt as this to go through it without evident agitation. I therefore continued to tremble till my dress was put on and my hair properly arranged, and then, hastening down, I threw myself into the palanquin, (which was a hired one, though. attended, as I saw, by one or two persons looking like gentlemen's servants,) and, having drawn the blinds, was hurried away I knew not whither; neither did I know whether Gabrielle, or Miss Atkins, or Miss Chatterton were already gone out, or were left behind me at school. The motion of the palanquin continued for some time, but which way I went I did not know, as I dared not to look out for fear of meeting with some acquaintance. It was nearly dusk when the palanquin stopped, and I found myself at the door of a house, looking rather mean, though evidently a European dwelling, and in a part of Calcutta with which I was but very imperfectly acquainted.

"Being set down, I drew back the blinds, and was handed out by a very young man, who, without speaking, led me through a hall into a back room, where it afforded me some relief to find Miss Atkins, Miss Chatterton, and Gabrielle, with a number of other young people, chiefly men, who were laughing and talking with extreme volubility. All the doors and windows in the back of this room were wide open, and beyond I could distinctly discern the Hoogley, from which there was blowing into the room a fresh and cool breeze, not altogether unmixed with the unsavoury odours of pitch and tar. 'O, Miss Chatterton,' I said, without regarding the rest of the company, 'how glad I am to see you here!'

"'Why, you little fool,' was her uncourteous answer, 'I'll be bound you thought yourself lost.'

"We waited in this room as long as ten minutes, the whole party continuing to talk and laugh without any regard to prudence, (for indeed it must be allowed, that prudence, amidst such circumstances, would have been altogether out of her place,) till some one coming in gave notice that the boat was ready, upon which the party, taking the way at the back of the house, descended certain stairs leading to the river, each lady being attended by one or more gentlemen, till, on having reached the boat, we went on board, and were rowed towards the Ariadne, which, as she was lying low in the water, owing to her having received her cargo, admitted of our being hoisted on board with little difficulty. And now what a scene of vanity followed! my heart sickens even at its recollection.

It was a beautiful moonlight night, clear and serene; the ample surface of the Hoogley being smooth as a mirror, and sparkling with the reflected moonbeams. The town of Calcutta, on one side, presented only a confused and indistinct mass of buildings, heaped, apparently, one upon another. Beyond us, towards the mouth of the river, innumerable vessels raised their towering masts, and, like a forest, darkened the whole southern horizon; while the banks of Alipoor, on the west, displayed a beautiful scene of still moonlight repose; dark groves here and there obtruding themselves on the eye, with now and then the picturesque aspect of some building, reflecting, from its white porticos and majestic roof, the soft and soothing brightness.

"The deck of the Ariadne, on board of which we were now arrived, was entirely covered with an awning, raised sufficiently high above the sides of the vessel to admit the air from every quarter. A variety of lamps were placed in different directions, so as to cast a strong light upon the deck; and in the cuddy, or dining-room of the vessel, a handsome collation was laid out. The state-cabins, also, were opened and illuminated, and in them we found several young ladies, who were taking tea and other refreshments. Among these we met with Miss Biddy Jackson, of whom you will form no very good opinion when I tell you, that she was in the Ariadne without her father's knowledge. I was much struck with the gay and novel scene which presented itself when first I got on board, but was, at the same time, aware of a strong and oppressive odour, which, however, I attributed to the smell of sea-water, the exhalation from which I had heard was sometimes very disagreeable, and particularly offensive to some persons; I had never before been on board a large vessel, and it was therefore not to be wondered at that I was altogether ignorant that this smell was very different from that which was emitted by the sea-water. The gay and busy scene, however, before me soon diverted my thoughts from this subject. I accompanied my companions into the state-cabin, where much gay conversation (to use no worse an expression) took place between the young ladies and the gentlemen; and foolish and light as I had previously considered my schoolfellows to be, I found that what I had already seen of them was nothing, in comparison of that which I was now to witness. Instead, however, of being disgusted at this display of folly, I thought that I could do no better than to shew off in the same way. I therefore chattered, laughed, whispered, and gave pert and flippant answers to every one that spoke to me, in a style of which I now cannot think but with horror; and though the men who were at that time about me were, assuredly, none of the most delicate, yet I shudder to think what an impression my disgusting folly must have left upon them.

"After we had regaled ourselves with tea, and other refreshments, a band of music on deck having struck up, the gentlemen chose their partners and led us out to dance, and for two hours or more we continued this exercise with much spirit: at the end of which time I began to feel a sensation for which I could not account, but which I could not help attributing to the unpleasant smell before mentioned. I tried to dance and laugh off this distressing feeling: but I danced and tittered in vain: it gradually stole more and more upon me. From one hour to another I became increasingly uneasy, neither can I well describe the nature of the feeling that oppressed me: it was attended, at first, with a slight sickness of the stomach, and with a head-ache, which was also slight; and these sensations were accompanied with a peculiar horror, which all the gaiety around me had no power to dispel. This horror at length became such, that every thing that I attentively looked at for a few minutes seemed to assume some dubious or portentous form. At length, being wholly unable to appear cheerful any longer, I sat down, complaining of fatigue, and endeavouring to amuse myself with looking at the dancers.

"It was after twelve before we were called to supper. I was in hopes that a little wine, and perhaps a little food, might make me more easy; I therefore roused myself, endeavoured to eat and drink, and to appear merry, and was, consequently, enabled to carry on the deception inthe eyes of my companions till we rose from supper: for I thought that it would be matter of triumph to Miss Chatterton and Miss Atkins to know that I was uncomfortable, as I had volunteered my company. But, after supper, I grew so much worse, that my partner perceiving it, and supposing that I had not been used to sit up so late, and that the present deviation from my usual course was the cause of my illness, proposed to me that I should lie down on the sofa in the cuddy till the party broke up.

"I was never in my life more thankful for any offer than for this, of which immediately availing myself I found an instant though short relief in laying my aching head on the pillow.

"And now, as I lay in this situation, in the cabin of the Ariadne, many reflections, of a nature very different from any which I had ever before experienced, occupied my mind. My first consideration was about the circumstances amidst which I was then placed, in a ship upon the river, without a friend, for I had sense enough to see that neither Gabrielle, Miss Atkins, nor Miss Chatterton could be called friends, among men to whom I was a total stranger, and in a situation of the greatest indecorum. 'What would my aunt, what would my father, what would Amelia think if they could see me now?' I said to myself. 'O, that I were in my little room, in my little bed again, under the care of Amelia! O, how happy should I be! O, that I had never known Gabrielle!' Then I blamed Miss Beaumont: 'It was Miss Beaumont's rashness that first awakened my attention towards Gabrielle. Oh, miserable creature that I am! ruined, ruined, lost by my own folly!' These were some of my dismal thoughts.

"In proportion as I continued my reflections, my head became more and more confused, till, at length, I fell into a state of insensibility, in which I know not how long I lay; on recovering my senses, however, I still heard the sound of the music and dancing on deck, but was aware of the approach of morning, by a gleam of light shining through the cabin window, while the air at the same time was blowing in more fresh from off the river. I sat up on the couch and looked wildly round me, hardly knowing where I was, and feeling such an increase of indisposition, as made me press both my hands against my burning forehead. At the same moment, a young gentleman came into the cabin, saying, 'Are you ready, Ma'am? The ladies are going.'

"I looked up, and perceived that this was the same young stranger who had handed me from my palanquin: and I then recollected that I had not seen him from the moment of his doing so to the present. The modesty and gentility of his manner seemed to strike shame to my heart. 'If he is a gentleman,' I thought, 'as he seems to be, he will despise me; he cannot do otherwise.'

"Being filled therefore with shame, I gave him my hand, and he led me silently to the side of the chair in which I was to be hoisted into the boat. As he relinquished my hand, he bowed respectfully, and withdrew.

It was still so dark, and I was so faint, that, when I got into the boat, I could not see who was with me, but I distinguished the voices both of gentlemen and ladies; and I heard Miss Chatterton say, 'Well, I don't know that I was ever taken so in my life: my head swims so, I hardly know where I am.'

"'It is the motion of the boat,' somebody remarked.

"'No,' she answered, 'I was the same way before I got into the boat. Are persons ever seasick when the ships are in harbour?'

"A loud laugh followed this remark, and the discourse took another turn: but I heard Miss Atkins whisper to Miss Chatterton, 'What can it be? for I feel half dead.'

"You may be assured that these complaints of my schoolfellows tended not a little to increase my alarms; and, feeling as I then did, I fancied that we had all inhaled some dreadful infection, which would prove a horrible punishment for our offence.

"We soon reached the shore. We then got out of the boat at the same stairs by which we had descended into it, and my schoolfellows and myself were led back into the same room in which we had assembled before we went on board,

"This room was lighted by only one shade, standing on the table in the centre of the room; and, of all the ladies and gentlemen who had accompanied us from the Ariadne, there were none then with us excepting my three schoolfellows and Mr. Gordon, the first mate. This officer, after having offered any thing that his house would afford, wished us good-morning, saying, that he would leave us to take what rest might be possible on two sofas which were in the room, till the arrival of the hour when we could return home, which would be at sunrise, a time when all the inhabitants of Calcutta are in motion.

"As soon as the young gentleman had closed the door after him, Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton threw themselves upon the sofas, exclaiming, with vehemence, 'Lord be praised this evening is over!'

"'Never in my life,' said Miss Chatterton, 'did I suffer more than I have done during these last two hours.'

"'I am sure,' said Miss Atkins, 'suffer what you will, you cannot have been worse than I have been; and Clara Lushington looks no better than we are. What, in the name of Heaven,' she added, with an expression of countenance and vehemence of manner which terrified me beyond measure, 'what can have been the occasion of this? Surely, Chatterton, surely they have not poisoned us!' Then, turning to me, 'Clara,' she said, 'you are very ill, I see: when did you feel the beginning of your illness? was it before or after supper? Had you tasted of any thing before you felt yourself uncomfortable?'

"'Atkins, for Heaven's sake, hold your tongue,' said Miss Chatterton: 'you terrify me to death! What do you suspect? do you think we are poisoned? I shall die with the very idea.' So saying, she rose and walked towards one of the windows, gasping for breath.

"The subject then of the extraordinary smell which I had noticed, and which had been perceived by the rest of the party also, was introduced; and Gabrielle, who was the least affected among us, remarked, that she had heard that the vessel was laden with hides and horns; 'and, perhaps,' said she, 'these are not properly tanned.'

'Don't mention it,' said Miss Chatterton, gasping again. 'I have heard of dreadfully infectious fevers being occasioned by less matters than these.'

"'But the ship-officers appear quite well,' I answered.

"'O, they are used to many things which we can't bear,' said Miss Atkins.

"'At any rate,' I said, laying my burning head against the back of the sofa near which I sat, 'I heartily wish I had never joined this party.'

"'Well, it was at your own desire; you have nobody but yourself to blame,' returned Miss Atkins.

"'Yes,' I replied, 'yes, I have several to blame. I may, in the first place, blame Miss Beaumont; and, secondly, you, Gabrielle. But for you, I had now been happy in the tender love and confidence of my sweet Amelia. O, Amelia, Amelia!' I added, in extreme agony, 'had I chosen no other friend than you, I had indeed been blessed.'

"A deep groan from Miss Chatterton at this moment arrested our attention. We all sprang up, and ran to her. She had fainted, and was falling from the sofa. We hastened to loosen her dress; and Gabrielle, running out, soon procured some water, with which we wet her lips and bathed her forehead.

"After a short time, she revived and spoke. 'Take me home,' she said: 'I must go home immediately. Let me die, at least, on my own bed.'

"'La! my dear,' said Miss Atkins, 'don't talk of dying; we shall be better presently. And we can't go home till daylight, it will make such a talk, if it is known where we have been; and if we come in at such strange hours, it will surely lead to enquiry.'

"'Enquiry!' repeated Miss Chatterton, 'who cares? what do I care? Put me to bed; I pray you, put me to bed. Let me die, I say, on my bed.'

"A second fainting, more severe and lasting than the former, now took place; during which the sun arose, and Mr. Gordon sent us word that the palanquins were waiting.

"As Miss Chatterton could not immediately be moved, and as it was not to appear at Palm-Grove that I had been in company with the rest, it was agreed that I should be sent first. I was, therefore, put into the same palanquin in which I had come, and sent forward. I drew my curtains close round me, and lay backwards, never once looking out from the time I got in till I had reached home. But I can give you no idea of what I suffered during this interval. The morning was one of those which are not unfrequently experienced in the torrid zone; not a breath of air was stirring, and the bearers were throwing up the dust every step they took, besides which, the motion of the palanquin considerably increased my disorder.

"When I arrived at Palm-Grove, the servants alone were up; the sweeper being engaged in the verandah, and the bearers just rousing themselves from sleep. The door was opened to me, and I walked up to my room; but was, at the same time, so extremely disordered, that I stood still twice upon the stairs, to rest myself, and gain strength to proceed.

"When near our chamber, I was seized with an extreme giddiness, insomuch, that for a moment I was obliged to support myself against the frame of an open window. Being, at length, however, a little recovered, I advanced to the door of our room. It was fastened within, though all the jalousies were open, to admit the air. I looked through them, and saw Amelia asleep in her bed, and Flora in a little cot by her side. I heard their gentle breathings, and the sweet and peaceful expression of Amelia's face struck me in a degree which it had never done before. The room was neat and orderly, being the abode of modesty and innocence; and on the dressing-table, which was covered with a white napkin, lay an open Bible, and, by it, little Flora's doll. I slipped my trembling hand through the jalousies, and endeavoured to undraw the bolt: at the noise of which Amelia awoke, and exclaimed, 'Who is there?'

"'It is I,' I said; 'Clara Lushington.'

"'You are very early,' replied Amelia, springing up to open the door.

"'No,' I answered, with as much unconcern as I could affect, 'no; my aunt has been up some time, and is now out on the course. But do, Amelia, help me to bed, for I do not feel well: I was up late last night, and I now want a little rest,'

"Amelia immediately assisted me to undress: but while she was helping me into bed, 'Clara,' she said, 'what is the matter?--you look excessively ill. How you tremble! You are overfatigued. Make haste to lie down.'

"For a few minutes after being undressed, and when lying down, I felt relieved; but this ease did not continue long. The giddiness returned; the room for an instant seemed to dance round, and a thick vapour, filled with specks of black, arose before my eyes; a violent cold sweat then broke out upon me, and I fainted.

"When I recovered my recollection, I saw several persons standing about me, but had not time to distinguish who they were, before I was taken with a most dreadful vomiting, which exhausted me so much, that, after it, I lay back on my bed without the power of motion, and felt myself too weak to utter a word.

"While in this state, I heard the persons in my room (namely, Mrs. Patterson, Madame de Roseau, and Amelia) speaking to each other. 'You have sent for Dr. H--?' enquired Mrs. Patterson.

"'He will be here soon,' said Madame de Roseau.

"'She is overfatigued,' said Mrs. Patterson; 'perhaps kept up too late. If she is no better soon, we must send for her aunt.'

"On hearing this, I became violently agitated. 'No, no, no,' I said; 'no, not my aunt.'

"'Why, my dear?' said Mrs. Patterson.

"'Pray do not,' I added, using an exertion which instantly brought on the vomiting again.

"'This is extraordinary,' said Mrs. Patterson, in a low voice, 'but she must not be agitated now; she must be indulged.' Then turning to me, 'Make yourself easy, Clara,' she added; 'your aunt shall not be sent for; she shall not be alarmed.'

"I now lay quiet again for some time, this second fit of sickness having left me, and Mrs. Patterson and Madame de Roseau went out of the room, leaving Amelia and Miss Beaumont with me. Miss Beaumont placed herself at a little distance, and, as I remember, was quite silent; but Amelia sat by me in order to fan me, for the morning was excessively hot. In this situation, being comparatively easy and much fatigued, I fell asleep; but in my sleep the horrible realities of the past night again presented themselves, in indistinct visions, and I suddenly awoke saying something about the Ariadne, of which I should not, however, have been aware, if Amelia had not repeated what I said, at the same time asking me, 'What, my dear, are you thinking of? what reminds you of the Ariadne just now?'

"I then recollected myself, and answered, 'I was only dreaming.'

"A short silence again followed, which was interrupted by little Flora, on tip-toe, bringing the breakfasts of the young ladies on a waiter. 'Flora,' I said, forgetting myself again, 'is it breakfast-time, and Miss Atkins and Miss Chatterton not come in, nor Gabrielle?'

"On my asking this question, I saw that Amelia gave a sudden and very expressive look at Miss Beaumont; whereupon the other said, 'I don't know what you mean, Amelia.'

"Amelia made no answer, but offered me a dish of tea, as I had complained of extreme thirst. I swallowed the tea eagerly, though it had a flat and almost nauseous taste, and the consequence was a third fit of sickness, more violent than either of the former. I had scarcely recovered from this last paroxysm, and was lying in a state of great exhaustion, being hardly kept from fainting by hartshorn, when a noise in the neighbouring room caught my attention, and I heard Miss Chatterton saying, 'For Heaven's sake, get me to bed! get me to bed! let me at least die in bed!'

"Madame de Roseau's broken English at the same time reached my ears, which were thus filled with repeated expressions of amazement and horror. I heard also Miss Atkins's voice in accents of complaint, though these were considerably more chastised and under control than the lamentations of Miss Chatterton. I then heard my own name mentioned by Mrs. Patterson, and this remark added, 'I cannot understand it, Gabrielle. There is more in this than I now see. Where have you really been?'

"'With Miss Jackson,' returned the voice of Gabrielle.

"'Really and truly?' said Mrs. Patterson.

"'Yes, indeed, Madam,' said Gabrielle.

"'Amelia,' said Miss Beaumont, who could not but hear all that was passing in the next room, 'what is all this? Miss Chatterton ill too?'

"I saw Amelia put her hand upon Miss Beaumont's arm, as a sign for her to be silent.

"'Surely,' said Miss Beaumont, 'they cannot possibly have been together?'

"'Julia, dear, be silent,' said Amelia: 'do not let us forget what we suffered before the holidays.'

"Miss Beaumont said no more: and a moment afterwards, word was brought that Dr. H-- was below.

"While we were waiting for the doctor, Madame de Roseau came and threw open the door so often spoken of during the course of the narrative, saying, 'Amelia, Dr. H-- says we must give them all the air we possibly can.'

"The door being opened to its utmost extent, I then plainly saw all that was passing in the next room. I had a full view of Miss Chatterton's bed, and beheld, with inconceivable horror, the dreadful change which had taken place in that miserable young woman since I had seen her the night before. She was stretched upon the bed, having her head supported by pillows, and lying apparently without the power of voluntary motion, at the same time gasping as if under the influence of dreadful spasms; her face changing every moment from deep red to excessive paleness, while drops of perspiration stood on her brow. On the opposite bed sat Miss Atkins, supporting her head against the bed-post, and vainly endeavouring to appear in a state of tolerable ease.

"At the foot of Miss Chatterton's bed, and leaning against it, stood Gabrielle. Never shall I forget the impression which her appearance at that moment made upon me. The hair and complexion of this girl were exceedingly dark, and her eyes large and bright, but possessing a most singular expression, which I could more easily define by saying what were not than what were its qualities. It was not ferocity, it was not cunning, nor was it fear; but there appeared an indescribable mixture of all these, united with an habitual air of impudence and defiance. At the sight of me, her features assumed a bitter and scornful smile, which was instantly succeeded by a fixed and determined gravity; for I was neither able nor willing to return her smile, and thus to acknowledge that I was still of her party, or that I still had one feeling in unison with hers.

"To complete the picture that I have just given you of this girl, I must say, that her dark hair, which had not been touched since the preceding evening, was in extreme disorder, her dress discomposed, and that she still wore the ornaments with which she had decked herself for the miserable adventures of the night. The moment that my eyes met those of Gabrielle, I covered my face with both my hands, exclaiming, 'Oh, wretched girl! would to God I had never, never seen her face!'

"The entrance of Dr. H--, who entered Miss Chatterton's room by an opposite door, now attracted our notice. He was accompanied by Mrs. Patterson, and was first led to Miss Chatterton's bed. After having observed her with much attention, he looked at Miss Atkins and then at me. He ordered Miss Atkins immediately to go to bed; and, turning to Mrs. Patterson, said, 'How do you account for this, Madam? You say that they were all perfectly well yesterday, and that they all went out, and did not return till this morning? Where were they last night? Have you any reason to think that they partook of any unwholesome aliment, or underwent any excessive fatigue?'

"'They were not together,' said Mrs. Patterson.

"'Not together?' said the doctor: 'it is surprising: the symptoms in all are the same, though more violent in one instance. You are sure they were not together? However this may be,' he added, 'no time must be lost.'

"So saying, he removed into another room, leaving Mrs. Patterson, who, after committing Miss Chatterton to the care of a young lady who was in the room, and directing Miss Atkins immediately to get into bed, called Gabrielle to follow her, and walked away.

"'Oh, Amelia, Amelia!' I exclaimed, as soon as I saw this, 'it will now be found out; I am sure it will.'

"'What?' said Amelia, 'what will be found out?--But, Clara, my dear, if you have any thing to confess, lose no time; tell me all. Think me your friend, as I have ever been; and be assured that all I can do for you I assuredly will, hoping that your future holy life will pay me tenfold for all my care.'

"Encouraged thus fully by Amelia, I summoned all my strength, and made a free confession of every thing that had happened during the preceding night.

"Amelia was visibly shocked; but, exerting strong self-command, she congratulated me on my confession, and, leaving me in Miss Beaumont's care, said, 'I am going, Clara, to plead your cause with Mrs. Patterson; and, if it be possible, this miserable story shall never be divulged either to your aunt or your father.'

"'Dear, blessed Amelia! lovely, lovely angel!' I said, 'may the Almighty bless you!' and I clasped my hands, and found instant relief in a violent flood of tears.

"Notwithstanding the sweet example of Amelia, and the dangerous state of my health at that moment, Miss Beaumont had not sufficient self-command to restrain her virtuous indignation at the tale that she had heard; but she broke out, with violence, against me and my unfortunate companions, exclaiming, that she could not have conceived it possible that art and want of decency could have carried any young women so far: and she was proceeding in this strain, when I said, 'O, Miss Beaumont! Miss Beaumont! much as I am to blame, you ought to remember, that you laid the foundation of this dreadful sin of which I have been guilty, by taking Gabrielle's part as you did, when first I came to school. It was this that encouraged Gabrielle to come about me, and that led me to think of her and seek her acquaintance, thus enabling her to acquire that influence over me which has brought me to this state. I know, I feel, that I have been very very wicked; but you also did very wrong in supporting that girl, and rendering her of so much consequence in my eyes.'

"I was astonished at the effect which this remark produced on Miss Beaumont. She was instantly silenced by it, and, turning from me, sobbed and wept bitterly; when, as I was endeavouring to say something which might, in some degree, tend to soften my harsh yet well-deserved censure, another attack of the spasms and vomiting coming on, I was so totally overcome, that I lost all recollection, and was quite insensible when Dr. H--, Amelia, and Mrs. Patterson returned, neither did I recover myself till I had been copiously bled.

"I know not what medicines were given me when I was brought to myself, but probably they were exceedingly powerful opiates; for, after taking them, I soon fell into a state of stupefaction. I did not wake from this state till about noon, when, on opening my eyes, I saw Miss Beaumont sitting by me. She had evidently been weeping bitterly, and I thought that I never before had seen her look more humble and kind. I asked for something to drink. She gave me some medicine, and then some toast-and-water: after which, being refreshed, I turned towards the other room, and saw several persons standing by Miss Chatterton's bed. I heard her call for Amelia, and I heard also Amelia's soft voice, in answer, saying, 'Here, my dear, here I am; what can I do for you?'

"I endeavoured to raise myself a little to look at what was passing. I saw that Miss Atkins was lying quietly on her bed, but Miss Chatterton looked the very picture of death. Her eyes were sunk, and her colour was livid; and she was seized, every minute, with violent retchings, spasms, or fainting-fits. I saw several persons lift her out of bed, and put her into a hot bath, and I beheld her again laid upon her bed.

"In the mean time, I was again overpowered by sleep, and remained in that state till about six o'clock. This was the time when the family usually met for tea, and it was precisely the hour at which, on the evening before, I had received the spurious letter from my aunt, and had begun to prepare for my ill-advised expedition. 'O,' thought I, 'what an awful twenty-four hours have I spent! And this is what the world calls pleasure! But oh, how has this pleasure partaken of the nature of pain! inexpressible and dreadful pain!'

"While indulging in these reflections, I looked to see who was with me, and found that little Flora was sitting by my pillow; and, as soon as I moved, she enquired whether she should fetch me any thing.

"While the little girl was holding a cup to my mouth, and trying to raise my head, in order that I might drink the more easily, I lifted up my eyes to her face, and asked after Miss Chatterton.

"'Shall I call Miss Amelia?' said the little girl, who had been told not to talk to me.

"I made no reply, but turned on my side, (for I was very weak,) to look into the next room, where all was perfectly still; and where I presently distinguished the figures of Amelia and Miss Beaumont, the one sitting by the bed of Miss Chatterton, and the other by that of Miss Atkins, each of them holding a punkah, with which, at intervals, they fanned their patients. Their fine countenances were thoughtful. But where are all the bosom friends and intimates of these unhappy young women? Had they all forsaken them, and left them, in their extremity, with those whom they considered as their rivals and enemies? Is this worldly friendship! Such were the reflections which suggested themselves to my mind.

"I looked for a while: all was silent, and I hoped that my unhappy companions might be better. At length, Miss Chatterton spoke: her voice was feeble and hollow, and her accents were peculiarly melancholy. She said several words, but I could distinguish only one: it was death. In reply to which, I heard Amelia remark, 'Dear Miss Chatterton, it is never too late to apply to the Redeemer; He is ever ready to answer such as sincerely call upon Him: and though the hour may be late, he surely will not reject those to whom he has given the desire to seek him.'

"I heard no more; for the powerful medicine which I had taken again overcame me, and I fell asleep.

"When I next awoke, it was quite dusk. Miss Beaumont was by me, and, without speaking, gave me some medicine. The gloom of evening added to my melancholy feelings, and I could not refrain from weeping. My attention was, at length, arrested by voices in the next room, and I heard Miss Chatterton speak. 'The Ariadne!' she said, 'yes, the Ariadne!--she is sailing in an ocean of blood! Her masts rise higher than the clouds! Her sails are wider than the earth! There is no shore to that sea!'

"In reply to these delirious ramblings, I heard the voice of Amelia, saying, 'Dear Miss Chatterton, think no more of the Ariadne; that affair is past. You will see the Ariadne no more; you are now sorry that you ever saw her: let us think of better things. There is a Saviour, who extends his arms to you, who calls upon you, who bids you repent of your sins and come to him: think of this dear Saviour. Think of what he has done for you; place your trust in him; and you will assuredly be happy.'

"Miss Chatterton groaned deeply; and, seeming not to have comprehended what Amelia had said, she again alluded, in some confused and horrible manner, to certain events of the past night, and. then said, 'Did you see the gates of the burying-ground? They were opened wide last night. I saw them; neither could they be closed.'

"'O, Chatterton! dear Chatterton!' said Miss Atkins, her voice issuing from the other bed, 'for Heaven's sake, do not talk in this way; I cannot bear it:' and, even at the distance where I was, I heard her sob distinctly.

"Miss Chatterton took no notice of the address of her former friend; for, being seized afresh with spasms and retchings, Amelia was obliged to call for more help: and, in a few minutes, lights were brought; and Mrs. Patterson, Madame de Roseau, and, shortly afterwards, Dr. H--, came into the room.

"Immediately on the arrival of Dr. H--, he ordered the doors to be closed between me and the other sick persons; and, as I had taken several very powerful opiates, I soon sank into a deep sleep, which, with little intermission, continued till the next day.

"In the morning, I was still very weak, but the danger was past; orders, however, were given that I should be kept exceedingly quiet, and as easy as possible. I was surprised, however, to see little either of Amelia or of Miss Beaumont during the whole of the day, and to find, moreover, that the door between my room and that of the other sick persons was fastened; neither could I well hear what was said in the next apartment, as Dr. H-- had ordered my bed to be taken up, and removed to that end of the room that was most distant from the chamber of poor Miss Chatterton.

"As I thus could neither see nor hear any thing that might have been going forward, I was compelled to be content with the society of little Flora, who sat by me all day. But Flora had been told not to satisfy my curiosity; accordingly, to whatever questions I asked, she only said, 'Shall I call Miss Carrisforth'?' Being, however, under the influence of laudanum, I lay with more composure amidst my ignorance than I should otherwise have done: and thus the whole day wore away.

"At her usual hour Amelia came to bed. She looked fatigued, having been up the whole of the preceding night, and it was evident that she had also been crying very bitterly. Miss Beaumont came in with her, as they intended to spend the night together. 'Amelia,' I said, on their entering, 'how are poor Miss Chatterton and Miss Atkins?'

"'I hope they are easy,' she answered. 'But you must not talk, Clara: go to sleep, my dear.'

"I closed my eyes, and tried to sleep; but the influence of the opium being spent, I was particularly wakeful, and amused myself as invalids often do, in watching the motions of the persons in my room. We had a light burning, which was to be continued all night; and, before the young ladies got into bed, they both went through the door between the two apartments, and staid a considerable time. Amelia came back first, and Miss Beaumont followed. Amelia called to Miss Beaumont to fasten the door; but I perceived, after they had been in bed a little while, that this had not been done, and that it had been left a little open.

"The young ladies, being, no doubt, worn with fatigue, were soon asleep, and the whole house lay in solemn silence. I thought on the loud laughs and screams of merriment which had so lately resounded through the bed-rooms at this hour of the night, and was struck with the remarkable contrast; for now not even a whisper stirred in the galleries. I lay during a great part of the night awake; but, about two o'clock, Amelia got up, and gave me something to drink; and, seeing me restless, she lay down by me and laid my head upon her bosom, talking to me a while in the tenderest and sweetest manner, and pointing out the blessings of religion, and the perfect peace attending it, assuring me, that, if I would now endeavour to do well, all that I had done amiss would be forgiven by Mrs. Patterson, and probably be never known to my father. And thus she soothed me: and having composed me to sleep, she withdrew; and I enjoyed a refreshing slumber till breakfast-time the next morning.

"When I then awoke, I found myself alone; little Flora, who had been left with me for a while, having gone down to fetch our breakfast. I had quite recovered from the effects of the opium, and felt myself considerably better; for in hot climates recovery from illness is often as speedy as the progress of disease is rapid. I therefore sat up in my bed, and put on my dressing-gown; and it then occurred to me, that, as the door between the two rooms was open, it could not do any harm for me just to go through, and ask Miss Chatterton how she did: for the season was so hot, that there could be no fear of my catching cold; and, if I know myself, I had no intention, at that time, of doing this slyly, as I resolved to mention the circumstance to Amelia when she next came up.

"I, accordingly, proceeded softly into the next room, but was a little startled at finding a standing screen behind the door; by which, however, I soon made my way, and advanced between the beds. The room was perfectly silent. I turned to Miss Chatterton's bed: it was not only empty, but the very beddings and curtains were removed. Astonished beyond measure, I turned to Miss Atkins's bed; when Oh! conceive my horror, on beholding that miserable young woman extended upon it, a livid and putrefying corpse; for she had died during the night, and the work of decomposition was already commenced. I looked for a moment, thinking I might be deceived: the features, however, were not so altered, but that I easily recognized the vain, light, and unhappy creature who, but two days before, had been the companion of my folly. I uttered a shriek of horror; and, running back to my bed, was, shortly afterwards, found lying upon it, totally insensible.

"On having recovered from my fainting, I found my sweet Amelia sitting by me, and administering to me all that my situation required. 'O, Clara, my dear,' she said, 'what have you been doing! where have you been?'

"'Amelia, dear, dear Amelia!' I replied, 'I have done wrong; I acted without your advice, and I went into that dreadful room.' I know not what more I said, but I cried violently, and begged to be told what had become of Miss Chatterton.

"Amelia answered, that she had died about midnight on the night subsequent to that on which she had been on board the Ariadne; and that Miss Atkins had lingered for twenty-four hours longer, hopes at times having been entertained of her life. She added, too, this further information, that Miss Jackson was also dead, as well as two other young people who had been with us in the ship; and that several of the ship's officers had been so seriously ill that their lives were despaired of. She informed me that the sudden deaths of so many young persons had occasioned much talk in Calcutta; and that the medical men in vain endeavoured to account for the circumstance, some supposing it to be owing to the animal effluvia from the skins with which the ship was laden, some attributing it to fatigue, and others to some unwholesome food accidentally administered to the guests. She also informed me, that my name had, providentially, not been brought forward in the affair, and earnestly expressed the hope that I might consider this as an encouragement to act better for the future; 'for,' added she, 'such a report against a young person might ruin her reputation for ever.'

"Poor Miss Atkins was buried about eight o'clock that morning, and I was fully aware of the awful moment in which she was carried away, from hearing the heavy steps of those who bore the coffin; when I exclaimed, in agony, 'Oh, my God, keep me! Henceforward leave me not to my own counsels, but guide me by thy hand, lest I fall again, and fall for ever!'

"Amelia wept very bitterly; little Flora and Miss Beaumont united their tears with ours; and we all continued in a state of the deepest dejection during the whole course of the day.

"As the physician had ordered that the room in which the unhappy young ladies had lain, together with those adjoining it, should be fumigated, it was necessary that I should be removed. Immediately after the funeral, I was accordingly taken down stairs, and placed upon a sofa in the inner hall.

Never shall I forget the melancholy appearance which the house bore throughout the whole of that day; no one spoke excepting in an under tone, many were weeping, and all sound of mirth had ceased. Gabrielle was absent, but no one enquired after her; neither could I ever learn what was become of her, excepting that she was still living. I remembered the many peals of riotous mirth, and the bursts of laughter, which used to resound through the halls and along the high galleries of Palm-Grove House: but these had all ceased; and the words of the wise man became too truly verified in this place--For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of fools. [Eccles. vii. 6.]

"I have reason to think," continued Miss Clara Lushington, "that the banishment of Gabrielle, and the dreadful end of poor Miss Chatterton, and her companion Miss Atkins, together with the excellent example of Amelia, had a good effect on the whole society at Palm-Grove.

"From the period of these dreadful events, Mrs. Patterson became evidently more attentive; and though she was not, at that time, a pious woman, yet her very presence was a considerable restraint upon the worst characters. Much confidence also was now placed, and deservedly placed, in Amelia: and I was here first brought to see the wonderful effect produced by good examples in the elder pupils of a seminary; an effect perhaps even more, certainly not less, powerful than that resulting from such examples in the teachers themselves. Miss Beaumont also proved herself a great assistance to Amelia; the unguarded feelings of that young lady having, through the divine blessing, become effectually tempered by what she had suffered in her estrangement from Amelia, her imprudence and subsequent disgrace, and, finally, by the awful adventure of the Ariadne, and the part which she had had in the affair. She was now become all that was lovely and excellent.

"With respect to myself, I can say but little: for though there was certainly a great change in my feelings after the deaths of my two unhappy schoolfellows, yet am I well convinced, that, had I at that time been removed from under the influence of Amelia, I should doubtless have fallen again, and any second fall would probably have been worse than the first. But, after reflecting on the whole course of my life, from infancy to the present moment, I am enabled clearly to see, that amidst innumerable snares and temptations, I have been led forward by a divine hand, and by a strength and a wisdom as far above the power of man as the heavens are higher than the earth; and that He who purposed my salvation, ere yet I had entered into existence, has caused every circumstance of my life to work together towards the promotion of my everlasting good.

How many many times has my sweet Amelia laboured to make me comprehend the mighty plan of man's salvation, as begun, carried on, and perfected, by the blessed Trinity in Unity! How often has she endeavoured to excite my cold affections, by a description of the Father's love for perishing sinners, and by leading me to meditation on that which the Son has done and suffered for us! Of the agency of God the Spirit she also spoke often to me, and urged me to a close examination of my heart, and a strict scrutiny of my most private thoughts and actions.

"On the subject of governing the tongue, this sweet young lady, as you must already have observed, was particularly explicit. I well remember how she used to tell me, that the love of idle talking was a peculiar propensity of our sex, a propensity of which even religion seldom cures us, though it may perhaps give another direction to our discourse. I have often heard her speak, not only to me, but also to her friend Miss Beaumont, to this effect.--'What is it,' she would say, 'that makes women in general more ignorant and more frivolous than the other sex, but that habit which they have of getting together and discussing every unimportant concern of their neighbours? If men meet together,' she would say, 'they talk at least of something rational, or something important or useful; of business, or politics, or agriculture, or of books: but women, even pious women, can talk of nothing but their neighbours' affairs; and school-girls, my dear Julia and Clara, lose half their opportunities of improvement by this foolish habit.'

"In this manner she would often silence us, whenever we attempted to introduce any common topic of' tittle-tattle; and when we attended to her advice on this head, it was remarkable what peace we instantly found.

"From the Christmas holidays which next followed after the deaths of poor Miss Chatterton and Miss Atkins, I spent two happy years at Palm-Grove, during the last of which a very decided change had taken place in the family. Mrs. Patterson having been persuaded to attend the ministry of the Rev. Mr. B--, had received such benefit from his discourses, the Lord being pleased to make him an instrument of good to her soul, that she effected, in consequence, a thorough reform in her family, having put a stop to many improper customs, introduced family worship, and determined no longer to allow either of public or private balls. She never suffered her young people to go out, unless their friends came in person to fetch them; and she increasingly devoted her time to the improvement both of their understandings and their hearts. The Almighty so greatly blessed her labours, that I was told by a person who visited the house some years after I had left it, that the little society there was become as lovely and holy as it had once been disgusting and profane.

"Having now, my dear friend, recounted to you the most important particulars of my life, I shall conclude my narrative in a few words. I left Palm-Grove when I had just entered my nineteenth year; being in a very feeble state of health. I was brought to England by my father and step-mother, both of whom behaved to me with the greatest kindness.

"I will not enter into any account of my grief at parting with Amelia, Julia, and little Flora, nor of the anguish that I felt in bidding adieu to my native shores; these things are more easily conceived than described. Suffice it to say, that the memory of Amelia is blended in my heart with all that is lovely, excellent, and admirable on earth; inasmuch as it pleased the Almighty to make her the most illustrious instance that I ever beheld of the power of religion, and of the regenerating and sanctifying work of the Holy Spirit. I heard that she left Palm-Grove soon after me, and was married to a gentleman of high rank up the country: where, no doubt, she diffuses peace and joy over all around her. She has several children of her own: little Flora, however, lives with her, and still retains a most tender place in her regards. Miss Beaumont is also married, and conducts herself, I hear, as a Christian female ought to do. Mrs. Patterson still resides at Palm-Grove, and, as I before said, is a new creature. Miss Crawford has long left her; but of her circumstances, or of those of Gabrielle, I know nothing. Madame de Roseau still lives with Mrs. Patterson, and conducts herself with propriety: but whether she has yet learned to speak plain English I have not heard.

"And now, my dear friend, I conclude my history, humbly commending myself to the divine mercy through my dear Saviour, in whom I have learned to place my sole and entire confidence; being assured, that any sinful creature destitute of this hope, can look forward, in death, to nothing but grief, and pain, and long despair."

When the lady of the manor had concluded the history of Clara Lushington, one of the young ladies remarked, that she thought Amelia was, in her sphere, fully equal to Frederick Falconer.

"Perhaps," remarked the kind instructress, "the example of Amelia may be more useful to you even than that of Frederick; inasmuch as there are few situations in life, wherein a proper management of the gift of speech may not be exercised with advantage. There is also another reason why you may feel an additional interest in the history that I have just read, which is, that it presents a correct view of a variety of scenes peculiar to a very remote country; and many of these scenes are such as it would be difficult for any one to describe who has not witnessed something like them. Many of our places of education, even in this country, are, no doubt, far from pure; but I fear that the horrible picture which I have given you of Palm-Grove, is but a faint sketch of what was the state of schools, some years ago, in our settlements in India. Things, however, are, we trust, now improving; and yet, perhaps, but little can be expected in societies of which more than one half of the members pass into them from the hands of heathen nurses, if not of heathen mothers."

The lady of the manor then called her young people to prayer.

Prayer for grace to use our speech aright

"O almighty and most merciful Father, who givest wisdom and discretion to thy people, and hast promised to guide them, by thy counsels, through this present evil world; give us grace so to control and exercise that most excellent gift of speech, that it may be without offence to others, and not without profit to ourselves. Make us, O blessed Lord God, fully sensible of this important truth, that in the multitude of words there wanteth not sin; and give us grace, as much as in us lies, to avoid all needless occasions for much talking; whereby time may be lost, and our responsibility increased, and wherein we may be tempted to injure the characters of our neighbours, to carry tales from house to house, or to misrepresent or falsify facts. Help us habitually to cherish that distrust of ourselves which may induce us to fly, rather than to seek, temptations of this kind: and, finally, when we may really be required to speak, give us grace to utter the words of wisdom, and to refrain from all communications which may tend to familiarize the ears of our auditors with sinful and corrupt ideas.

"O, Father, constrain us, by thy love, to give thee the glory whenever praise is due; and, as we would desire to have our own ears closed against the words of flattery, grant that no vain or earthly motive may induce us to pour them into the ears of our brethren. When we would speak of those who have injured us, put thy bridle on our tongues; and when we would speak lightly and unadvisedly, do thou restrain our lips. Keep us back from all unadvised intimacies, and from all interchange of unholy confidences, by which young persons too often irritate each other against their parents and elders, and mutually encourage and strengthen their own evil passions. Give us courage, also, O blessed Lord, to reprove that which is amiss in others, whenever it may fall under our observation; but grant, at the same time, that we may have grace to rebuke with gentleness, and in a manner becoming our sex and age; knowing, that the silent censure of an upright and holy example, ever falls with more weight than that which proceeds from the lips.

We desire, O incomprehensible and all-glorious Trinity in Unity, to place ourselves in thy hands; and, as thou, O Father, didst prepare our salvation ere yet we had learned to lisp thy name; as thou, O blessed Son, hast provided the means of our ransom, and hast already paid the price; so we desire, through life, to be guided and directed by thee, O Holy Spirit; whose admonitions we would constantly regard, whose regenerating and sanctifying power we desire to experience, and to whom we look for that glorification which is promised to all who are enabled to cast away all self-confidence, and to seek salvation only in the promised Saviour.

"And now, all glory be to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, now and for evermore. Amen."

TENTH COMMANDMENT--THOU SHALT NOT COVET THY NEIGHBOUR'S HOUSE, THOU SHALT NOT COVET THY NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE, NOR HIS SERVANT, NOR HIS MAID, NOR HIS OX, NOR HIS ASS, NOR ANY THING THAT IS HIS.

"As the commandments have already engaged our attention for a considerable time," said the lady of the manor to her young people, on the evening chosen for the consideration of the tenth commandment, "I hope to close the subject this day with a narrative which I happen to have by me relative to the matter in hand. And, as most of what may be said on this subject is introduced in different parts of this story, I think it the less needful to make any remarks of my own on the question."

The lady of the manor then drew forth a small manuscript from her work-bag; and, when she had read the title, a smile immediately appeared on the countenances of the young people, several of whom remarked, that they could form no idea of what kind of narrative it would be which should answer to a title so extraordinary.

The lady of the manor smilingly signified, that she was ready to satisfy their curiosity in the best manner imaginable--by reading the story, which she accordingly commenced without further delay.

RICH IN THE KITCHEN, POOR IN THE PARLOUR.

On the confines of Worcestershire and Herefordshire, in a neighbourhood rendered in winter almost inaccessible through the deep roads of stiff red clay, is an ancient mansion called Stanbrook Court.

This building, which was from time immemorial the seat of a respectable family of the name of Vaughen, had been erected in the reign of William and Mary, and partook of that style of architecture which was fashionable in that period. The old gentleman who had entered into possession of the estate about the middle of the last century, had, at his death, left six children, with all of whom we shall become acquainted in the course of our narrative, although the affairs of one only will engage our particular attention.

Of these children, the eldest, a son, had been educated at home, and had spent the greater part of his youth in his father's stable and dog-kennel. At the period from which our narrative commences, he was more than fifty years of age, had been a widower some years, and had two sons, and as many daughters. He was generally denominated, in the country, Squire Vaughen, of Stanbrook Court, and was said to possess the best pack of fox-hounds in the county.

Two maiden sisters, viz. Mrs. Dorothea and Mrs. Penelope, who were nearest in age to the Squire, kept his house, which honourable station they had held ever since the death of his wife: and though they were neither of them remarkable for their good temper, yet, as their fortunes were small, and as they enjoyed in their brother's house some conveniences which they could not expect to find elsewhere, they contrived to accommodate themselves so far to his humours, that, during the course of their long residence with him, he had never actually told them to leave his house, although he not infrequently had dropped hints which they might have interpreted to this purpose, had it suited their convenience so to do.

These ladies had all that pride and ignorance of the world which is frequently found among persons who live in retirement and among their inferiors, and they were not without a variety of notable notions concerning that which they deemed proper and becoming in persons in a certain rank of life.

Their nieces, the Squire's daughters, whose education had been begun by their aunts, and finished at an ordinary but dashing boarding-school in a neighbouring town, were not different from the common run of young people who have been carelessly educated, and who mistake a certain air of easy confidence for gentility, excepting that they were infected with that kind of family pride and hauteur of manner which is now seldom exhibited in the world, and which would not be tolerated were such display attempted.

The second son of the old family of which the Squire was the elder, had been entered into the navy at an early age, and from that period had rarely visited his native place. This gentleman was always distinguished, when spoken of in the family, by the appellation of the Captain; and, as he was in the East India service at the time of which I am speaking, it was hoped that he would return home with some lacs of rupees, and, also, that he would then think himself either too old or too infirm to marry; as it is generally believed that those who go abroad live three years while their more quiet friends in England have added only twenty-four months to their lives.

The fifth child of this family was a daughter, who, having entered this world some years after her sisters, and being endowed with rather more beauty than her seniors, had been put forward to make her fortune by marriage. This lady had been seen by a young counsellor at an assize-ball at Hereford, and had been taken by him to London, where she had resided ever since, taking care to spend her husband's money as expeditiously as he obtained it, having acquired a vehement desire for the vanities and pomps of this world.

The youngest individual of this household was a son, who, having been early taken from his father's family, and weaned from the inelegant habits which there prevailed, by a pious uncle, who adopted and educated him, he, through the divine blessing, became a character as eminently amiable as many of the other individuals of his family were forbidding. The Church had been the destination of this gentleman; and a family-living of a clear three hundred a year, together with a comfortable old house, had been deemed a handsome provision for him, being all that he obtained from his father, and which was far more, as his sisters often said, than they ever received, the aim of the family always having been to advance the eldest son at the expence of all the other children.

This last mentioned gentleman, whom we shall call Henry Vaughen, had in his youth possessed a very handsome person and a pleasing countenance; and being, as we have reason to think, a sincere Christian, it was impossible that he should retain any part of that pride which characterized the rest of the family. There was, however, one thing deserving of notice in the character of this gentleman--that at the same time that he seemed to be entirely without ambition or desire after the pomps and vanities of this world, he carefully cultivated and diligently sought, both for himself and his family, all its real elegances: not, indeed, those elegances which the milliner and goldsmith might supply; but those decorations of life which are for the most part equally within the reach of the poor and the rich, and which are frequently bestowed on those who love the Lord without money and without price.

Among these, he enumerated all the graces of manner and of carriage, neatness of dress, the courtesies of speech, the interchange of elegant ideas, and the display of holy and amiable feelings. To these, he added a taste for literature, and an awakened perception of the beauties of nature: such as the glorious views of the rising and setting sun; and of the moon, travelling in her full-orbed splendour through the fleckered clouds, or moving, as a silver crescent, over the ebon brow of night; of distant mountains, or solemn groves; of waterfalls, sparkling in the shadowy glade; and of flocks and herds feeding in the peaceful lawn; and of those more minute and delicate beauties which, being created by infinite power, exist among the inferior tribes of animated creatures, or lie hid within the cups and bells of the little flowers of the forest.

Such objects as these were ever pleasing to this excellent man, and excited within him feelings of love and gratitude to the bountiful Giver of all good; and it was his constant aim, while he endeavoured to inspire the minds of those about him with the admiration of these purer objects of taste, to head them from the love of those things which have in themselves no actual excellence, and which are desired only because the passing fashions of the day may have given them a momentary importance, or because they have derived a more lasting weight from the envy, the ambition, and the covetousness of human nature.

Mr. Henry Vaughen cultivated this simple taste in himself and his family not merely from caprice, but with a religious view, in order that the pride of life and its empty distinctions might have the less influence over his and their minds, that they might have the full enjoy-. ment of all the innocent delights within their reach, and might the more cheerfully acquiesce in the want of those pleasures and possessions which the Almighty thought fit to withhold: and so firmly were his own principles settled, with regard to these subjects, that, from the time he entered on his ministry, he was enabled to reject at once and decidedly every temptation which owed its allurements to any of the false notions of pride and vanity, by which thousands in this Christian country are entirely influenced, and by which many persons professing themselves to be set apart from the world are, nevertheless, affected to a degree of which they have little idea.

At the age of twenty-four, Mr. Henry Vaughen took possession of the family-living before mentioned. It was situated in a village about six miles from his brother's seat, and though it lay quite as deep in the clay as Stanbrook Court, it was, in reality, less recluse, owing to the residence of two great families at different ends of the parish, both of which attended the parish church. The first of these families was that of Sir Thomas Freeman, an ancient and respectable baronet; and the second that of Mr. Smith, a country gentleman, of no high connexions, indeed, but extremely rich.

Immediately after his induction into this living, Mr. Henry Vaughen married a young lady, to whom he had been long attached. This lady had a lovely exterior; she was pious, humble, and capable of relishing all the exalted and refined ideas of her husband; but her character by no means possessed the strength and firmness of his: and though, when supported by him, she was capable of every exertion necessary in her situation, yet, when deprived of that support, she shrunk into comparative inaction and timidity.

Now, in order to make my story plain to the comprehension of my reader, it is necessary that I should enter into a more minute description of the parsonage-house to which Mr. Henry Vaughen brought his bride than may at first appear altogether requisite: as, however, I shall employ no more detail than the subject requires, I hope that this minuteness will be pardoned.

The parsonage belonging to the family-living bestowed on Mr. Vaughen as soon as he was admitted into priest's orders, stood in a large square garden inclosed by an old wall, at the two corners of which towards the front were two square summer-houses. The garden itself was laid out with much old-fashioned stiffness, but filled, at the same time, with every kind of fruit and vegetable in rich and vast abundance. From the house to the front gate which opened into the village street was a straight gravel walk, wide enough to admit a carriage, and on each side were shrubs and flowers; this being the only part of the garden devoted to the purpose of ornament. The house itself was of brick, neatly plastered, and presenting in front two gable ends, whose large projecting windows were of small casements in framework of stone. These gable ends were united to each other by a line of flat roofing, which formed the centre of the house.

The entrance into the house was in this central part, through a hall, which opened on one side into a large old but handsome parlour, and, on the other, into a kitchen of equal size with the parlour, and which, if divested of the degrading considerations usually associated with the thought of a kitchen, might have been deemed an extremely agreeable apartment, having its projecting window towards the garden. Beyond the kitchen was a second apartment for the convenience of servants, in which the more coarse and ordinary offices of housewifery were usually performed. Beyond the entrance-hall was a large light closet, which had been used in ancient days as a store-room; but, as it contained a small fire-place, and had a glass door opening into the garden, small as this room was, Mr. Henry Vaughen instantly seized upon it as an apartment for study: and though, when he had put up his book-shelves, it scarcely contained space for a table and two chairs, yet, as it commanded a view of the spire of the village church peeping over the trees of the garden, he declared that he would not change it for the finest library in the royal palace. The upper apartments of this house were not much more numerous than the lower ones; but, as Mr. Vaughen often remarked, they were quite sufficient for a man of four hundred a year, which was the utmost extent of his income, even after he had come into possession of his wife's fortune, which did not happen till at the period of her father's death, about two years after her marriage.

It was in the year 1776 that Mr. Vaughen became a householder. At that period, three hundred a year was nearly as much as twice that sum is in these days; and he was enabled, in consequence, to keep two female servants, and a man-servant in a plain livery.

As the value of money became less, the man was dismissed, and a labourer was occasionally employed to keep the garden in order, for Mr. Vaughen was a lover of neatness; and, as the times continued to press, the worthy minister took into his family a little boy, the son of a counsellor in London, to educate with his own son, by this means supplying the deficiency of his income without impoverishing the little fund which he had always put by for charity, and on which he would never allow himself to encroach.

In the mean time, Mr. and Mrs. Vaughen were blessed with several lovely children. The eldest, a daughter, whom he named Henrietta, was, like her parents, exceedingly amiable in her person, and possessing a gravity and serenity of deportment which originated in a calm and happy state of mind. This disposition was partly natural, but owed its stability to the divine blessing upon the judicious management of her parents. Two lovely infants, a boy and girl, who were next in age to Henrietta, had been recalled by their heavenly Father a few months after their births; and these trials, so bitter to a parent's heart, had been made particularly useful to Mr. and Mrs. Vaughen, in loosening their affections from the present scene, and impressing them with a sense of the shortness of this life, the uncertainty and deceitfulness of all earthly things, and the necessity of preparing for that change which, sooner or later, all men must undergo.

Not long after the death of the last of these beloved infants, their places were supplied to their afflicted parents by a son and daughter, born one year after the other, to whom they gave the names of their little departed ones, to wit, Adolphus and Emmeline; and in the smiles of these sweet children, they lost much of the bitterness of their sorrow.

The pupil whom Mr. Vaughen received into his house, and educated with his own children, was called Theodore Owen; and, as he was an amiable boy, and seldom went home, his parents having other and elder sons with whom they seemed principally occupied, his tutor was enabled to direct his education as entirely to his own liking as that of his own children.

During the minority of their children, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Vaughen enjoyed as much happiness as ever falls to the lot of human beings, and this happiness was, undoubtedly, owing, in a great measure, to the simplicity of their views and motives of conduct. For, having little of the fear of man, or the thirst of human praise, or the covetous desires of the flesh, on behalf either of themselves or their children, they were set free from many cares, troubles, and perplexities, which continually enter into the families of ordinary men, and disturb their repose. But, as I have before said, Mr. Vaughen was raised above these feelings in an especial manner, and had been enabled, by the divine blessing, to inspire his wife with his own sentiments.

We must here, however, pause a moment, to point out what that is by which a man is enabled to overcome the world, and to break the seven green withies by which the world binds its votaries, and leads them in its triumphant march even up to the gates of hell, from which, if some are saved, it is even as brands plucked out of the fire.

There are certain religious truths which cannot be too often repeated, or brought in too many views before the mind of man; and that discourse or serious narrative is defective, and should by every pious person be so regarded, which fails to express those important statements of facts by the knowledge and influence of which the whole tenor of our lives ought to be directed. That God created man in a state of innocence, is one of these important facts; but that, long before his creation, He who knew all things from eternity foresaw that he would fall, and therefore graciously provided for his restoration, is another of equal, and perhaps higher importance. The operations also of the three Persons of the blessed and glorious Trinity in the work of man's salvation, are facts of which we ought never to lose sight, lest, when we discover any thing which is good and desirable in the saints of the Lord, we should fail to give the glory to him, by whom the vile nature of man is changed, and by whom he is enabled to bring forth the fruits of holiness.

Now we are taught that the change of the heart is the especial work of God the Spirit. It is the God the Spirit who convinceth man of sin, bringeth him to a knowledge of Christ, and enableth him to overcome the world. It is the Lord the Spirit who cleanseth the hearts of the chosen ones from the covetous desires of the flesh, and gives them that spirit of contentment by which they receive with thankfulness those good things which the Lord bestows, and submit with cheerfulness when the same good things are withheld. It was the Lord the Spirit who enabled the apostle Paul to say, "I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where, and in all things, I am instructed, both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." [Phil. iv. 11--13.]

It was, therefore, through the power and influence of the Holy Spirit of God that Mr. and Mrs. Vaughen were enabled to attain this state of mind so full of contentment, through which their hearts were restrained from indulging in vain and covetous desires after that which they did not possess: neither was Mr. Vaughen so ill instructed in heavenly things as to limit the idea of covetousness, as many persons do, to the eager desire of obtaining or amassing money or other earthly possessions; but he received the command which says, "Thou shalt not covet," in a sense far more extended than that in which it is ordinarily understood. And if ever he detected himself in indulging a wish for that which was not within his reach, he instantly condemned himself as having broken the injunction of Scripture, which saith, Let your conversation be without covetousness. [Heb. xiii. 5.] And not only did this pious man never allow himself to utter any desire for that which he did not possess; but he also regarded it as a Christian duty to feel and profess the utmost thankfulness for that which he had; insomuch so, that he seldom sat down to a meal with his family, inhaled the odour of flowers, beheld a pleasant prospect, enjoyed the conversation of a friend, or received the caresses of his children, without exhibiting such symptoms of joy and gratitude as could not fail to shed an enlivening influence on those around him. The breakings out of sin in those with whom he had connexion, and the strugglings of iniquity in his own heart, were the occasions which alone seemed to have power to oppress him for any length of time; and thus it happened that his family was cheered by a peculiar sunshine of which few others are allowed to partake.

It has often been observed how strongly children are affected by the cursory remarks dropped in hours of relaxation by their parents, and how (humanly speaking) their characters are formed and indelibly impressed by these words thrown out, as it were, at haphazard by their instructors.

How few professors of religion are habitually consistent in their conversation! how few appear to be in any degree raised above the world! What female, for example, do we see, who, when the subject of dress is brought forward, does not betray an earnestness which must convey to her nieces and daughters, if she happen to have any, a secret assurance that she attributes a certain importance to these things beyond what Scripture authorizes? And what man, when speaking of worldly fame and honour, or of the esteem in which he is himself held in society, does not betray a warmth that contradicts every assertion which he may make, or may have made, concerning his deadness to these things?

Young people are keen observers, and soon learn to distinguish the language of form from that of real feeling: they too often perceive that the one is used by their instructors when religion is spoken of, and the other when worldly matters are discussed; and the impression from these observations becomes as strong as it often proves ruinous.

This being the case, how important it is that parents should carefully regulate their most inward feelings, that they should apply to the Holy Spirit to cleanse their hearts from all earthly passions, and that they should endeavour to conform their will and affections to the word of God!--But to return to my story.

The education of the children brought up under the charge of Mr. and Mrs. Vaughen, was so well conducted, and so particularly blessed, that, while they constituted the happiness of their parents, they were admired and loved by all who saw them. At the age of twenty, Henrietta was one of the most lovely young women in the country. Her general deportment still retained the composure and gravity that I have before mentioned; but she had withal a great softness and sweetness of manner, by which she secured both the respect and love of all who beheld her. It was impossible for her to have enjoyed the instructions of her father for so many years without possessing an intelligent mind. Her views of religion were so simple and clear, that it would have been impracticable for her to stray from the paths of rectitude without being immediately sensible of it; and though she knew but little of the prevailing fashions of the day, her manners were nevertheless formed on such a broad basis of truth and knowledge of human nature, that she was fit for any society. We do not mean to attribute this perfection of manners to the exertions of the young lady herself, but to the care of her father, who always maintained that simple habits, such as he loved, and such as he believed his God approved, would never appear to greater advantage than when they were united with elegant manners, and that he therefore considered it as an especial duty of the advocates of Christian simplicity to insist upon the necessity of a courteous and elegant carriage.

Emmeline, who was in her seventeenth year when her sister was in her twenty-first, was of a less sedate character than Henrietta, yet scarcely less lovely in her way. Her countenance was so strikingly charming, that it was difficult for any one to pass her without turning again to look after her; and yet it was impossible to say what it was in her which particularly pleased. Her feelings were not under the same control with those of her sister; and yet she never fell into those excesses which might have been expected from a young person whose whole soul sometimes beamed with joy in her dark blue eyes, or expressed itself in bitter sorrow, on slight occasions, on her coral lips and mantling cheek. But this young creature cherished, by the divine blessing, a lively sense of her duty to God; for we dare not impiously attribute this best of heavenly gifts, a sense of religion, to any human work; no, not to the best directed effort even of the most judicious parent: for it is God the Spirit who alone can change and soften the heart of man; and to him henceforward and for ever be the glory, and all the glory, given by every pious instructor, when the slightest symptom of grace appears in the wayward minds of any of the youthful sons of Adam.

Adolphus was a fine youth, and not less so his friend Theodore; and though neither of these were without faults, yet it was to be hoped, from many excellent traits in their characters, that the Almighty had begun his work of love in their hearts.

These young people resided together under the paternal roof of Adolphus, till it was thought necessary for them, as he was now nineteen years of age, to go to the University: and as Mr. Vaughen had a friend who was a tutor in Trinity College, Cambridge, of a decidedly pious character, it was thought advisable, the young men being both intended for the Church, that they should be placed under his superintendance in the college just mentioned, although the expence was such as Mr. Vaughen hardly knew how to meet for his own son. As, however, those who had the charge of Theodore's education approved the plan, and as the young men expressed great uneasiness at the idea of being separated, Mr. Vaughen resolved to make an effort to provide for the cost, and accordingly went over to Cambridge, and placed the young people under the charge of his friend,

I shall not describe the silent sorrow of Henrietta on this occasion of her separation from her brother and his companion, which last she loved little less than she loved her brother; nor shall I enter into a minute description of the many tears shed on the same occasion by Emmeline; but proceed to say, that Mr. Vaughen now, for the first time in his life, began to experience anxiety about money, a species of solicitude which he had taken care never to feel before.

During the first year of his son's residence at Cambridge, a legacy of one hundred pounds, left by a distant relation, had set all things right, and enabled him, when Adolphus returned to spend the Christmas vacation, to pay, as far as he knew, every shilling that he owed in the world--a circumstance for which he was very thankful. The experience of this year, however, had taught him that his present annual expences exceeded his income by at least one hundred pounds; and he, consequently, foresaw, that, unless some exertion was made, he should, during his son's residence in Cambridge, involve himself in difficulties from which he might never be extricated during the rest of his life.

Mr. Vaughen was not a man who needlessly troubled his family with his perplexities; he therefore resolved not to express his anxiety, till he could at the same time propose some means for its relief.

In the interim, however, he made his difficulties a matter of special mention in prayer, and carried all his troubles to the throne of grace; determining to follow up whatever ideas should suggest themselves, after his application to his heavenly Friend and never-failing Comforter.

The first idea that occurred to him was that of taking another pupil; but, after some time, as no pupil offered, he abandoned this project, and waited a short time to see what might offer itself for his relief. But although his mind was oppressed, it was not overwhelmed; for he reposed his confidence upon the Rock of Ages, and he felt a full assurance that this his light affliction would work for his good, and for that of all whom he loved.

About this time, while his mind was in this state of expectation, (for we cannot call it doubt,) an old lady, the daughter of his predecessor, arrived in the village, professing that it was her wish to terminate her days in the peaceful retirement in which she had passed her youth, and then to be buried beside the remains of her parents.

Mrs. Vaughen called on her as soon as she heard of her arrival, and found her in mean lodgings, although they were the best which the village afforded. The result of this visit was an invitation, which the old lady accepted, to dine at the parsonage; and, consequently, she arrived the next day, accompanied by a cousin in destitute circumstances, a meek and dependent creature, who sustained the twofold situation of companion and waiting-maid.

When Mrs. Alice Turner (the old lady alluded to) was received in the parlour of the rectory, she seemed at first much affected, and afterwards delighted; and more than once, during the day, did she express the delight that it would afford her, could she but be permitted to finish her days in those apartments in which she had spent the earliest periods of her life.

This remark, which appeared natural enough, passed without notice by Mrs. Vaughen, though not unobserved by her husband, to whom this idea occurred--Could we by any means spare this lady this room, and the bed-chamber above, what she would pay us would supply, in a great measure, the deficiency of our income: but we have no second parlour; and could I ask my wife, who is the daughter of a gentleman, to live in a kitchen? But although this idea presented itself in a form so dubious, and apparently attended with so many difficulties, yet Mr. Vaughen would not and could not divest his mind of its influence; and so entirely did it occupy him during the whole of the next day, that his wife and daughters more than once asked him the subject of his thoughts. At length, the thought became so importunate, that he resolved to open his mind to his eldest daughter, and to ask her opinion on the subject, and whether she conceived that the proposal would be altogether intolerable to her mother.

With this view, on the following afternoon, he asked Henrietta to accompany him in a walk; and when they were at some little distance from the house, he stated to her, first, his pecuniary difficulties, which statement seemed considerably to affect her; and then mentioned his plan for their relief, by which he as suddenly, and much to his surprise, seemed to remove her distress.

Seeing, however, the unruffled calmness with which she received the proposition of giving up their only parlour for another's use, he began to fear that this calmness arose from a want of consideration, and therefore said, "But, Henrietta, my dear, you do not consider that we have only one parlour?"

"Yes, I do, papa," she answered; "I know we have but one parlour."

"And, when we give up our parlour, we must sit in the kitchen."

"And we cannot have a pleasanter room, papa," said the young lady.

"But the servants, my dear, you must sit with them,"

"O, but, papa," replied she, "I think we should not require two servants then: we could part with our under servant; mamma does not much like her: and I am sure that none of us could have any objection to sitting in the room with nurse."

It happened that the head servant in Mr. Vaughen's family had formerly lived at Stanbrook Court in the capacity of housemaid, and had known Mr. Henry Vaughan when he was a child, she being about ten years older than himself. She had afterwards lived as upper servant at the parsonage, and had nursed every child in the family. She was, therefore, considered more as a humble friend than a servant, by all in the house. This circumstance was much in favour of Mr. Vaughan's plan, though he had not thought of it when the idea of the proposed domestic alteration first entered his mind. "And do you think, my dear," he said, "if we take our meals in the kitchen, that you could do with one servant?"

"Certainly," said Henrietta, "in that case we should prefer it; particularly as I and my sister would, of course, make a point of doing what we could in the house to assist nurse."

"Well, but Henrietta, my dear," said her father, "what shall we do with our visiters? You know, I cannot receive more than one person in my study."

"Why, papa," said Henrietta, smiling,, "we will tell all our friends and acquaintances our situation, and why we have found it necessary to let our apartment; and those who still choose to visit us notwithstanding--our poverty, I was going to say; but that word will not do, for we shalt not be poor then--our degradation: shall I use that word, papa? No, that won't do; for we shall not be disgraced, though living in our kitchen--our descent--I think that word will do," added she, smiling; "those who choose to visit us, notwithstanding our descent, we will bring into our neat kitchen; and those who do not like us in our new station will, it is to be hoped, stay away: so that difficulty, dear papa, will soon be settled."

"My dear, artless Henrietta, shall I tell you," said her father, "that there will be a third description of persons among our acquaintances?--I mean those who will neither come to see us in our kitchen because they love us, nor stay away because they dislike me but, taking a middle course, and perhaps cherishing mixed feelings with regard to us, will come to look at us, to find fault with us, to hear what we have to say, and perhaps to ridicule us. Now these are the kind of characters whom the prince of this world frequently makes use of to forward his vilest purposes; and through the intervention of these instruments, which often apparently seem weak and ineffectual, he continually opposes the cause of good and effectually promotes that of evil: by means of these mixed characters he acts upon those who would otherwise sooner suspect him, and through these he makes the worse appear the better cause.

"Now, even though I should prevail with your dear mother to concur in my plan, and I think, judging of the future from the past, I shall meet with but little difficulty in doing so, yet I feel afraid that she will suffer much from the impertinent interference of this description of neighbours, and from connexions whose regard she has hitherto desired to conciliate; and though she would, I am persuaded, never be induced by such to repent of what she may have done for her family, still her tender spirit may be wounded, and her peace destroyed; and although, on occasions of this kind, I will always come to her aid when I can, yet, as my parish duties not unfrequently call me from home, I must look to you for much assistance in this respect. Considering your age, my child, you have much composure of manner and self-command; and if you will undertake, in case of my absence, to receive such visiters as may happen to come, explain to them the motives of my conduct, receive them, if needs be, in our new apartment, and shield your mother from all unpleasant encounters of this sort, you will inexpressibly oblige your father, and relieve your mother."

"O, papa, papa!" said Henrietta, "you have used the word oblige! O, how can a child oblige a parent, when, after all which can be done in the longest life, the weight of obligation must ever remain on the side of the child?"

The father's blessing upon his beloved daughter followed this remark; and the young lady, being free from care concerning what had passed, immediately introduced a new subject, and told her father that she and her sister had long been considering about the means of establishing a Sunday-school in the parish. "And now, papa," she said, "if, by letting our best apartments, and parting with our servant, we obtain a little more than the money we absolutely require, perhaps we shall be able to accomplish this desirable object."

The father entered into his daughter's scheme with an interest and delight which so entirely pervaded his mind, that no person would have supposed what had been the nature of the subject which occupied their attention during the former part of their walk.

The appearance of a livery-servant, lounging at the door of the village inn, as they returned through the rural street, was the first thing, on their approach towards home, which drew their attention from the scheme of the Sunday-school. As they passed by the inn, the servant came up to them, and informed them that his master, Sir Thomas Freeman, (who was a young man, just come into possession of his estates and honours,) was at the rectory with Mrs. Vaughen.

Mr. Vaughen hastened home, and found his wife making tea for the baronet, who was apparently engaged in some very interesting conversation with Emmeline. Mr. Vaughen looked rather disconcerted at this appearance of assiduity on the part of the young gentleman, especially as, more than once before, the father had observed symptoms of the same kind in his behaviour towards his younger daughter. He, however, took no apparent notice of the circumstance, but, accosting his youthful visiter politely, contrived to engaged him in a conversation by which he was prevented from directing any further particular address to his daughter.

In the mean time, Henrietta relieved her mother of the business of tea-making, and Emmeline sat considering what Sir Thomas had been saying to her, but could not recollect any thing particularly, except that he had compared her cheeks to roses and her eyes to stars; and added, that if carried to court, she would eclipse all the beauties there. Now whether she believed what he had told her or not does not appear, but it was evident that she was far from being displeased by the pains which the baronet had taken to please her; and by this emotion of pleasure she was but ill disposed for the trial which awaited her in a few hours.

On the day following that on which Mr. Vaughen's conversation with Henrietta and the visit of Sir Thomas took place, while this affectionate husband was sitting in his study considering in what way he could best open the matter under consideration to his wife, Mrs. Vaughen came into the room to tell him that she was about to dismiss her under servant, having discovered some faults in her conduct which could not be overlooked.

Mr. Vaughen instantly considered this an opportunity so favourable for the opening of his mind to his wife, that he ought not to let it slip, and he accordingly entered with her into a full explanation of their difficulties, and of the plans that he had formed for overcoming them.

On this occasion, the superior knowledge which Mrs. Vaughen had of the world prevented her from receiving the intelligence respecting their circumstances with the same calmness with which her daughter had heard it. In the plans proposed she looked forward to a long train of difficulties, vexations, and mortifications, which Henrietta had not foreseen; and so entirely was she overcome by the prospect, that, bursting into tears, she said to her husband, "And is there no other possible means of extricating ourselves from these difficulties than that extremely disagreeable expedient which you propose?"

"Point any out, my dear," said Mr. Vaughen, calmly, "and I am ready to adopt them."

"Another pupil, my dear," said Mrs. Vaughen.

"I cannot get one," replied her husband.

"Rigid and minute economy," replied Mrs. Vaughen.

"On our present plan of living, no economy would answer the purpose," answered Mr. Vaughen; "and, if it would, such excessive parsimony would be, my dear, a state of suffering, which I could ill bear: and, as far as I am concerned, I would, I assure you, infinitely rather be rich in the kitchen than poor in the parlour."

"But our friends, Mr. Vaughen," said she, "our friends, what will they say?"

"Why, our friends will approve of what we do, when they know our motives."

"What! will you plead poverty to your friends, Mr. Vaughen?" said she.

"No, my dear, certainly not," he answered, "because I shall have no poverty to plead: we shall be rich in the kitchen."

"But you will lay open your affairs to them?" said she.

" Yes," he replied, "to them and to every one whom it may concern."

She was silent for a moment, for she loved her husband, and had been accustomed to reverence all that he said and did; but he had now taken a flight higher than she could soar, and her eyes became dazzled and her sight confused in looking after him.

"Well, my dear," he said, availing himself of this pause, and kindly taking her hand, "am I to understand that I have your consent? Shall I put on my hat, and call on Mrs. Alice Turner, and make our bargain with her? She is a woman of fortune: we shall be sure of receiving what she undertakes to pay us."

Mrs. Vaughen grasped the hand which was placed in hers; and, looking tenderly at her husband, "For myself, my Henry," she said, "for myself, I do not care where I live, or what I do; but for my daughters, my dear daughters, I do feel. Let us consider again, before we take a measure by which we remove them out of the rank of life in which they were born, into one from which they can never rise again." Here a fresh burst of tears interrupted her further utterance, and she sank upon her husband's bosom, as if quite overcome by her feelings.

Mr. Vaughen seemed hurt by this conduct, but reproved her gently; and when she had recovered some degree of composure, he thus addressed her. "How is this, my dear Jane," he said, "that you, a pious woman, as you surely are, should give way to weaknesses of which even a wise woman of the world might be ashamed? And why," enquired he, "in the first place, do you give yourself airs of heroism and of martyrdom, as it were, on an occasion which in nowise justifies it? The sacrifices which are now required of you are so small, that they exist, in fact, only in imagination; and though you profess that this world is not your home or resting-place, and that you desire a better country, even a heavenly one, yet, when you are requested to move from one side of your house to the other, and to consent to be waited upon by your daughters rather than by an hireling, you assume to yourself the high carriage of one who, being called to undergo some vast suffering, is willing to make a merit of it in the eyes of those who inflict these torments. But this," added he, "is one of the reigning foibles of the day, and is the effect of those modish and effeminate principles which often prevail in highly polished society. Every daughter, sister, and wife, who has not every whim indulged to the utmost is a victim and martyr in her own house; and, rather than not appear so to the world, many of these self-tormentors will represent their nearest connexions as the worst and most unreasonable of tyrants."

"My dear, my dear," said poor Mrs. Vaughan, "you are harsh, indeed you are harsh. When did I speak of myself as of an unhappy wife, or of you as a cruel tyrant?" Thus saying, she held out her hand, as if imploring her husband's forgiveness, saying, "You shall direct me, my love, as you always have done; in this and every action of my life you shall be my guide; and if I continue to enjoy your love, I shall soon forget whether my habitation is a kitchen or a parlour."

"Be happy, my love," said he, "be happy, and then there will be an end of all our difficulties."

"One thing only, my dear, will I ask you," said she, recovering her cheerfulness, "one thing only: satisfy me upon this one subject, and I shall then be easy.--Does it not appear to you, that, by the measure we are about to take, we may injure the prospects of our children? Our girls are handsome; Emmeline is thought particularly attractive; and I have more than once observed that Sir Thomas has paid her great attention. Her family is good, of high respectability in the country; and though she has lived in retirement, yet she has manners and a figure, as I heard Sir Thomas himself say, which might grace a court. So far Sir Thomas would not lower himself by choosing her; but after she is once become an inhabitant of a kitchen, and is known to occupy herself in servile works, the case would, of course, be quite altered, and it could then never be expected that a man in Sir Thomas's situation should ever think of her."

As Mr. Vaughen felt that he had betrayed undue warmth in the former part of his argument, he now restrained himself, though vehemently urged to speak with considerable earnestness. He, however, was enabled to control his feelings, and to argue calmly with his wife: and thus he answered her--"My dear Jane, in every case of this kind, the question is not what, according to the crooked policy and unsteady principles of worldly wisdom, is best to be done, or to be left undone? but what is the will of God? and how shall we best accommodate ourselves to the dispensations of Providence? The Almighty has said, 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his servant, nor his maid, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is his.' By this command, I understand that we are forbidden to allow our thoughts to wander in any way after delights and worldly possessions which are withheld from us by the Lord; and for these reasons, which are apparent, as well, doubtless, as for many others of which we are ignorant, namely, that we may be, in the first place, set free from those sickly longings which never can be satisfied, and, in the second place, because we cannot know what would be the effects of those things, when obtained, which we desire. For the good or evil of any earthly possession depends on so many contingencies, that no man can say this or that would be for my good, or this or that would add to my happiness. For instance: could we by any manœuvre which we might devise insure to ourselves Sir Thomas Freeman for a son-in-law, are we assured that he would make our Emmeline happy, or that she would not be a better wife to a poorer man, or that her children, if she had any, would be blessed in their father? There is One, however, who knows all these things, who has undertaken to direct every event for the good of his people, and who has also the control of all contingencies. This being the case, what madness, as well as what sin, it is in any of his creatures to attempt to take upon themselves, even in thought, the management of their own affairs in any way contrary to those indications of his divine will which he has vouchsafed to bestow upon us!"

"But may there not be such a thing," said Mrs. Vaughen, "as taking our affairs out of the hands of God by suddenly sinking under the pressure of circumstances, as well as by refusing to bend at all? I have heard you say myself, my dear, and that often, that there is sometimes as much sullenness in affecting extreme submission to the will of a superior as in insolently rising against it."

"Certainly, my dear," said Mr. Vaughen, "I have made this remark, and, as you say, often: but attempting to accommodate ourselves to the divine will, and to moderate our desires in compliance with the dealings of Providence, can never be termed an act of rebellion, especially when cheerfully done, as we hope, by the divine grace, to do what is now before us."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Vaughen, "I say no more, but submit to your better judgment; and I have no doubt, that, in this case, as in many others that are past, I shall have reason to say that your judgment is better than mine." So saying, she arose, and, smiling with much sweetness, went to seek her daughters, and to communicate to them the subject of her recent conversation with their father.

As soon as she was gone, Mr. Vaughen took his hat, and hastened to make the purposed proposal to Mrs. Alice Turner; for Mr. Vaughen was prompt in all his actions, when once he felt convinced that what he was about to do was fit to be done.

Mr. Vaughen met with all the success he could desire from Mrs. Alice Turner, and returned home to dinner in better spirits than he had enjoyed for some months.

The traces of tears were upon the features of Mrs. Vaughen and Emmeline, but Henrietta looked, as usual, perfectly calm and serene, when the little family met at dinner; at which meal Mr. Vaughen thus addressed those who constituted the endeared little circle that surrounded him: "I feel that we are doing right, my beloved ones, I feel it, I am convinced of it, and I am happy that we are about to exchange a load of real and lasting cares for a few that are merely imaginary; and, as there are some among us who seem better able to contend with imaginary distresses than others, I think those individuals must volunteer to be foremost in these encounters. What do you say, Henrietta?" added Mr. Vaughen, smiling; "what do you say? Will you assist me in receiving our visiters for the first time in our new parlour?"

"With all my heart, papa," said Henrietta, smiling. But Mrs. Vaughen and Emmeline, though they attempted to smile, were unable; for Mrs. Vaughen was busy, in imagination, in filling her kitchen with all the fine acquaintances she had in the world, and she pictured to herself a thousand sneers and contemptuous looks which we cannot suppose that any real lady would bestow on such an occasion: and poor Emmeline thought of Sir Thomas; and though she had no particular regard or esteem for this young man, yet was it exceedingly disagreeable to her to think that if ever he again honoured the family with a visit, he must needs be ushered into the kitchen; and this tormenting thought not only offered itself at that time, but was continually present with her during the remainder of that day, and also for several days afterwards. Thus dearly did she pay for the pleasure of being compared to stars and roses; and in like manner, or in a manner not wholly dissimilar, will you be made to suffer, my young reader, whenever you have allowed yourself to hearken with complacency to the whispers of the flatterer.

Mr. Vaughen had penetration enough to discover much of what was passing in the minds of his wife and his younger daughter. He therefore accelerated his operations as much as possible, and, with the help of Henrietta, managed matters so well, that, before the next Saturday evening, the kitchen-maid was disposed of, Mrs. Alice Turner and her little attendant were settled in the parlour and best bed-room, and his wife and daughters established in the kitchen, which last apartment had undergone a thorough cleaning and whitewashing, and was duly accommodated with a neat table and chairs, placed near the bow window, on a small square carpet; insomuch, that, although certain bright culinary utensils ranged against the wall, and a large grate, for the purpose of cooking, still indicated this apartment to be but a kitchen, yet order, neatness, and convenience, rendered it an abode at which the nicest taste had no occasion to revolt.

The first meal of which the family partook in the kitchen was their tea, on the Friday afternoon. The tea-things were arranged on an oak table, which had been so highly polished, that it reflected, as from a mirror, the flame of two candles placed in polished brass candlesticks. The fire blazed on the hearth, the kettle hissed upon the fire, and some excellent white bread and nice butter stood on the table, the doors were shut, the clock ticked in the corner, and nurse sat working at her own little table, at a respectful distance. Such was the state of things, when Emmeline, after some delay, was desired by her mother to call her father to tea; and while the young lady reluctantly obeyed, the tender-hearted Mrs. Vaughen said to her eldest daughter, "Your poor father, my dear, he has hitherto borne it well, but I fear he will feel a little this evening."

While she was yet speaking, Mr. Vaughen followed his daughter into the kitchen; and, placing himself in the chair provided for him, looked first at his wife, then at his daughters, then at the old domestic sitting at a small table, which had been prepared for her especial service: when, addressing his wife, he exclaimed, "Why, my dear, I thought we were to have been very miserable this evening!"

A momentary pause succeeded this remark, and this was followed by a burst of laughter, first begun by Emmeline, and instantly seconded by Henrietta after which, it was found impossible even for Mrs. Vaughen herself to support the least appearance of dejection.

And as, when the evening meal was finished, every one was engaged in their usual employments, (the mother knitting, the father reading aloud, and the daughters occupied with their needles,) it seemed as if neither of them retained a consciousness of the inelegance of the apartment to which they were reduced.

The portion of Scripture which Mr. Vaughen chose for his comments before the evening devotion of the family was this passage of the Lord's Prayer--"Thy kingdom come;" and he took occasion, from it, to speak of that glorious time when the reign of our Lord shall be acknowledged throughout the earth, and when simple Christian habits and principles will become universal. He took this opportunity to point out what he had often, in times past, suggested to his family--that although nearly two thousand years were already past since the coming of the Redeemer, during which time many of the kingdoms and tribes of the earth had been successively called by the name of our Lord and his Christ, and although the great men and rulers, the wise and learned of these kingdoms, have professed, for ages past, to be regulated by the laws of God, as delivered in the Bible--yet that it was his opinion, that the whole economy of society, ecclesiastical, political, civil, social, and domestic, was still pervaded and influenced by false principles, and that a very great and thorough change must take place in men's opinions, before the customs of life could be said to be modelled in any degree according to strict Christian principles. He further spoke of the harmlessness and simplicity of the Christian character, and pointed out the contrast between that and the artificial spirit, as it were, of the worldly man, who is ever dwelling upon externals, and laying the greatest imaginable stress upon those minutiæ of life which are of no importance, but which often fully occupy the mind, to the neglect and destruction of the soul and its everlasting interests.

Thus passed this first tranquil evening in the kitchen; and the next morning, while their only servant discharged the more menial duties of the household, Henrietta and Emmeline very carefully set out the breakfast table, and garnished the brown loaf with such opening buds as the early spring afforded: neither did they neglect their own appearance, but, on the contrary, they took all possible pains to set off their plain and simple garments with the most careful neatness. These little attentions particularly pleased their affectionate father, who availed himself of the occasion to press upon his family the particular duty of neatness under their present circumstances, pointing out that there was no necessary connexion between a narrowness of income and coarse, disgusting habits, adding, that he considered the most perfect state of society to consist in moderate desires, with elegant manners. The rest of this day passed off with great ease and comfort to all parties, and with far less confusion than Mrs. Vaughen expected.

The next day was Sunday, a day on which, from its being wholly appropriated to sacred exercises of various kinds, no reference was made by any of the family to worldly affairs; and if the circumstance of the kitchen was remembered, it was associated with no other sentiment than that of gratitude, that so easy a remedy as a mere change of apartments had been found sufficient to remove those cares with which, for many weeks past, the father of this family had been evidently oppressed.

The few days immediately following were rainy; a circumstance at which Mrs. Vaughen secretly rejoiced, as she hoped that the inclemency of the weather would be a means of keeping off those visiters on whom she had not yet learned to think without many nervous apprehensions. But the Thursday morning proving remarkably fine, her trepidations were renewed, and, as she sat employed with her needle at the window, she started at the sound of every wheel-carriage, whether barrow, cart, or waggon, which came rumbling down the village street; and at length, about noon, being told by a poor neighbour that Mrs. Smith's coach was at the door of The Shop, (by which we mean the establishment of a kind of huckster, haberdasher, grocer, and tallow-chandler, who supplied the country round with an inconceivable variety of necessary articles,) she fairly took flight, and escaped by the back door, taking her younger daughter by the arm, and treacherously leaving Henrietta alone to encounter the storm which was rolling towards them in the shape of a coach-and-four, with two outriders.

Henrietta, who was pursuing her ordinary studies in her own apartment, started up when she heard the carriage drive up to the door; and, without waiting to consider what she should say, knowing that she should rather lose than gain courage by delay, arrived in the hall just in time to take Mrs. Smith's hand as she stepped out of the carriage.

This lady was the only daughter of a very rich banker in a neighbouring town, a person who had been brought up to believe that all human excellence consisted in the possession of money, and of that which money can procure; and she was now actually come to investigate the truth of the report that she had just heard in the shop, namely, that Mr. Vaughen had let his parlour to Mrs. Alice Turner, and was himself living in the kitchen. As she was, however, aware that she might possibly save Miss Vaughen from the pain of some confusion, by acknowledging that she was already acquainted with this fact, she affected entire ignorance; and, having returned Henrietta's compliments with a slight but familiar acknowledgment, she pushed forward to the parlour, saying, "I suppose I shall find your mamma within;" at the same time intimating by a motion which her footman understood, that he might go into the kitchen, the door of which was open.

Henrietta was startled by this freedom: supposing it, however, to be no other than an ordinary proof of this lady's ill breeding, (of which she had before seen many instances,) she caught Mrs. Smith's hand, and, endeavouring to detain her, said, "Will you permit me, my dear Madam, to explain to you a circumstance which has taken place in our family, and owing to which we do not esteem ourselves entitled to entertain visiters of your rank and situation in life?"

Henrietta was proceeding with her remarks, when Mrs. Smith turned round hastily from the parlour-door, on the lock of which she had already placed her hand, and fixing her eyes with unabashed effrontery on the blushing face of the young lady, she at the same time called to her powdered footman, and ordered him to wait her further commands--thus detaining him in a situation in which he could not avoid hearing every word that should be said.

Henrietta, on perceiving this, hesitated, looking first at Mrs. Smith, then at the servant, while for a moment shame and agitation almost choked her utterance; not, indeed, that she felt shame from a consciousness of her own situation, but from a sense of the want of delicacy of her visiter. She soon, however, recovered herself, being supported by the conviction that she was in the path of duty, and that she was, perhaps, that very moment shielding her beloved mother from the insults to which she herself was exposed; and remarking to Mrs. Smith that their present situation would not permit her to enter into such an explanation as the intimacy which had long subsisted between the families seemed to require, she added, that she was truly sorry that it was not in her power to ask Mrs. Smith to sit down, having no parlour into which she could invite her.

"No parlour!" said Mrs. Smith, looking first at her footman, and then at Henrietta, "why, Miss Vaughen, how am I to understand this? But perhaps you are painting and papering?"

"No, Madam," said Henrietta, calmly; "we have let our parlour to Mrs. Alice Turner."

"To Mrs. Alice Turner!" repeated Mrs. Smith: "you amaze me, Miss Vaughen! But you have surely furnished some other room for your own use?"

"No, Madam, we have no other room which we could possibly devote to such purpose; we find it necessary to live in our kitchen: and, as I could not think of asking you to enter such an apartment, I am altogether obliged to deprive myself of your company."

Mrs. Smith appeared as if she had some difficulty to restrain a laugh while Henrietta spoke: she, however, made no remark or comment on her speech; but, turning abruptly round, she walked coolly out of the house, stood on the step to ask her servants some unimportant questions, stepped into the carriage, ordered the door to be shut and the coachman to drive on, and seemed scarcely to remember (just as the horses were set in motion) to say, "Good morning, Miss Vaughen;" adding this direction to the footman, who stood with his hat off at the door, "Drive to Sir Thomas's."

The carriage had left the court, and the last out-rider was out of sight, before Henrietta moved from the spot where her visiter had left her. She then turned in haste and went to her father's study, half inclined to reproach him, in her sweet and daughter-like manner, for not coming to her assistance, when she now, for the first time, remembered that he had said, while at breakfast, that he should be obliged to be from home during part of the morning. A glass door, which her father had made, leading from the study into the garden, was open. Henrietta passed through it. She was oppressed; she felt her cheeks glow, and her heart heavy. She heaved two or three deep sighs, and took one or two turns along an embowered walk shaded by filbert bushes. She sighed again. Her limbs, which from agitation had been cold, began to be warm; the flush left her cheeks: she sighed again two or three times; and then, taking out her Pocket-Bible, she read a few verses as she slowly paced the shadowy path; and presently she had so entirely forgotten Mrs. Smith and her powdered footman, that, when called in to dinner, not a trace of care remained on her placid countenance; and, when questioned about Mrs. Smith's visit, she did not convey the slightest idea to her parents of any thing unpleasant having occurred--a precaution by which she not only spared her mother some nervous tremors, but supported her parents' dignity, by enabling them, when next they met that lady, to accost her with their accustomed cordiality and ease.

And here let us pause, to recommend a similar mode of conduct to young people in general, who too often, contrary to the example of the lovely Henrietta, accustom themselves to excite and irritate the painful feelings of their parents on occasions of slight offence, thereby evidently disregarding the favour of Him who hath said, Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. [Matt. v. 9.]

The next morning opened with wonted serenity on the quiet parsonage; and Henrietta and Emmeline, having performed their daily studies, which they were above all anxious at this time never to omit, were recreating themselves, about noon, with making a tart of young gooseberries, the first of the season.

The father and mother had walked out together, and the nurse was also absent, being engaged in making certain marketings. The young ladies, being alone in the house, had locked the front door, and had begun their operations in their neat kitchen, themselves also being neatly dressed, and exhibiting no-other symptom of their occupation as cooks excepting that Emmeline had tied a clean coloured apron before her. As their minds were easy, and their spirits cheerful, they talked to each other while thus engaged; and Henrietta, whose employment it was to cut off the stalks of the gooseberries with her scissars, was laughing at Emmeline, for plunging her hands quite up to the wrists in the paste, remarking, that a more elegant way would have been to have performed the whole operation through the intervention of a spoon.

Emmeline smiled at this remark, and told her that she was a mighty adept in the art of speaking on ordinary occurrences in an elegant phraseology.

While the sisters were thus innocently gay, Emmeline felt something tickling the back of her neck, and, turning round hastily, she saw Sir Thomas behind her, who had just touched her with a sprig of sweetbriar which he held in his hand. The touch of Ithuriel's spear had scarcely a more powerful effect on the arch fiend, than the harmless sweetbriar had upon the lovely Emmeline, who, uttering a half shriek, reddened from her forehead to her throat, and, looking on her apron and her well-plastered hands, stood like one detected in the most atrocious act.

Henrietta, who had looked behind her on hearing her sister's exclamation, immediately arose on seeing the baronet and politely, but somewhat coldly, asked him if he wished to see her father.

"No, fair lady," he replied, "I am not come to see Mr. Vaughan, because I know that he is from home; I met him and your mother but a minute since in the street: I therefore came with the sole view of paying my respects to you and to your sister."

"And pray, Sir," asked Henrietta, "how did you obtain admittance? The front door is locked."

"So I perceived," replied the gentleman; "but, happily, I knew of the glass door of the little study, and found it open."

Henrietta was silent, being really at a loss how next to act, and not wishing to make too serious a matter of what she considered as nothing more than a frolic, though not a justifiable one.

In the mean time, the young gentleman had turned again to his favourite Emmeline, and was complimenting her on her extraordinary bloom, remarking, that the natural delicacy of her hands wanted not the aid of art to add to their whiteness.

Emmeline looked at her hands, her unfortunate coloured apron, and the various bright tin and brazen implements arranged along the walls of the apartment, and was on the very point of bursting into tears, when her sister, dreading what might be the end of all this, gave her an opportunity of retreating, by hinting to her that she would do well to go and wash her hands.

The young lady instantly hastened to the door which opened into the hall, but was prevented from reaching it by Sir Thomas, who, springing towards it before her, set his back against it, and laughingly said that she should not so escape. Emmeline, again agitated and confused, stood still; and the baronet, who was dressed in black, (being in mourning for his father,) braved her to take revenge, which he said was now in her power, as she had nothing to do but to place her delicate hands on his coat.

Exactly on the opposite side of the room there was another door, and Emmeline, being directed by her sister's eye to this means of escape, turned round with a quickness which the baronet did not foresee, and immediately took flight, pulling the door after her with a violence which, though caused by haste, the young gentleman failed not to attribute to displeasure.

Almost at the same moment, Henrietta walked calmly, to the other end of the room, and, sitting down at a table, which stood in the bow window, took up her needle, and began to work.

In the mean time, Sir Thomas, being startled by the slamming of the door in his face, shrugged up his shoulders, and, looking towards Henrietta, he said, "Upon my honour, Miss Vaughen, you have a dignity of air and manner which is totally independent of circumstance."

"That, is not dignity, Sir Thomas," replied Henrietta, calmly, but sweetly, "which depends on externals; and therefore it is perhaps necessary for persons to be deprived of all outward circumstances of pomp, before we can decide upon the real nobility of their minds."

Sir Thomas (coxcomb as he was) seemed awed by her manner, and by this remark. He followed her to the table, and, sitting down not very far from her, he took up her scissars, and began cutting a piece of thread to atoms, while he stammered out a kind of apology for his behaviour, saying, "Now I see, Miss Vaughen, that you are offended, and that I have vexed your lovely sister; and, upon my honour, I do declare I never intended it, I assure you I did not, not in the least, nothing could be further from my thoughts: for, of all men in the world, I respect your father; and as to your mother and yourselves, I don't know any ladies on the face of the earth of whom I think better."

Henrietta mildly replied, "I have always believed you, Sir Thomas, to be a sincere friend of my parents; I therefore cannot suppose that you meant to offend us, or to make us feel the slight inconveniences of our present situation more than is necessary. I know that it is the intention of my father to explain to you, as to a friend, the circumstances which have led him to retrench his manner of living, which he rather chose to do than to be a burden on his friends. We hope, indeed, that it may not be necessary for us to observe this rigid economy for many years; but, be the time short or long, 1 feel myself perfectly reconciled to the measure, and only regret it on account of my parents, who can no longer associate with those persons to whose society they have been accustomed."

Sir Thomas stammered out, that he already knew and applauded Mr Vaughen's motives of conduct.

Henrietta, in reply, remarked, that she felt assured that no one could respect her father the less for his cheerful submission to the divine will; and she added, that she had great pleasure in knowing that his own peace was greatly promoted by the plans which he had adopted.

The baronet muttered something about great sacrifices and strength of mind, &c. &c. and added, that he believed there were few men of Mr. Vaughen's family and rank who could have brought their minds to make such a sacrifice.

Henrietta could have said that she did not see any thing so remarkable in the sacrifice; for it appeared to her pious and simple mind that it was incomparably preferable to live in a clean and cheerful kitchen for a few years, than to be constantly under the axes and harrows of perplexing cares. She had, however, discernment enough to perceive that Sir Thomas could not understand any sentiment of this kind; and she therefore dropped the subject, and entered upon others of a more commonplace character, with which conversation Sir Thomas seemed to be so well pleased, that he lingered till her parents' return.

Thus did this amiable young lady, by her forbearance and address, a second time disarm the malice of the world, and sustained that dignity which a more petulant conduct would have infallibly overthrown.

As soon as Henrietta could make her escape, she flew to her beloved Emmeline, whom she found weeping violently in her own room. She sat down by her, kissed her, and said, "My beloved sister, why do you weep? why do you thus afflict yourself? Had you been found doing any thing that was either disgraceful in itself, or decidedly out of your line of duty, there would have been some reason for tears; or had you been surprised in a slovenly dress, when engaged in the way of duty, there would have been a more just occasion for shame: but, as neither the one nor the other was the case, wherefore is there any reason either for blushes or tears?"

"But I know," said Emmeline, sobbing, "I know, by Sir Thomas's manner, that he despised me, when he saw me with a coloured apron on, and my hands all covered with flour. Did you not remark his altered and forward manner? Did we ever experience such familiar treatment from him when we received him in our parlour and appeared like ladies?"

"I did observe his manner," said Henrietta, "and I disapproved of it. But why should you blush for his want of courtesy and delicacy?"

"I expected that it would be so," said Emmeline. "I dreaded his coming."

"Then you entertained a much worse opinion of Sir Thomas than I did, Emmeline; and I therefore wonder that this affair should have affected you, who have met only with what you foresaw, more than it did me, who have seen a fault in a neighbour which I did not expect to find."

"But I thought," said Emmeline, "I thought,--I fancied,--I had some idea, that--that--he had some regard for me."

"Regard for you, Emmeline!" said Henrietta: "then it is perhaps happy that you are so soon undeceived."

"O," said Emmeline, "I did not mean that I supposed that he really liked me: you know what I mean--only that he respected me. I did suppose he respected me."

"If respect is all that you expected from him," said Henrietta, "you will have it still, my Emmeline: no man will or can despise the dutiful daughter who submits cheerfully to her father's will."

Emmeline sighed. She had indulged other views in reference to Sir Thomas which she had hardly acknowledged to herself; and they were now, as she thought, destroyed by the hard necessity, to which she found herself reduced, of living in a kitchen. She was, consequently, very unhappy: and thus are we always punished, whenever we allow our wishes to outrun our circumstances, and permit our desires to exceed the will of the Almighty.

Henrietta saw, by her sister's extreme grief, that more was passing in her mind than she had at first been aware of. She therefore spoke no more of Sir Thomas; but animadverted, in general terms, on the duty of submitting to the divine will, and on the peace which instantly follows when the mind is brought, through the influence of the Holy Spirit, to that state of contentment which never desires any thing beyond that which the Lord bestows, be it much or be it little. She then adverted to a late discourse of her father's upon the tenth commandment, wherein he shewed the spiritual nature of that commandment, pointing out its reference to the inmost thoughts of the heart, and the prohibition under which it lays the imagination from ever wandering after earthly goods which are not lawful objects of our desires. Much more she added on this subject, and that with so much sweetness and gentleness, that her sister insensibly became soothed, and assured her that she would endeavour to appear before her parents at dinner with her accustomed cheerfulness.

Emmeline accordingly arose, and, having bathed her eyes, went out into her garden to attend her flowers and bees, in which interesting occupation she soon lost all recollection of Sir Thomas, or only thought with gratitude of the circumstances by which her eyes had been so soon opened to his real intentions respecting her.

The next day was Sunday. Mrs. Vaughen, being ill, stayed at home with her daughter Emmeline, and Henrietta accompanied her father to church. The morning was fine; but it was one of those days in spring when frequent showers drive the traveller to take shelter under some friendly tree, and when the sun is seen shining in all his glory on one side of a hill while the rain is beating on another.

In consequence of these fluctuations of the weather, the congregation was detained in the church-porch for some time after divine service, and Henrietta was during a considerable time standing near the Dowager Lady Freeman, the mother of Sir Thomas, and Mrs. Smith. These ladies were busily engaged in conversation with each other on the subject of a grand dinner which was to be given the following day at Stanbrook Court, and Henrietta supposed that she was not observed by them. She accordingly stood quite still, till, perceiving that the eyes of both ladies were directed towards her, she courtseyed, and was going to speak, when they both nodded carelessly, as to an inferior, and then, turning away from her, they proceeded with their conversation.

Henrietta coloured, but, instantly recovering herself, stood composedly till Lady Freeman's carriage drew up to the porch, and the two ladies departed together. Henrietta then, by their removal, found herself standing next to a widow, who, with her only son, had just taken a farm in the parish, and whom she had never seen till that day, as this was the stranger's first appearance at church.

This widow was still in weeds; and the sorrowful yet pious resignation of her countenance instantly attracted the attention and admiration of Miss Vaughen. She was leaning on the arm of her son, a fine young man, of an amiable aspect, who was also in deep mourning.

As Henrietta had never been introduced to these persons, she knew that it would have been improper to speak first, and therefore she remained silent, till her father, coming out of the interior part of the church, in which he had been hitherto engaged by a christening, addressed the widow and her son with his usual ease and courtesy, and introduced his daughter to the mother.

A friendly conversation was immediately commenced between Mr. Vaughen and this lady, whose name was Etherington; and, as the rain still continued, there was opportunity for them to discourse on various subjects. Mr. Vaughen asked the widow how she liked her farm, and expatiated on the beauty of its situation amid woods and waterfalls.

Her answer was full of piety, and expressed her desire to be content in whatever situation it might please the Lord to appoint her lot. She then spoke of religion as her chief delight, and added, that the Almighty had been especially merciful to her in sparing her son to be the prop and comfort of her age.

Mr. Vaughen, on hearing this, turned to the young man, offered him his friendship, and asked him whether he had time for reading: "and if so," added he, "any book in my possession is at your service."

By this time, the rain had ceased, and the party began to walk homewards. The proposed Sunday-school then became the topic of discourse, and Mr. Etherington offered his services to assist in the instruction of the boys. The old lady and her son walked up to the gate of the parsonage with Mr. Vaughen and his daughter, but would not go in, although they promised to call soon and pay their compliments to the rector's lady; which promise they fulfilled the next evening, when they drank tea at the parsonage, giving much pleasure to Mr. and Mrs. Vaughen by their unaffected and pious deportment: and so well pleased was the rector with the young man, that he entered into discourse with him on several interesting and important subjects, and recommended to him to devote his leisure hours to a certain regular course of reading which he pointed out to him, at the same time also offering to lend him the necessary books; and taking care to convince him how compatible the cultivation of the mind is with the mode of life in which he was engaged, particularly in the case of those individuals who are not induced, from an inordinate desire of worldly riches, to undertake more than they can manage consistently with peace of mind and necessary leisure. Mr. Vaughen also availed himself of this opportunity to expatiate on a subject on which he had bestowed much thought, namely, the extensively fatal effects of covetousness, and the various forms which it assumes, together with its frequently ruinous consequence in filling the mind with distracting cares, and alienating the attention from the concerns of the soul. He also quoted several texts from Scripture that bore upon his purpose, namely--Let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee: [Heb. xiii. 5.] and he remarked, that covetousness not only consisted, as many suppose, in amassing earthly possessions, but in our even desiring that which the Lord either entirely withholds from us, or renders unattainable by us without the sacrifice of better things. He, moreover, observed, that agriculture was generally considered a simple and innocent employment; but he gave it as the result of his observation, that since man, through ambition, had joined house to house, and field to field, it had become an employment as adverse to spiritual welfare as any upon earth: and, therefore, he expressed his hope, that his young friend, who professed himself to be a follower of that meek and lowly Jesus, who on earth took upon him the form of a servant, would be content with moderate gains and a simple mode of living, and would desire no more of the goods of this world than might be placed within his reach lawfully and honestly by his heavenly Father.

The young man seemed to pay great attention to the conversation of the good minister, which perhaps had not the less effect from the admiration with which he had observed the modest and elegant daughters of his pastor.

And here let me stop to make this observation, which may be useful to my readers, although somewhat foreign from the immediate purport of the story,--that whereas the influence of unholy females has not unfrequently the most destructive effect on the minds of the young men with whom they associate; the example, on the contrary, of modest, holy, and lovely young women is found to possess a peculiar power in exalting, refining, and we may say ennobling, such young men as have the opportunity of observing them, and the sense and taste to appreciate their merits.

But we now leave these more humble scenes, in order to give some account of what passed the same day at Stanbrook Court, where Lady Freeman, her son, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and many others of the gentry of the neighbourhood, were assembled to drink the Squire's health on account of his birthday: and, as the Squire had lately received a present of a rich service of Worcester china, and had also been persuaded by his sisters to purchase a new and very handsome epergne, the two spinsters were in remarkably high spirits on the occasion, and displayed their exultation by a good deal of hauteur of manner, and occasional contemptuous expressions levelled against their neighbours.

It was evident to all those of the party who came from the neighbourhood of Mr. Henry Vaughen's residence, that the story of that gentleman's plans of economy had not yet reached the other side of the country; and though some of the company would have rejoiced in the opportunity of humbling the family at whose cost they were entertained, by the relation of this extraordinary circumstance; yet most of the party had sufficient politeness, or we should rather say self-love, to wish that the disagreeable tale might come through the medium of another.

There was, however, one person present whose feelings were an exception to this general sentiment by which the rest were pervaded, namely, Mrs. Smith, who was very glad that the tale had not yet reached Stanbrook Court, and that none of the present company chose to take upon themselves the office of informer, because she coveted it for herself, and was waiting only until she might be able to do it with most effect.

This lady had long disliked the Vaughen family, because they possessed that in which she was deficient, namely, a respectable pedigree, and she particularly hated the two single sisters of the Squire, because they had once or twice contrived to utter in her presence certain sly innuendoes upon this tender point. Mrs. Smith had heard of the new epergne; for she was one of those ladies who condescend to receive their information from the lowest source, and, consequently, this important circumstance, which was intended to have occasioned surprise to the company, was no longer a secret to this lady, and she had maliciously resolved to wait the moment of the appearance of this piece of splendour, to open her tale so abundant in considerations deeply humbling to a worldly mind.

Accordingly, when the servants had successfully fixed the sparkling pyramid upon the table, she turned to Miss Vaughen, near whom she sat, at the head of the table, and said how afflicted she was to hear of Mr. Henry Vaughen's heavy loss.

On this, the attention of every individual of the family present was instantly excited; and the Squire and his sisters exclaimed, with one voice, "What loss?--we have heard of none."

"A heavy loss of property," said Mrs. Smith, proceeding undauntedly to feed herself with custard-pudding: "poor Mr. Vaughen has lately had a severe loss."

"A severe loss of property!" said the Squire, recovering from his alarm, "I am glad it is no worse; for," added he, with a loud voice, and in his usual coarse manner, "if Harry Vaughen were to lose all he had, the evil might soon be repaired; eh, Sir Thomas, is it not so?"

Sir Thomas laughed, and hinted that Mr. Vaughen's treasures consisted of his lovely daughters; a remark which offended the younger ladies of the family as greatly as the Squire's did the elder.

"Brother," said Miss Vaughen, "how strangely and inconsistently you talk! You know our brother has a very pretty property, besides the income of the rectory. Mrs. Henry Vaughen was, you well know, a woman of handsome fortune. But this loss, Mrs. Smith, what is it? how did it happen? and when?" The old lady then looked at her sister, and said, "Is it not strange, very strange, Penelope, that we should never have heard any thing of it?"

"But perhaps Mrs. Smith can give us some information?" said Mrs. Penelope. "From what quarter did the blow come?"

Mrs. Smith replied, that she did not know the particulars, nor any thing further on the subject, than that Mr. Vaughen had been obliged to dismiss a servant, let his best apartments, and reside with his family in the kitchen.

On receiving this intelligence, which was by no means softened by Mrs. Smith's manner of relating it, the elder ladies blushed and bridled; the younger ones tried to laugh; and the Squire, hallooing as if after his fox-hounds, cried out, with an oath, "Nothing more than a whim of Harry Vaughen's, depend upon it, Mrs. Smith; though, by the bye, it is a whim which no man in his senses would really indulge."

This remark of the Squire's, and his apparent and indeed real unconcern on the occasion, did more to disarm the malice of Mrs. Smith than the most elaborate discussion could have done; and, as he continued to turn off the whole matter with a laugh and a hoot, that lady would have considered herself entirely foiled, had not she perceived in the flushed cheeks and restless glances of the two elderly ladies the symptoms of wounded pride and smothered mortification.

When, after tea and cards, the guests had taken their leave of Stanbrook Court, a violent family scene took place in the drawing-room, and the smothered displeasure of the ladies broke forth with more violence from their long restraint: neither was the anger confined to the aunts, the nieces were equally offended; for Sir Thomas, in the true spirit of mischief, had described to them the kitchen scene, and all the particulars relative to the gooseberry tart, not failing, at the same time, to excite the jealousy of their cousins, by asserting, what he really thought, that the elegance of these young ladies was such, as to enable them to rise above every circumstance, even those unpropitious ones of coloured aprons and hands covered with meal.

But this story of the kitchen scene, as told by Sir Thomas, and repeated by the daughters of the Squire, assumed an entirely different aspect, and tended not a little to inflame the anger of the aunts.

"What an unaccountable and degrading whim is this of my brother's!" said the elder Mrs. Vaughen.

"In a man of his family too!" said Mrs. Penelope. "Brother, you must go over to-morrow, and expostulate with him, and persuade him to give up this strange fancy."

"And unkennel him from his kitchen," said the Squire, "and his lodger from the parlour. Is that what you would have me do?"

"What extraordinary language you always use, brother," said Mrs. Dorothea Vaughen, "so extremely inelegant: now, in that respect, I cannot blame Henry, his language is always elegant; and for such a man to live in a kitchen!"

"Do you mean to say, sister, that my manners would be more suitable for the kitchen, than my brother's? Well, perhaps, it may be so; but on that very account I ought to keep clear of such situations, lest it should be said of me, that I was got into my right place at last."

"It is very surprising," said Miss Penelope, "that you can never be serious, brother, no not even when the family honour is at stake,"

"I am serious," said the Squire, "for, to tell you the truth, I am very angry with Henry, though I put a better face on his folly before company than you did: but I tell you, I am angry; and, if I live as long, I'll let my brother know as much, before this time to-morrow." So saying, he withdrew to his own apartment, and the family committee adjourned for the night.

The next morning, the Squire, booted and spurred, and accompanied by his servant, rode to his brother's house, and arrived about noon. Mr. Vaughen was in his study, and Mrs. Vaughen and her daughters were seated at their respective employments before the open window, when the Squire galloped up as if riding for his life, and, having knocked violently at the house door, which was, however, open, walked into the hall, calling aloud to his servant to take the horses to the Lion, and stay there himself; adding, "There is no place in this house for you, John, unless you mean to sit down to table with your master."

The servant, bowing, but grinning at the joke, led away the horses, while the Squire, being left in the hall, began to halloo and shout as if he had been lost in a wood.

Mr. Henry Vaughen did not leave him long to call about him, but, having finished a sentence that he was writing, came out, and, expressing his pleasure in seeing him, invited him to come in.

Although Mr. Vaughen pointed to his study door, the Squire stood, looking round him, as if utterly bewildered, and at length said, "Where am I to go? They tell me you have no place fit to ask a gentleman into!"

"My study, brother," said Mr. Vaughen, smiling; "you have been in it before now, times out of number, it stands precisely where it did."

Mr Vaughen had repeated this invitation more than once before the Squire recollected himself, or seemed to be able to make up his mind whither next to direct his steps; he then strode forward, with his hat on, into the study, where, coming to a stand, he burst forth like an old hound at the instant of recovering a scent which had been host by all the rest of the pack. "Harry Vaughen, I say, here am I, and I suppose you have already some shrewd notion of the business I am come about."

Mr. Henry Vaughen smiled, and pointed to a chair; but the Squire, striking the table with his horsewhip, proceeded to this effect: "If I ever sit down in this house again--" and there he stopped, for he did not dare to swear before his brother, and he could get no further, till the oaths which were upon his tongue were, in some sort, evaporated, if not in articulate words, in bluster and grimace--"if I ever sit down in this house again, my name is not Vaughen, and I am not the head of an old and respectable family; and now it's all out, Harry, and you may make the best of it."

"Well, brother," said Mr. Vaughen, smiling again, "and you have come all the way from Stanbrook Court to tell me as much. And may I not add, that I am glad of almost any occasion which brings a brother under my roof?"

"A brother!" repeated the Squire, trying to retain his anger, which was evaporating faster than he wished, "I never had a greater mind in my life to renounce you than I now have. Why, Harry Vaughen, you have set the whole country ringing with your fooleries! Why, they tell me, man, that you have let your parlour to some old maid, and are actually living in your kitchen."

"All of which is perfectly true," said Mr. Vaughen, "and I am ready to explain my motive to you for doing as I have done, without further preface." At the same time he pushed the chair somewhat nearer to his brother, who, by this time, had thrown off his hat and laid down his whip, and the next instant dropped into the very chair which he had just before so vehemently renounced.

Quiet being thus, in some degree, restored, Mr. Henry Vaughen began to state to his brother the motive of his conduct; adding that, without, the knowledge of the reasons which had induced him to enter upon such, measures, it was impossible for him to judge of their propriety.

The Squire was silent, and Mr. Henry Vaughen then proceeded to give the proposed statement, taking it as a good sign, that his brother never interrupted him till he had said all he wished; which he knew would have its due weight with him, as he told him that he had but one alternative, either to retrench his expences, or to apply for money to his friends.

In reply to which, the Squire said, "Well, well, brother, if you can make yourself comfortable, we, to be sure, have no right to complain. I see now your motives, they are very honourable, there is no selfishness in them, they are gentlemanlike; and, depend upon it, the world will like you all the better by and by for your independence. But in the mean time, brother, should you stand in need of a few pounds, apply to me. Now mind you do, brother: helping a friend like you, who will exert himself, is not like supporting an idle family who don't care how much they receive from others."

"Dear brother," said Henry Vaughen, "your friendly offer is highly gratifying; because it proves to me, that I have not lost my brother. But you will scarcely believe me, when I tell you, that I am now a richer man than I have been since I was married: one hundred pounds a year was all I wanted, and by my recent arithmetic I shall, at least, be the better by one hundred and thirty; thirty, therefore, will now remain in case of accident."

The anger of the Squire was now so far evaporated, that he consented to dine with his brother, although that dinner must be eaten in the kitchen, and Mr. Vaughen now secretly rejoiced in those habits of neatness and order on which he had always insisted, and by which his kitchen was rendered as comfortable a habitation as a Christian need desire.

The Squire was greatly delighted with the reception he received from his sister and her daughters; and he declared that the mutton chops, which had not been cooled by their passage from remote offices, were the best he had ever tasted in his life. He also commended his sister for her cheerful acquiescence in her husband's measures, and his nieces for their neatness and elegance of deportment; which he said was the more admirable, because they were sometimes obliged to stoop to menial employments.

Mr. Vaughen availed himself of his brother's good-humour to press upon him the important concerns of his soul; and failed not to point out the comfort and support that he, his wife, and children, had derived from religion under their late trials.

The Squire listened, but his brother feared that conviction had not as yet reached his heart: be, however, retained his good-humour during the whole of the evening; and when he, returned home to his family, he increased, their irritation not a little, by endeavouring to justify the conduct of his brother.

In return, however, for their reproaches,(for they did indeed reproach him, and that with considerable bitterness, for so suddenly acquiescing in his brother's views,) he told them his opinion, which was this; that his sister and her daughters, in their kitchen, managed every thing with so much quietness, order, and ease that, in the comparison, they might put many a fine lady to shame in her drawing-room.

As it was now found totally useless to attempt to engage the Squire against his brother, it was determined that the ladies of the family should go over in a body the next day, to Mr. Henry Vaughen's house, in order to try what they could do, to induce him to abandon his present proceedings

Agreeably with this plan, the coach was ordered to be in readiness at a suitable hour the next day, and the indignant females all set off, armed with every argument which pride and prejudice could suggest, against the simple principles and straight forward maxims of the poor rector.

It happened, unfortunately, when the coach arrived, that no one was at home but Mrs. Vaughen and the nurse: the former was seated at work, in her usual situation, the pleasant bow-window, against which nothing could be said, but that it belonged to a kitchen; and though that kitchen was large, airy, and extremely neat, yet still it was a kitchen; and, in consequence, the smallest smoky parlour in existence would be preferred by any person whatever who had the least pretensions to taste.

Poor Mrs. Vaughen was sensible of the comforts of her kitchen, and often very grateful for them; at times, even going so far, as to profess that she should never desire a more comfortable apartment: notwithstanding which, she grew pale and red by turns as she saw the carriage approach, and wished that she had not been so near the window as to have been observed before she could make her escape. She called out in haste to nurse to fly away with some preparations for cooking, which the good woman had laid out on a dresser in a remote part of the room, thus occasioning a bustle and confusion, which was visible enough to the ladies, who had got out of their carriage, and were waiting in the hall.

Nurse having at length removed all these offensive objects, ran in a considerable flutter to the door, and ushered the visiters into the kitchen, where they found Mrs. Vaughen, trembling, agitated, and evincing every other indication of shame and irresolution.

The agitation of this lady, of course, afforded a great advantage to the others, who, without preamble, opened the occasion of their visit, and delivered their opinions in a manner the most decisive. "You are ruining your daughters, Mrs. Vaughen," said her husband's eldest sister, "by letting your parlour, and making them, as it were, your servants, the inmates of a kitchen, the companions of servants; and by this step, which will presently be irretrievable, you sink them, for life, below the rank in which they were born, and in which their education and appearance entitled them to continue with credit to themselves and their relations."

It is a cruel thing to charge a tender parent with injuring a child, and Mrs. Vaughen felt this charge the more, as the opinion coincided with her own most private thoughts. She was conscious that her daughters were handsomer than young people generally are. She had observed Sir Thomas's passing preference for Emmeline; and she had more than once imagined, how her Emmeline would look if seated at the head of Sir Thomas's table, and possessing a right to all the honours of a baronet's lady.

In consequence of these secret feelings, she burst into tears, and taking her sister's hand, said, "But what, my dear sister, what could we have done? we were actually living far beyond our income, and should have been involved for life."

"Involved for life!" said Miss Penelope: "do I not understand, that the present pressure of your affairs is owing to your son's residence at the University? It will not be necessary for him to stay longer than two years more; and was it impossible for you to borrow three hundred pounds? is the sum so mighty as to involve you for life?"

"Where are we to get that sum?" said Mrs. Vaughen: "we have friends, but we could not expect them to advance it."

"Certainly not," said the other, "I am sure that neither I nor my sister could do any thing for you in that way: you know how small our incomes are; and our sister in town lives to the extent of her property, and our elder brother has a very expensive family. But you have a property of your own, two thousand pounds, I think, and consider how easy it would have been to have raised a few hundreds upon that."

The tears came into Mrs. Vaughen's eyes afresh on hearing this remark.--"But in case of our deaths, this two thousand pounds is all that our daughters will have to depend upon," she replied.

"In the mean time," said the aunt, "you are perhaps depriving them of advantageous settlements."

"And lowering them so sadly," said Miss Letitia Vaughen, the eldest daughter of the Squire; "I cannot bear the thoughts of my dear cousins being found, as they were last week by Sir Thomas, engaged in the most menial employments."

"Poor Emmeline!" remarked the younger sister, "poor Emmeline! what must she have suffered on the occasion!"

The history of Sir Thomas's visit was then recounted at large, and represented in the most ridiculous point of view.

But we have already detailed enough of this conversation to give the reader an idea of all the rest: suffice it to say, that when Mr. Vaughen returned, he found his wife in hysterics, and the ladies chafing her temples with hartshorn.

It was not a little thing which could throw Mr. Vaughen off his guard; but, on this occasion, he was really angry, and reproved his elder sister in a manner which he had never before manifested towards her. She was somewhat intimidated, but not driven from her purpose; for she immediately began again with him, and went over every argument which she had before used with his wife.

He allowed that, as a sister, she had a right to speak her mind to him, but he said, that he would not suffer her interference with other individuals of his family.

She seemed offended, and had recourse to tears.

At length the family parted, but it was with such evident displeasure on his sister's part, that Mr. Vaughen was hurt, and withdrew to his little study to recover his composure in communion with his God.

When Mr. Vaughen was called to dinner, after this visit, he found his wife still in tears, his elder daughter looking serious, and his younger daughter as if labouring under some excessive affliction. He sat down, and, at first, said nothing: he then looked round him on the sorrowful faces which encircled his table, and, addressing these beloved ones, he said, "You are unhappy, my dear wife and children, and you make me feel that I am the cause; say but the word, and I will give notice to Mrs. Alice Turner to leave the house; we will return to our parlour, and we will raise the money by an insurance on my life or any other plan that you can devise."

The affectionate wife and children could not bear this: they flew to his arms, and, melting into tears, they all said, "No! no! we will remain as we are. We are very happy when the world will let us alone, and we will henceforward cease to think of the world."

Thus was the family peace by degrees restored; and when their dinner was finished they walked out together to drink tea with Mrs. Etherington, at her little farm, situated in one of the most retired and romantic valleys in the parish, and there, while they partook of the widow's cream and brown bread, they improved the time in religious conversation, and the young farmer became more and more pleased with the simple and lovely daughters of the rector; and though he had not yet acknowledged to himself which of the two he most admired, yet it appeared plainly enough to his mother, when, after their departure, he remarked, that the grave and placid countenance of Miss Henrietta conveyed to his mind a more lively idea of an angel than any face that he had ever before seen.

"She is a sweet young lady," said, the mother in reply, "and blessed will that man be who procures her for a wife."

Several days now passed, during which all went on smoothly at the rectory, and nothing had happened to make the family dissatisfied with their new plans, but at the end of this time a letter arrived from Adolphus, evidently penned under a state of the utmost distress of mind. The occasion of this letter was a communication which the young man had received from his aunt, in which she represented in so serious a light the sacrifices which his parents were making on his account, that it appeared to him a paramount duty to leave the University, and seek some other manner of life.

He confessed in this letter, that when he first received the communication from his aunt, he should, undoubtedly, have left the University privately, and gone to sea, (no other plan but a seafaring life occurring to him at the time,) had he not been restrained by his friend Theodore; since which, he had thought better of it, and, therefore, now wrote to his parents to request their permission to leave his present situation, and enter into some trade.

The parents were greatly hurt by this meddling interference of Miss Vaughen; and Mr. Vaughen said, "How truly is it written, A man's foes shall be they of his own household!" He, however, thanked God for the providential manner in which his son, through the interposition of his friend, had been restrained from any rash action; and writing to Adolphus by return of post, he requested him to make himself easy, and to take no steps towards changing his plans till the long vacation. "You shall come, my son," said the tender father, "the Lord permitting, to spend the long vacation with us; and if you find one dimple the less in the cheek of your Emmeline, or one wrinkle more in the brow of Henrietta, I will give you leave to bind yourself apprentice to any trade you please"

The letter concluded with an invitation to Theodore to accompany his friend.

The next letter from Adolphus was written in so much more cheerful a strain, that his parents were enabled to await the approach of the long vacation without anxiety; and, at the time appointed, the young men arrived, having walked the greater part of the way from Cambridge.

Now these four young people being again met, extreme joy was painted on every countenance; and if the circumstance of the kitchen was sometimes remembered, it was only recurred to as a matter of merriment.

This season of holiday was chosen by Mr. Vaughen as a proper time for establishing his Sunday-school; and he told the young academicians, that he should expect much from their superior skill in modelling his boys' school. He also associated his young people with himself in his walks to visit the poor of the parish; and on these occasions the happy young party often used to take their tea and sugar with them, and regale themselves at the doors of the cottages, especially in those situations where hills and groves and waterfalls presented their assemblages of beauties to delight the eye, and captivate the fancy. On these occasions, they were not unfrequently joined by Mr. Etherington, whose sincere and ardent desire for Christian instruction, not altogether, perhaps, unaccompanied with other motives, induced him to seek habitually the society of Mr. Vaughen and his family.

Thus sweetly passed away several months, during which Mr. Vaughen would often say to his son, "Well, Adolphus, what are your thoughts of our sacrifices? Are we intolerably miserable in our kitchen? We cannot, it is certain, expect to be always as happy as we have been during these few months, it would not be best, perhaps, that we should be so; but do me this favour, my boy: if you hear of our being afflicted, and brought under trial, do not attribute it to the measures that we have taken to save money on your account; for I am persuaded that we shall never have reason to lament that step."

In this way elapsed the greater part of the long vacation: when, one evening, early in autumn, while the family were drinking tea, and seated in their bow-window, the party being augmented by Mr. Etherington, they were interrupted by the sound of a carriage, and, in an instant, the coach from Stanbrook Court came thundering up to the gate.

At the sight of this, the young men walked out at one door, and Mrs. Vaughen at another, leaving Mr. Vaughen and his daughters to receive their visiters.

The party from the Court consisted of the very persons who had visited the rectory some months before, with the addition of Mrs. Irwin, their married sister from London: they were all dressed with minute attention to display and fashion, and, on being ushered into the family apartment by Mr. Vaughen, took their seats, in great state, round the tea-table.

After some expressions of kindness on the part of Mr. Vaughen, which, however, were but coldly answered by his relations, declarations of hostility were made on the part of the ladies from Stanbrook, and Mrs. Irwin affirmed that the sole intention of her visit was to dissuade her brother from proceeding in those measures which, she said, must prove the ruin of his family.

"I am much obliged to you, sister Irwin," said Mr. Vaughen.

Mrs. Irwin looked earnestly at her brother, and said, "For what are you obliged, Henry?"

"Because," said Mr. Vaughen, "I cannot suppose that you would persuade me to discontinue those measures which I have adopted through absolute necessity, without furnishing me with means to supply that necessity. Three hundred pounds, or, perhaps, two hundred and fifty pounds will be sufficient, if it suits you to present me with that sum."

The calm and unmoved manner in which Mr. Vaughen spoke seemed to puzzle his sisters. Mrs. Irwin, however, instantly declared, that she never entertained the least idea of supplying her brother's necessities.

"If that is the case," said Mr. Vaughen, "you will, at least, permit me, my dear sister, to take such means as are within my power, to make up my own deficiencies of income; and henceforth, if you please, we will wave the subject."

The ladies appeared somewhat embarrassed, but, recovering themselves, after a pause, they renewed the attack, and urged every common place and worldly argument, which could be brought forward, and that with such obstinacy, that Emmeline left the room in tears, Mr. Vaughen himself seemed fatigued, and Henrietta's placid countenance assumed an air of deep dejection. The argument was still carried on, and Mr. Vaughen was urged to repeat the same answers over and over again; till, at length, not knowing how he could better shew his displeasure, he walked out of the room, leaving Henrietta to bear alone the whole brunt of the battle.

Thus left, the young lady entreated her aunts to say no more on the subject, observing, that on the matter in question she, of course, could have no will but that of her parents; and that, as long as they were determined on any measures which were in themselves innocent, she should think it right to encourage and assist their views.

The ladies were evidently offended at being thus forsaken; and, refusing to take any refreshment, they called for their carriage, and took their departure, leaving Henrietta in such a state of agitation, that she ran from the hall-door into the garden, and there seeking the retreat of one of those old-fashioned summer-houses of which we have before spoken, she burst into a flood of tears.

While she sat in one of the window-seats of this retreat, endeavouring to recover her composure before she appeared in the presence of her parents, she accidentally turned round, and perceived some one in the room with her. It was getting dusk, and she at first fancied that this person was her brother. She looked again: it was Mr. Etherington, who now presented himself before her, and told her that he could not bear to see her affliction, especially as she was not one who shed tears without a cause, but who always evinced a cheerful and pleasing manner in the presence of her friends. She thanked him for his kind consideration, and told him, that she did not weep on her own account, but on that of her father and mother, who, while they were acting the part of the best of parents, and denying themselves many comforts for the sake of their children, were despised and hated by all the world.

Mr. Etherington then brought to her recollection these words of our Saviour--If ye were of the world, the world would love his own: but because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you. [John xv. 19.] And he added, "If we are determined simply to follow the will of God, without reference to man's pleasure, we shall be hated and despised; but this must not give us pain." He then ventured to take the hand of Henrietta, and to make that modest but sincere declaration of his regard for her, which others might have foreseen, but which was wholly unexpected by the young lady herself, her extreme modesty habitually blinding her to the effect which her lovely appearance and deportment usually produced on those who beheld her.

A half-uttered reference to her parents was, however, the only answer which he could obtain from her on this occasion; for she instantly arose, and walked hastily to the house.

As it is not my design to dwell long on this part of my subject, I shall merely say, that Mr. Etherington, having made his sentiments known to Henrietta's parents, and it appearing to them that the young lady was really attached to him, Mr. and Mrs. Vaughan gave their consent, and in a few months Henrietta became the wife of a farmer, and carried to her husband's house that same simplicity of habit and elegance of manner which had rendered her so lovely and valuable as a daughter, and which qualities were the more estimable, as they were the fruits of the most decided Christian principles.

But, before this event took place, the young men returned to Cambridge, Adolphus Vaughen being perfectly satisfied that neither present misery nor future ruin were likely to be the consequence of his parents' plans of economy.

In the mean time, the autumn advancing, the winter approached. Henrietta was happily married, and found great comfort in her husband and his mother. It was a part of Emmeline's daily occupation to visit her sister, and receive lessons of humility and piety from her; and the father saw with delight and gratitude to God that this his youngest darling profited by these lessons, and that her character daily became more established, and less liable to fluctuate and alter with the opinions of those among whom she might associate.

And now, as I have already been obliged to enter with considerable minuteness into many scenes of this narrative, and as I shall probably be compelled to be equally particular in relating some others which are to come, I shall notice somewhat more slightly certain events, with which it is necessary that I should briefly acquaint my readers.

After the marriage of Henrietta, which, although it proved to be so happy a one, did not meet with the approbation of the family at Stanbrook Court, more than two years passed away at the rectory with little change in the family circle. Emmeline was now fully grown, and was of so beautiful and engaging an appearance, that few young women in the neighbourhood could, in that respect, be compared with her, though she was not so calm, nor did she possess that self-command, which had always been so remarkable and admirable in her sister, and which was rather the effect of principle than of insensibility. Yet the feelings of Emmeline were now under considerable control; and though her countenance exhibited more frequent changes of expression than Henrietta's, still this expression was so chastened, so subdued, and so generally indicative of those sentiments which are most amiable, that by some persons her speaking features and eloquent blushes were thought to render her even more attractive than her sister had ever been.

The birth of a child to this beloved sister had awakened all her sensibilities, and afforded a sweet employment for all her hours of leisure.

In the mean time, the family were become so reconciled to the kitchen, and had derived so much advantage to their circumstances, and experienced so great a freedom from care, through the addition to their income arising from Mrs. Alice Turner's residence in the house, that, although the time was drawing very near when Adolphus was to leave the University, Mr. Vaughen entertained no thoughts of disturbing his old lodger, or returning to his former mode of living. When speaking on this subject one day to his wife and daughter, he said, "When Adolphus leaves the University, we might, with care and economy, return to our parlour, and keep another servant; but minute care and rigid economy would be necessary, and we should still be poor in the parlour."

"Then, papa," said Emmeline, "if I may give my opinion, I should greatly prefer being rich in the kitchen."

"Well then, my dear," said Mr. Vaughen, "things shall remain as they are, if your mamma approves it: and I shall the more rejoice in this decision, because thereby peace and quietness will be insured to poor Mrs. Turner for some time to come, or perhaps, the Lord permitting, for the remainder of her life."

This decision being formed, the happy family prepared themselves, for the third time, to receive Adolphus and Theodore in their neat but unfashionable apartment for the long vacation: and this happy period having at length arrived, Emmeline again found herself supremely happy in the society of her brother and his friend, and enjoyed the pleasure of their company in her daily visits to her beloved Henrietta at her woodside farm.

It will now be necessary to mention a circumstance which had hitherto escaped the notice even of Mr. and Mrs. Vaughen, namely, a growing and deep-rooted attachment between Theodore and Emmeline, of which the young people themselves seemed hardly sensible, inasmuch as this regard had gradually changed from a kind of brotherly and sisterly affection into one of a more powerful nature.

As soon as Mr. Vaughen perceived this, he took alarm: not because he did not love Theodore, and would not have preferred him for a son-in-law above all others whom he knew; but he well knew that the parents of the young man were worldly people, and he feared that the cause of much unhappiness might arise from this quarter. He also felt that he himself was to blame for want of foresight: "For how," said he, "could I have allowed two such pleasing young people habitually to associate together without anticipating what might happen!"

The sense of this carelessness grieved Mr. Vaughen and led him to humble himself anew before the throne of grace; and at length he was brought to a conviction, that he ought immediately to speak to Theodore, and persuade him to leave Emmeline, and seek no further to solicit her affection.

To give pain to those whom he loved was the most severe trial to which Mr. Vaughen could be exposed; nevertheless, he shrunk not from this duty, but took an early opportunity to open his mind to Theodore.

I shall not relate the conversation between Mr. Vaughen and Theodore at full length, but shall merely mention to my reader the principal topics on which he addressed him.

As the young man, when addressed by his beloved tutor on the subject, instantly acknowledged his regard for Emmeline, Mr. Vaughen represented to him, that her want of fortune and her humble education would certainly render her far from desirable as a daughter-in-law to his parents; and he proceeded to point out to him the strong duty of his submitting his will to theirs, and he urged him, as he valued the blessing of God, not to seek his own pleasure at the risk of displeasing them: and although Theodore argued and pleaded with all the warmth and eloquence of youth, yet Mr. Vaughen insisted, that he should immediately return to his parents, and that he should also entirely cease, for the present, from the use of any means of engaging the affection of his daughter.

Theodore declared, that he never should cease to think of Emmeline, and never could be happy without her.

"I will grant all this," said Mr. Vaughen, "not only for the sake of argument, but because I believe that the man who has once loved Emmeline would not be satisfied very readily to make any other choice: but still, my son, still I affirm, that your advantage and comfort will be more certainly insured by a simple and entire acquiescence in the divine will on this occasion, than by any attempt which you could make to control your own fortune, or form your own plans of happiness."

Mr. Vaughen then laboured to convince Theodore, that the sum of human wisdom consisted in a simple and entire resignation of the mind to the divine will, and in bringing our desires down to such things as we actually possess. And he pointed out to him the means by which such a state of submission and acquiescence might be obtained, even by sincere application to Him in whose hands are the hearts of all men.

It was a severe trial to poor Theodore to tear himself away from Emmeline, and to leave the peaceful and happy vicarage, in which he had spent so many delightful months, and even years, in order to become an inmate of his father's gay villa at Richmond, where every sentiment which he heard expressed was altogether in opposition to every thing which he had admired and loved in his tutor's house.

Emmeline shed, in secret, many tears at his departure; but, as he had not made any decided avowal of his attachment to her, she never seemed to suspect the occasion of his going, or to think that there was any thing extraordinary in his leaving the parsonage to visit his parents. Still, however, she retained the sweetest recollection of him, and often said, "When poor Theodore was here, we had many pleasant walks, and read many delightful books: I wish he could have stayed with us a little longer!"

About this period, an event took place which tended a little to divert the attention of the family from Theodore and Emmeline.--Captain John Vaughen, who had been absent during several years from England, or who, if his ship had touched in the port, had not found time to come home, suddenly appeared at Stanbrook Court, and informed his friends that he was come to spend some months with them.

The Squire was, in his way, as has already been seen, not insensible to the feelings of natural affection, and the old ladies possessed a considerable share of family attachment, though not of a character sufficiently strong to counteract and remove their prejudices and impressions concerning worldly propriety and etiquette. The arrival, therefore, of the captain was a matter of great joy at Stanbrook Court, and, during the first evening, all was unmixed and noisy merriment; till the captain, who had repeatedly asked after his brother Henry's health, unfortunately put some further questions concerning him which so entirely disconcerted the old ladies, that they could not recover their placidity during the rest of the evening.

"I am ashamed," said Mrs. Dorothy Vaughen, "I am ashamed to talk to you about Henry, brother John. He was always, you know, a man of a singular way of thinking; and, lately, he has entirely lost himself, and quite banished himself from all good society."

"Ay!" said the captain: "I am sorry to hear it, very sorry. What can have been the matter?" and he looked from his sister at the head of the table, to his brother at the lower end, with such an expression of uneasiness and perplexity as seldom appeared in his weatherbeaten face. "Poor fellow! poor Harry!" he exclaimed, "what can he have done?"

The Squire drummed under the table, and. drew up his mouth, determining that he would not for once speak upon a subject which had been a matter of continual debate between himself and his sisters: for the Squire maintained, that his brother had done perfectly right to live in a kitchen, if he had not wherewithal to support himself in a parlour; while his sisters averred, on the contrary, that no circumstances ought to have induced a Vaughen to submit to such a degradation.

As the Squire, therefore, would not speak, the ladies were obliged to tell the degrading tale of their brother's having for some years past sunk, together with his family, into the lowest life, residing with his servants in the kitchen, and obliging his daughters to perform some of the meanest offices of the household: neither did they finish their tale, till they had represented the whole family as being reduced to the lowest rank.

The captain listened with amazement, taking all that his sisters said for granted, and frequently interrupting their narrative with exclamations of, "Wonderful! surprising! such a man as Harry to be so fallen! the most gentlemanly man of the family, as he was always considered, begging your pardon, Squire! such a lively man, too, so fond as he was of refined company! Well, this is incredible! But I must go over to-morrow, and see him. Perhaps his purse is low; perhaps he wants help of that kind."

The sisters took alarm at this hint of the captain's, and would have dissuaded him from going over to the parsonage, "where," said they, "you will not meet with a reception fit for a gentleman."

But the captain rejected this idea with a smile, saying, "And what kind of a sailor must I be, if I cannot put up with a sorry berth for a few hours, especially for the sake of enjoying the company of a brother whom I have not seen for so many years?"

"Well, but, brother John," said the sisters, "will you persuade him to forsake these disgraceful whims, this low life? Do advise him to leave his kitchen, and to bring up his only remaining daughter like a gentleman's. As to the elder, she is quite ruined--sacrificed to some low man, and sunk beyond recovery."

The countenance of the captain fell again, as he heard these changes rung upon the words "low life, ruin, sacrifices," &c. &c. and he promised his sisters that he would do what he could to persuade his brother to resume his character as a gentleman, and to restore his family to their proper rank in society.

The next morning, he, accordingly, took his departure immediately after breakfast; and, as he had as strong an antipathy to a horse as most other gentlemen of his profession, he made his way over the country to the rectory on foot, anticipating, as he went along, the sordid scenes he was to witness in his brother's house: he was struck, however, on entering the garden-gate, to see the little shrubbery perfectly neat, and the parterres blooming and fragrant with roses, jessamine, and other odoriferous plants.

He approached the house, and, knocking at the front door, it was presently opened to him by the ancient domestic, whose face he instantly recognized, and whose exclamation of joy, and loud repetition of his name, brought out all his relations from their different apartments, presenting such a group as instantly changed all the melancholy fancies of the captain into visions of Eden: for whereas middle age appeared in its most amiable form in the persons of Mr. and Mrs. Vaughen, blooming youth and beauty could scarcely be better represented than by Adolphus and Emmeline, by whom the captain was conducted into the sitting-room of the family, (the unfashionable denomination of which we would willingly sometimes avoid, in respect to our more courtly readers,) and made welcome with a sincerity and affection which for a moment quite overcame the man who had been so long absent from his country and family.

"Well, but," said the captain, after he had answered some of the many questions that were put to him by his brother, "I understood that I was to see something here which was to shock even my coarse nerves? Why, brother, how is this? You have got a very bad name in the country! What have you been doing? And your children, too!--they say that you have made a kitchen-maid of your daughter! Well, it may be so: but if all kitchen-maids were like this," he said, looking towards Emmeline, "I can guess which end of most houses would in general be thought most agreeable."

Mr. Vaughen replied, "Brother, I have done what I thought best in the situation in which I was placed: we were compelled to lower our habits, and reduce our establishment; but perhaps this very circumstance, under the divine blessing, made us more careful in attending to our manners and the cultivation of our minds."

This speech of Mr. Vaughen was followed by an offer of money from the captain, which Mr. Vaughen would by no means accept, assuring his brother that he had been rich ever since he had lived in the kitchen; and he added, that he had brought down his habits to his circumstances, as the best means of preventing himself from incurring the constant guilt of breaking the tenth commandment: "for," said he, "wherever there is a continued pressure of want, how difficult is it to refrain from coveting our neighbours' goods!"

Another turn was then given to the conversation, and Mr. Vaughen endeavoured to lead his brother's mind to the contemplation of religious subjects, for he saw and deeply deplored his ignorance in that respect; and, with a view, if the Lord pleased; to benefit him in this particular, he pressed him not only to dinner, but to remain in his house as long as he liked, that is, if he could put up with the inconveniences of his mode of life.

It is certain, that persons who have been used to travelling, and who have seen much of men and manners in foreign countries, however elegant they themselves may be in their own deportment, are not so wedded to particular forms, habits, and modes of living, as those individuals who have never left their native country; and the narrower a man's sphere of observation has been, the more stress will he lay on such minutiæ as perhaps have utterly escaped the observation of those who have taken a more extended view of life. So it was with Captain Vaughen: in the enjoyment of his brother's society, and in the kind attentions of his brother's family, he presently quite forgot the room in which he was sitting; and though when the old servant made up the fire after dinner, and put the kettle on for tea, his eyes were fixed on her with a stedfastness which made Mrs. Vaughen rather nervous, yet, had he at the moment been asked what he was looking at, it would probably have occasioned him some reflection before he could reply.

But this easiness or carelessness about trifles which we often see in travellers and foreigners, is what the English in general cannot understand, and perhaps nothing more annoys an Englishman, when returning, after a long absence, to his native country, than the necessity in which he finds himself of attending to a countless number of etceteras, the importance of which he cannot be made to feel. But it may well be hoped, that, when true religion universally prevails in this country, its inhabitants will cease to be occupied by this infinite variety of nothings by which their attention is for the most part monopolized.

But whether it was in consequence of the Captain's ease on these minor points, or that his brother Henry's house abounded in comforts which he found nowhere else, certain it is, that, after a short residence at Stanbrook Court, he returned to the rectory, and, taking up his abode in the spare room left by poor Theodore, he made his brother's house his head-quarters and said that he hoped he should not be obliged to change them while he remained in England.

Soon after the arrival of the captain, Adolphus was ordained; and, as he was so happy as to get a curacy close to his father's habitation, he was enabled still to live at home, and daily to visit and instruct his people, which duty he performed in simplicity and Christian sincerity.

This circumstance afforded great comfort to the parents and sisters of the young man, especially to Emmeline, who sometimes still wondered that so little was heard of Theodore, and that he so seldom wrote to any of the family.

And now, having described the situation of Mr. Vaughen's family, and spoken of their numerous comforts, we will turn to poor Theodore, whom we dismissed in a very disconsolate mood, fearing that he would never be happy again as long as he lived; and we will take up his history from the time when he left the rectory and became an inmate of his father's house.

Mr. Owen, Theodore's father, was a counsellor and a member of parliament. He had, therefore, been in the habit of associating with persons of consequence and distinction in the kingdom; and his children, of whom he had many, had all, with the exception of Theodore, been brought up with the idea that riches and honour were necessary to their well-being in society, and that they must acquire these by their own exertions.

Through the divine mercy, Theodore had been preserved from this vicious mode of instruction, by the interference of an uncle, his godfather, who, being himself a clergyman, and an old bachelor, promised to undertake the expence of his education, provided that his education was to be conducted according to his views, which were decidedly Christian. This uncle had been dead only a few months before his nephew returned to Richmond, and, when dying, he had left Theodore two thousand pounds, upon the possession of which he was not to enter till he had attained priest's orders.

As Mr. Owen had but little fortune to leave his children, although he had brought them up with habits and notions equal to the highest expectations, it will not occasion much surprise in my readers, when I say that the legacy left to Theodore was an occasion of bitter envy among his brothers and sisters, who earnestly coveted this money, blaming their uncle for partiality, and expressing the most eager and unrestrained desires for some such bequest from others of their relations in their own favour; being, in consequence, induced to look forward with impatience and anxiety to the deaths of those elderly persons in the family from whom they entertained the slightest expectation.

While the minds of the young people of the family were in this state of irritation, Theodore arrived, and was received by his brothers and sisters with a coldness which added to the dejection of his mind, though he attributed this coldness rather to the dissimilarity of their educations and former modes of life than to any decided feelings of envy or dislike; for, as he had himself thought little of his uncle's bequest, excepting as it afforded a proof of that good man's regard, he had no idea of the feelings which it had excited in the breasts of his family. Neither did Theodore derive more satisfaction from the society of his parents than from the presence of his brothers and sisters. His father was cold-hearted and had his mind full of the world; he spent few hours at home, excepting at his meals, and on these occasions it usually happened that, at least, some one or other of his youngest son's opinions or sentiments, most of which had been imbibed from Mr. Vaughen, was brought forward for the ridicule of the younger part of the family and the grave discussion of the elder.

At these times, both Theodore and his views were determinately opposed by his father, contemptuously censured by his mother, and condemned to run the gauntlet of all the fine ladies his sisters, and the men of the world his brothers. Nor was it possible for him, either by silence or other means, to escape these attacks: for whatever might be the subject of conversation, his brothers and sisters always contrived to make such a reference to him as might call forth his sentiments in opposition to those of the rest of the family, and they did this in such a manner, as generally to represent his views as utterly ridiculous; and because Theodore maintained that it was the duty of every Christian to bring his desires down to his circumstances, and rather to seek to make the best use of that which he actually possessed, than to be eager to obtain more, he was accounted by the whole family as but little better than a fool; and his mother not unfrequently said, when she was under the irritation of these occasions, that she wished his wise uncle had let him alone, for if he had laid out as much as three thousand pounds upon him, he had made him at least three thousand pounds the worse for it.

Such being the young man's condition in the family, it will not be wondered at that he rejoiced at the termination of the long vacation; although he could not look forward to the enjoyment of his friend Adolphus's society for the ensuing few months, which were the last that he himself had to spend at Cambridge.

As he was about to take his degree immediately after the Christmas vacation, he was excused from visiting Richmond at that season; but as his business at the University was completed before the long vacation, he was obliged to make up his mind to return home before that period, and to remain there until the time should arrive for his ordination, which was to take place in the autumn.

During this period Theodore had never ceased to think of the lovely Emmeline, but it was with that submission of his mind to the divine will which the most correct principles of religion inculcate: and thus, this affection, so far from tending to unsettle him, had, at once, the effect of strengthening and ennobling his mind, and preserving his heart from the dangerous influences of worldly and unholy females.

When Theodore arrived at Richmond on the commencement of the long vacation, he found the family in high glee, his elder brother being on the eve of marriage with one of two co-heiresses, daughters of a city banker, and women of the first ton.

This marriage was regarded as a great thing for the family, and nothing but amusements and large dinners, parties on the water, little dances in the family, and visits to Ranelagh, and other places of summer resort, occupied the minds of the young people.

During these scenes of gaiety, Theodore, for some time, escaped, not only from ridicule, but even, as he hoped, from notice; although he not unfrequently joined such of the family parties as he considered not unbecoming the sacred character which he was about to assume,

But suddenly he found himself brought forward into notice, particularly by his father, his mother, and his eldest sister: and whereas these individuals, if they had ever condescended to regard him at all, had treated him no otherwise than as a well-meaning creature who was not altogether right in his head, they now took every possible occasion to do him public honour, and to pay the highest apparent deference to his opinion. Mrs. Owen, especially, became, all at once, so fond of his company that she would not stir without her dear Theodore; and in every party of pleasure at which she was present, she declared that she had no comfort without the arm of this her beloved son. Theodore was too simple and unpractised in deception to conceive of any reason but, what appeared to him, the most natural one for this change, namely, that his parents through often seeing him began to love him better; and he accordingly met their advances with the utmost respect and cordiality.

In the mean time, the marriage of the elder brother took place, and the new-married couple immediately repaired to Brighton, accompanied by the younger Miss Owen, who was a year older than Theodore; while the bride's sister, Miss Caroline Clayton, remained at Richmond with Mr. and Mrs. Owen.

It was now that the late change in Mr. and Mrs. Owen's conduct was accounted for, and Theodore was informed by his father, that there was good reason for concluding, that, if he would conduct himself prudently, it was possible, from certain hints which had fallen from the young lady, that he might obtain the unmarried co-heiress, and thus share the great fortune with his brother.

The manner in which Theodore received this information was such, as enabled his father instantly to discover the state of his affections, on which, he immediately charged him with having bestowed them without consulting his parents' inclinations.

Had Theodore attempted to dissemble he would not have been able to succeed; but he had no wish of the kind, on the contrary, he rather rejoiced in an opportunity of entirely opening his heart, and he, therefore, related the whole history of the progress of his regard for Emmeline, of the undesigning and unsuspecting character of the young lady, and the honourable conduct of her father.

It was impossible for Mr. Owen to blame Mr. Vaughen, but he was extremely irritated and angry with his son and told him, that, as he was not bound by any promise to Miss Vaughen, he insisted, as he valued his blessing, upon his not rejecting the high fortune now offered to him.

Theodore was silent: upon which his father began to argue with him, alleging a variety of apparent inducements, to prevail on him to adopt the mode of conduct which he desired. He first pointed out the perishable nature of that feeling which the world calls love, and he assured him that it would be instantly extinguished by poverty: "whereas," added he, "the comforts arising from a large fortune are as lasting as life itself." He concluded by painting in the most formidable colours all the dreadful consequences of want of money, namely, duns, creditors, matrimonial jangles, mean shifts, loss of honour, and universal contempt.

Theodore replied, that he had never seen any thing of this kind under Mr. Vaughen's roof, although the income of that gentleman was so narrow that he had been obliged to give up a servant and to let a part of his house: "But never Sir, never," added Theodore, with earnestness, "did I witness so much peace in any family as in Mr. Vaughen's, or such entire freedom from worldly care, or so much true elegance and ease of mind."

"There is an old saying," said the counsellor, with a kind of sneering laugh, "that love is blind: the story is as old as the heathen mythology."

"But, Sir," said Theodore, "is it not possible for one man to be rich with a small income, and another man to be poor with a very princely one? Does not this great metropolis furnish daily instances of this latter character? And I have often heard Mr. Vaughen remark, that poverty is not so much the effect of want of money, especially among persons in the middle ranks of life, as of want of humility and moderation: for if every necessary and comfort of life for a family may be purchased with one hundred pounds a year, what is to make the possessor of that one hundred pounds poor, excepting that he has not courage to accommodate his modes of life to his circumstances, and that he is determined to live according to some specified plan which either he or his neighbours had laid down as necessary for him?"

This remark of Theodore's was followed by a burst of contempt and anger from his father, who, using the same strain of sarcasm which Theodore had improperly begun, represented the sentiments which his son had expressed, in so many ridiculous points of view, that the young man, though not convinced, was utterly confounded, and was glad to be saved from further ridicule by the entrance of a gentleman on business which could not be postponed. But Theodore only escaped from his father to encounter a repetition of the same arguments from his mother, who, with the assistance of his sister, left no means untried to persuade him to marry a lady who had little to recommend her but a dashing air and an immense fortune. The heads of the assertions, we will not call them arguments, urged by these ladies were as follows:--It is necessary for persons born in a certain rank of life to live in a certain way. The ladies of course considered this proposition as self-evident, inasmuch as they took no pains whatever to prove its truth.--Every person who begins life with a small income must inevitably run into debt, and be subject to all the horrors of duns, debts, and miserable resources.--A poor man must in consequence be a mean man, and of course will be despised by all the world and become the shame of his own family.

Theodore in this place ventured to assert that a man might have but a small income and yet not be distressed by poverty: a remark which was received with the utmost contempt by the ladies, and set down to the young man's want of experience.

The ladies next asserted that it was absolutely impossible but that persons living in a humble manner must necessarily be mean, vulgar, and low, and unfit altogether for refined society. And they concluded by declaring that matches arising out of affection only, without a view to prudence, were seldom happy, these schemes being more suited for Arcadian scenery than for real life.

It was only in vain that Theodore brought forward some of Mr. Vaughen's best arguments to prove that poverty, shame, and disgrace, did got proceed so much from the want of money as from the want of prudence and firmness, in not previously modelling the mode of life in accommodation to the income, and then steadily adhering to the previous arrangements. By these arguments he only inflamed the anger of his mother and excited the contempt of his sister, and Mrs. Owen concluded her remarks by telling him, that, unless he submitted his inclination to that of his father in the case in point, he would certainly incur his highest resentment; and that if he chose to live like a tinker when settled in life, he must not calculate upon the notice and countenance of his family.

Theodore's feelings on this occasion were, no doubt, very painful, but he was a Christian, and he, therefore, considered that the persons with whom he had to deal were those to whom he owed the most solemn duties. He accordingly retired to his own apartment, and, after some time spent before the throne of grace, he wrote a respectful and dutiful letter to his parents, promising, that if they would excuse his engaging in a connexion on which he could not think without the utmost reluctance, he would patiently wait their acquiescence to that union, which, he felt assured, would, if sanctioned by them, constitute the happiness of his life.

When this letter was received, the parents, judging that they might perhaps succeed better in their ambitious project by not pressing the matter further at present, affected to be satisfied, and contented themselves with holding out just so much encouragement to the young lady as might keep alive her regard for Theodore: for certain it was that she had conceived a liking for him, and allowed this fancy to be made known to the parents, a mode of conduct, however, which few circumstances can justify in a female.

In the mean time, the period arrived for Theodore's ordination, after which he gladly retired to a small curacy, which he had obtained, in one of the richest but most sequestered parishes in the beautiful county of Kent. There, surrounded by orchards and hop-yards, he could almost fancy himself again in Herefordshire; and although he had not the sweet society that he had there enjoyed, yet was he not backward in cherishing gratitude for his retreat from worldly society, and for the opportunity now afforded him of communion with his God, and of pursuing those studies that are particularly necessary for one whose business it was to become the instructor of others. The salary which Theodore was to receive from his curacy was fifty pounds a year, to which income his father promised to add another, which, together with the interest of his legacy, made up one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. With this income, at that time, the young man might have lived handsomely, have dressed well, have paid for the best lodging that the village would afford, and, perhaps, have kept a horse: but it had pleased God to inspire him with other views in laying out his money than those ordinary and selfish ones which are indulged by the natural man. He resolved as soon as he entered upon his curacy to establish himself at a rate of expenditure considerably below his income, and to devote what he thereby saved to charitable purposes. With this intention, he hired two apartments in an old farmhouse, a parlour and a bed-chamber, and he engaged the old lady of the house and her maid to attend upon him. His parlour was large and duly furnished with two corner-cupboards painted blue, with a corner fireplace, over which he hung a fine old print of the crucifixion, and with a large casement window which commanded a prospect of an orchard, a hay-rick, and cow-house, and, through an opening of the trees, a view of a black-and-white cottage standing at the corner of a hop-yard, and a distant eminence crowned with trees.

When Theodore engaged this quiet apartment, which he thought delightful, it never once occurred to him that the approach to it was through the large old-fashioned kitchen which was occupied by the family, that the tables were of oak and the chairs of walnut, that corner-cupboards were vulgar things, especially when painted blue, and that his new mahogany book-case with glass doors, which was a present from an old aunt, put all the rest of the furniture entirely out of countenance.

Notwithstanding these inauspicious circumstances, the young minister found himself more comfortable in his uncouth parlour than he had been for many months, and, soon after he was settled in his new abode, his happiness was inexpressibly increased by a visit from Adolphus, who arrived, according to a long-standing agreement, in order to assist and advise him on his first setting out in his professional career.

And now, were it to my present purpose, I could say much respecting the sweet counsel which these two young men took together, how they ordered and improved their time, how they exhorted each other to a simple and holy life, and how the elder pressed the younger to an earnest and unwearied discharge of his duties as a minister.

As Adolphus could so manage matters as to continue with Theodore one entire month, he accompanied him on his first visits to his parishioners; after which, they divided the parish into districts, one of which Theodore purposed to visit daily in order to administer spiritual supplies to all and temporal assistance to those that needed.

This visit of Adolphus was exceedingly serviceable to Theodore, and though the young men suffered a great deal from the separation which followed, yet Theodore felt himself much strengthened and confirmed by the timely assistance of his brother, and after his departure he pursued with the strictest regularity the plans which they had mutually formed.

While together, the young men had refrained from speaking much of Emmeline; the one from brotherly delicacy, and the other from a sense of honour: but Theodore had ventured to send her a short note by her brother, and a little drawing of the view from his parlour window, both of which were highly prized by her and placed carefully among her treasures.

It is certain that those who humbly acquiesce in the will of God, and who are enabled to do their duty in that state of life in which it hath pleased the Lord to place them, will enjoy great peace though amidst circumstances of much bereavement of external comfort; and thus it was with Theodore: though separated from all those persons whom he loved best on earth, and doubting whether he might ever be restored to his Emmeline, yet he enjoyed such happiness in his little curacy as the beloved of the Lord alone experience. One day passed with him much as another, in one continued round of cheerful duties. He arose at six, breakfasted early, and studied divinity till one, at this hour he dined, and then walked out to see his people and visit a school which he had established, he returned to tea at five, and read till eight, at which time he had family worship in the kitchen with all the farmer's servants, and at nine the whole family retired to rest.

As the spring and summer advanced, he derived additional pleasure from the new beauties which adorned his walks, and he often declared that he believed no region throughout the kingdom possessed such a rich variety of hill and dale, coppice, brook, waterfall, dingle, lawn, and upland, as was to be found within his little parish.

Theodore had now been more than seven months at his curacy, and had never once desired to leave his charge, when one day, after having spent a peaceful morning and taken his early dinner, he went out to walk, as usual, to call on a poor widow who appeared to be near her end, and whose residence lay in a beautiful dingle at some distance from his habitation. She had lately occupied much of his thoughts and time, and he was returning full of joy because he thought he had discerned a saving work begun in her heart, when he was startled at the unusual sight of a post-chaise in the farm-yard, and being instantly accosted by his father's servant out of livery, he was informed that his mother and sister were actually in the house.

Theodore tried to feel and look pleased when he received this information, and, without asking himself whether he really were so, he hastened in and ran to receive the embraces of his mother.

After the first salutations were over and the family party had taken their seats near the window, Theodore asked his mother whether she had dined, and whether he should order a mutton-chop or the tea-things.

"Neither," she replied, "on our account; we can do very well till your dinner is ready."

"My dinner!" said Theodore, smiling. "I have dined at least these four hours."

"Dined!" said Mrs. Owen; "what, at one o'clock?"

Theodore now recollected for the first time the extreme inelegance of such a custom, and stammering out some apology, said, "Had I expected you, Madam, I would certainly have waited."

"Me! my dear," said Mrs. Owen; "you could not expect me, and therefore I am of course out of the question; but for your own comfort I wonder you should adopt such uncouth and extraordinary habits."

"It is always the same to me," said Theodore, "when I eat, but you must not suffer for my whims," and he immediately rang, and called for what the house would afford; and while his respectable hostess was bustling to get all things ready, he made many enquiries about his father, brothers, and sisters.

"Your father is well," said his mother, coldly, "but he is not in good spirits."

Theodore was going to ask if he had any particular cause for uneasiness, but was interrupted by Miss Bell, who said, "Theodore, I have been admiring your cupboards; they are the very pink of elegance."

Theodore looked round him as if to find out something new; and then, smiling, said, "Why, at any rate, sister, they are suitable to the rest of the apartment; you will at least allow that?"

"To be sure," said Miss Bell; "no one will dispute that point. You certainly have chosen a most elegant residence."

The necessity of a reply to this remark was precluded by the entrance of the mistress of the house, who, to do honour to her guests, came in with her servant-maid, a red-armed country girl, to prepare the table and set on such food as she had ready.

Theodore, pleased by her condescension and endeavours to set things off for the best, thought it right to speak on the subject, and said, "Mrs. Simpson, do not give yourself the trouble."

The old lady declared it was not a trouble but a pleasure to wait on any friend of Mr. Owen's. Notwithstanding this hint, the two ladies from London took no notice of the courtesy of the country dame, but as soon as she was gone out, the elder of the two remarked that there was a decent looking village in the parish through which they had passed, and added, that she supposed it would afford something more respectable in the way of a lodging than the one that her son now occupied.

"O, mamma," said Miss Bell, "but you forget Theodore's taste, and the high relish he professes for low life."

"Well, sister," returned Theodore, somewhat hastily, "will you eat? perhaps you may find my food better than my lodgings."

While Mrs. Owen and her daughter were partaking of the plain but excellent fare set before them, Theodore had leisure to contemplate the expression of his mother's countenance, in which he feared that he read some expression of vexation.

Mrs. Owen had been a handsome woman; and still, with the assistance of a well-chosen dress, a fashionable air, and a slight tincture of artificial colour in her cheeks, she passed for a fine woman in the gay world. Her manner in society was lively, and she knew how to assume those smiles and that expression of countenance which convey the idea of a person's being pleased with their company; but when off her guard, her features returned to their natural expression, which was that of discontent, disappointment, and anxiety: and at this time, though evidently endeavouring to conceal her feelings, she was extremely dissatisfied and disconcerted at the situation in which she found her son, and it was with difficulty that she restrained her emotions within those bounds, in which it was necessary to confine them, in order to promote the end that she had in view by her visit, which was, if possible, to discover the state of her son's affection, and to find out whether there was any prospect of accomplishing the family views, which were to effect a marriage between him and Miss Caroline Clayton.

It is extremely difficult, and almost impossible, for persons who are very nearly connected and whose views are entirely at variance, to associate with each other even for a few hours without falling into argument, however great may be the forbearance on the one side and the desire to please on the other. Accordingly, this danger was felt in a very strong degree, during the remainder of the evening, both by the mother and son, and the restraint under which each of them laboured was so great, that they frequently made efforts to converse, and as often relapsed into silence; for every subject on which they entered seemed, to the mind of one or the other, connected with some point which might lead to dispute; and at length the effort to converse became so painful that they both fairly gave up the attempt, leaving all the talk to Miss Bell, who amused herself with ridiculing all that she saw in and about her brother's lodgings.

"And how long, Theodore," said she, "have you deemed a hay-stack and a cow-house such very agreeable objects? though, I believe, these things are considered more picturesque than a well-plastered house with sash-windows, and an elegant carriage at the door; and, perhaps," added she, "according to the new rage for the picturesque, a kitchen-maid with her cap on one side and a coloured apron would be a better subject for a painter, than an elegant lady in the precincts of St. James's."

"Go on, sister," said Theodore, "I love to hear you talk."

Arabella presently remarked, that there was something very venerable in oak tables and corner fire-places: "There is nothing," said she, "in these indicative of a new family or of the upstart."

As the young lady soon, however, perceived that she failed to provoke her brother by these remarks, which he felt as in no way concerning himself, for he was only a lodger, as he observed, she became more personal, and told him that his coat was threadbare and that his hair wanted cutting, and proceeded from one thing to another till the young gentleman, calling for tea and candles, walked out into the kitchen to officiate at the family devotions, and left the young lady to recollect herself.

Thus passed this disagreeable evening, till the ladies retired to rest in Theodore's own apartment, which he gave up for the occasion.

In the morning Theodore was down some time before his visiters, and found his little breakfast-table set out with his landlady's best china, and with such a supply of white and brown bread, cream, and grass butter, as again called forth some expressions of thanks for these kind attentions: and as his mother and sister did not yet appear, he sat down to his usual studies, hoping that he should meet his friends with a better temper after a good night's rest. But in this particular he was disappointed, for his mother had commanded her temper during the preceding evening in order to feel her way previous to the commencement of a grand attack which she meant to make in the morning.

Accordingly, after a sullen meal taken somewhat in haste, Mrs. Owen began to open her mind to her son, and plainly told him all that she disapproved of in his conduct. She began her discourse by informing him, that his father was very low, and that he was the cause of his uneasiness. "We much regret, Theodore," she said, "that we allowed your uncle to interfere with respect to your education, and to insist upon your continuing so long with Mr. Vaughen, in whose family you have acquired a taste so decidedly low that the two thousand pounds which your uncle has left you will never make up for the injury that he has done you by educating you among persons of mean inclinations and habits."

Here the lady paused, and Theodore continued silent, while she thus proceeded.

"An elegant young woman of large fortune and amiable disposition offers you her hand and her heart; she is approved by your parents, and loved by your sisters; but you obstinately and perseveringly reject her, and that, because you pretend already to have bestowed your affections on a person without fortune, unknown to fashion, of low habits, and one utterly disapproved of by your parents; and you affect, moreover, a singularity in your own dress, and manners, and views, which renders you totally unfit for the society of your brothers and sisters, who are elegant and fashionable young people."

Theodore was still silent, though his mother stopped purposely to allow him to speak, upon which she resumed her discourse with increased heat, and told him that she was now come expressly to try what might be done with him, as his father had resolved to renounce him if he did not determine immediately to comply with his will,

Theodore coloured on hearing this, and rejoined, "My father probably remembers the promise that I made to him in writing before I left Richmond, and by that I am willing to abide,"

On this his sister flamed out, but his mother pretended to be melted into tears.

Theodore had a tender heart, and his mother's tears, or seeming tears, affected him much: he, however, continued firm, and particularly stated and explained to her the motives by which he desired to be actuated throughout life. "I am," said he, "the minister of a religion which teaches me to renounce the world, and to take up my cross daily; a religion which requires of its votaries to desire no honour but that which cometh from God, and to bestow whatever property I might be able to spare from my own necessities to supply the wants of the poor. From principle, therefore, I trust, and not from caprice, have I chosen this humble but pleasant apartment; and I wear this coat, which my sister says is threadbare, in order that I may provide a coat for him who wants one. I wish, indeed, to avoid every thing that is mean or sordid; but I am well convinced, that the minister whose heart is devoted to vain desires, and who covets the honours, riches, or pleasures of this world, cannot be truly dedicated to the service of his God. I love Emmeline, it is true, and I admire above all things the humility and Christian simplicity in which she has been educated: but, were there not such a person existing as Emmeline, I solemnly declare, that, with my present views, I never could consent to marry a gay, expensive, fashionable woman, such as Miss Caroline Clayton."

As Mrs. Owen could not understand the motives of her son's conduct, her anger was rather increased than allayed by this statement of his views and sentiments; and she shewed her displeasure by ordering the chaise, and taking her departure with her daughter, saying, as she stepped into the carriage, "I am therefore to tell your father that you are determined to abide by your letter?"

"Tell him," said Theodore, "every thing that is affectionate and dutiful on my part; but entreat him not to press this one point."

"That is as much as to say," remarked Arabella, "that you will oblige your father whenever it suits you so to do, and have your own way when it does not."

Thus the relations parted: but by this short visit the peace of poor Theodore was for a time so much disturbed, that his vivacity forsook him, his cheeks became pale, and he lost his appetite; and, notwithstanding the care of his good landlady, it was evident to all who saw the young man that his health was gradually declining, although the cause was not known to any one in the neighbourhood. Theodore, however, still continued to commit his way into the hand of his heavenly Master, and he was enabled religiously to adhere to the promise which he had made to Mr. Vaughen of not seeking by any means, either open or covert, to solicit the affections of Emmeline.

In the interim, among his friends, many things were working in his favour: one was, that some persons of distinction from Town, who had been visiting at Sir Thomas Freeman's, came back and brought such a report of the lovely appearance and interesting manners of Emmeline, as greatly tended to remove the prejudices of Mr. and Mrs. Owen against her; and at the same time their elder son confessed to his parents, what they had before suspected, that his happiness was destroyed by the violent temper of his wife, as he feared his estate would be by her excessive extravagance.

These circumstances made them look the more closely into the character of the other sister; and they now perceived in her conduct improprieties which they had never before either noticed or suspected. But perhaps even these would not have been sufficient to intimidate them from the pursuit of her money, had not she herself brought the matter to a speedy issue by running off with a gentleman whom she had seen but three times before; thus proving that her regard for Theodore was a whim of short duration, and one that she had for some time ceased to indulge.

While Mr. and Mrs. Owen were under the influence of the various feelings excited by these circumstances which I have just related, news was brought to them, through a medical man in Kent, of the distressing state of Theodore's health; and the parents were suddenly made to feel, by Him in whose hands are the hearts of all men, that they were sacrificing the health, and perhaps the life, of an excellent son to their ambitious feelings. They accordingly sent for him up to Town, assuring him that they would never press him to enter into any alliance contrary to his own feelings, and also informing him that they should not refuse their consent to the connexion that he desired whenever circumstances might render such a measure prudent.

Notwithstanding the joy that was conveyed to the heart of Theodore by this letter, still, when he arrived in Town, he looked so ill, that his parents were excessively alarmed; and, as his illness continued, they at length made the circumstance known to Mr. Vaughen, whom Theodore had often expressed a strong desire to see, and they accordingly requested the good man to visit Richmond.

Mr. Vaughen instantly complied with the request, and was in the arms of his beloved pupil in the shortest time possible after the receipt of the letter.

On the arrival of Mr. Vaughen, Theodore revived a little; but, again relapsing, the physician advised that he should go into the country, and the young man pleaded hard to be permitted to accompany his tutor into Herefordshire.

"Ah, Theodore," said Mr. Vaughen, "what would be more delightful! But my house must be interdicted to you, for reasons that you but too well understand."

"I will not ask to accompany you then," said Theodore, "without the approbation of my parents."

"And unless," said Mr. Vaughen, "they will be content to abide the issue of this proposed visit into Herefordshire."

Theodore pleaded the cause with his parents, and obtained their consent; at which my reader might perhaps be surprised, were I not to mention, that Mr. Owen had lately heard some rumours respecting Captain Vaughen and his intentions towards his nieces: for the captain had, within the few last months, relinquished his official engagements, and returned to the rectory. The happy Theodore was, accordingly, put into a post-chaise, with his beloved tutor, in order that he might proceed by easy stages into Herefordshire.

When out of the atmosphere of the fashionable world, and beyond the paralyzing influence of worldly persons, the young minister seemed to breathe again, and his languid eye began to beam anew with hope and pleasure. How greatly did he enjoy the first evening that he spent on the road with Mr. Vaughen! and his paternal friend was more than once obliged to call him to order, such was the buoyancy and even playfulness of his spirit.

On the third day, in the evening, they drew near to their desired haven; and since poor Mrs. Vaughen had become an inmate of her kitchen, she had never so thoroughly relished the sound of an approaching carriage as she did at the moment when the rattling wheels of the post-chaise which contained Mr. Vaughen and Theodore were heard at a distance through the stillness of the night, and became every instant more loud, till, the vehicle having entered the gate, was the next moment at the door of the house.

"O how comfortable does that fireside appear!" said Mr. Vaughen, as he looked through the window of the sitting-room. "Be it kitchen, or be it parlour, it matters little, does it, Theodore? It is all delightful in my eyes."

Theodore could not speak, but he pressed Mr. Vaughen's hand, and at the same moment the carriage stopped; and the door of the house being burst open, such a group appeared within as made Theodore scarcely able to keep his seat till the carriage door could be opened. Amid the foremost was Adolphus, who hastened down the steps to the carriage. Behind him, though rather in a retreating attitude, stood the lovely Emmeline, with her whole face in a glow of delight, as appeared by the light of a candle, that happened to be held near her by nurse. Mrs. Vaughen and Henrietta stood near Emmeline, and uncle John and Mr. Etherington filled up the back-ground.

As Theodore sprang from the carriage, either from excessive joy or fatigue, his head became giddy, and his steps faltered. Adolphus was ready to support him. His weakness, however, was but momentary, yet it terrified Mrs. Vaughen and her daughters, and Emmeline especially, who burst into tears. "O my Emmeline!" said Theodore, "why those tears? I am much better than I have been, but I was overcome by joy and gratitude. Yes," he said, looking round on all the dear party, "gratitude for my present happiness: to be thus restored to all, all I love, it is too much!"

"Come, come," said Mr. Vaughen, "no more of this. My sons, you will look to the worldly goods that we have brought with us, and you, my good nurse, must supply us with refreshments." So saying, be proceeded triumphantly into that same renowned apartment of which so much has already been said; and when he saw all his family once again gathered round him, he exclaimed, "I don't know how it is, but I believe, my Emmeline, that you have infected me with your folly; for I really feel as if I should be glad to do as ladies do when they are happy, and have a hearty fit of weeping. Rich in the kitchen!" said the good man, looking round him; "yes, I am rich in the kitchen: never was a richer man! May the Almighty grant that I may be a grateful man! yes, my children, that I may be grateful, and that you may be grateful, and ever ready to praise and bless your God for every mercy."

All the company present were affected by these expressions of the father's cheerful and pious feelings. Emmeline wept again; and Theodore took her hand, and endeavoured to speak, but was not able. The captain uttered a kind of groan, which he tried to turn into a cough; Mrs. Vaughen wiped her eyes; and Henrietta took her father's hand, and pressed it to her lips. The bustlings of nurse, and the entrance of Adolphus and Mr. Etherington, who had dismissed the postillion, were no unpleasant interruptions to the highly-wrought state of the feelings of the party gathered round the fire: and, before the hunger of the travellers was satisfied, composure was restored to every countenance, and a serene and tranquil sense of happiness filled every breast.

In this delightful situation, and under the kind care of Mrs. Vaughen, Emmeline, and nurse, Theodore, with the blessing of Providence, presently recovered his health, and was enabled to enjoy all the charms of the opening spring in the society of her whom he had so long and so faithfully loved.

Theodore returned in the summer to his curacy, and remained there till he obtained priest's orders, at which time he went back into Herefordshire to demand the hand of Emmeline.

"And pray," said the captain, who by this time had made up his mind to live with his brother during the remainder of his life, "and pray, young man, how do you mean to support your wife?"

"I have a hundred a year of my own," said Theodore, "and my father promises to give me another: I have also a curacy."

"And I suppose," said the captain, "you expect something from me?"

"No, Sir," replied Theodore, "nothing but your regard and best wishes."

"Well," said the captain, "I will be better, then, than you expect:" and he immediately produced a deed of gift by which he presented each of his brother Henry's children with two thousand pounds, not forgetting his niece at the farm, who by this time was become the happy mother of two fine children.

Mrs. Alice Turner had for some months past grown so infirm as to be entirely confined to her apartment. On this occasion, Mr. Vaughen provided her with a sofa and table in her bed-room; and, feeling that his circumstances were now entirely restored, he added some new furniture to his parlour, papered and painted it, and proposed that it should be taken possession of and re-entered on Emmeline's wedding-day.

On this delightful occasion, while all the family were sitting at breakfast, after the performance of the interesting ceremony, the happy father thus addressed his children:--"My dear children," he said, "it is now four years, since, finding my circumstances disordered, and my income not equal to the answering of my demands, I was led, by Divine Providence, to contract my expenditure, to dismiss one out of two servants, and to make certain other retrenchments. You well know, my children, how the world, and even my most intimate friends and acquaintance, opposed and ridiculed this measure, using arguments which certainly would have prevailed with me, had not my conduct, through the divine assistance, been regulated by those principles of justice and duty, the nature of which cannot, by any train of circumstances, be altered. I adopted the tenth commandment as my rule of conduct. This commandment saith, 'Thou shalt not covet;' and I felt, that, while living amidst circumstances in which more money than I actually possessed was necessary to supply my wants, it was utterly impossible for me even to attempt to observe this divine injunction. What then remained to be done, but to put myself, as much as possible, out of the reach of temptation? and I had no other prospect of doing this than by arranging my plans of living so much within the compass of my means, as that I might be entirely set at liberty from cares of this depressing nature.

"How to accomplish this I knew not, and I was, therefore, for some time in strange perplexity; but, after a while, the way was gradually unfolded to my view, and I was enabled to see some inches forward: one thing after another gently revealed itself, and presently I beheld the whole way in which I ought to walk. To be sure, the path was narrow, and, at any rate, not paved with glory, to use a favourite expression of the French historians. It appeared, however, to me to be so incomparably preferable to the labyrinth of thorns and briars in which I had lately been involved, that I hesitated not a moment in resolving to advance in it; and was not a little strengthened in my purpose by your excellent wife here, my good Mr. Etherington, who entered on the scheme so cheerfully, that I once or twice looked to see if her eyes were wide open, or if she really were thoroughly apprized of what she was undertaking. So Henrietta and I went foremost, and her dear mother came trembling afterwards with Emmeline, who had a tear in one eye, and her finger in the other; while the enemy clapped his hands, and filled the air with shouts and clamours; and, what was worse than all, with such peals of contemptuous laughter as made the very echoes ring again. We, however, went on, and to speak after the manner of that good man, John Bunyan, 'After a while the shouts of the multitude did cease, and anon we heard nothing but the rushing of the waters of mercy, and the murmuring of the doves in the cliffs of the rocks. So we came on, and though we experienced one or two brushes from the enemy without, and the enemy within; yet after a while we came to the end of the strait, and are now arrived, as you see, at a wonderful fair and pleasant height, where we may look back on the troubles which we have passed, and look forward to the glories which are to come.' And if we are not filled with love and gratitude, I maintain that there is not one among us who deserves the name of a Christian."

No one made any reply to this speech of Mr. Vaughen's, for no one could: even uncle John was in tears. At this tender moment, however, a loud halloo indicated the approach of more company. Every one tried to look unconcerned, and in came the good Squire, roaring out a scrap of the old song, "Come, see rural felicity," and telling his brother that he should have been present two hours before, had he not fallen in with a badger-hunt at the ford of a river near which his way lay, which he found it impossible to leave till he had seen the issue.

"And so, brother Henry," added he, after having paid his compliments to the bride, "so you are in your parlour again: I can't say but I am sorry for it, for I have spent so many happy hours and half-hours in that kitchen, that I don't know whether I ever liked any room so well in all my life."

Immediately after breakfast, Emmeline and her husband took their leave; but the rest of the party remained to dinner.

And now, my gentle reader, having brought my history, by slow degrees, to this point, I must conclude it more succinctly.

The advice and example of Mr. Vaughen were long remembered by his children: and Henrietta in her farm, and Emmeline, first in her simple lodging at her husband's curacy in Kent, and afterwards, when residing in the neat parsonage belonging to a small living into the possession of which her husband came soon after their marriage, are still giving to the religious world the most beautiful specimens of elegant manners, united with simple Christian habits: and we hope that their examples, and that of their parents, will not be lost to the professing world, but that the time may speedily come, when such instances of self-denial will abound through all the kingdoms of the earth.

The lady of the manor having here closed her manuscript, looked at her watch, and finding how far the evening was advanced, she requested her young people to join her in prayer.

A PRAYER FOR SIMPLE HABITS AND MODERATE DESIRES.

"O thou most might Lord, and only wise God, whose understanding is infinite, and from whom no thought is concealed; deliver our hearts, we beseech thee, by the influence of thy Holy Spirit, from all covetous, ambitious, and worldly principles. And grant that an abiding sense of thy continual presence, and not the dread of the world, may influence our actions, and regulate our habits.

Give us, in the first instance, such a view of thy will and purposes respecting the management of our affairs, as may be necessary for the direction of the conduct of our worldly plans. Give us grace to commit our concerns unreservedly and entirely into thy hands, and grant that we may never attempt to counteract thy purposes either by thought, word, or deed. Ever preserve us from endeavouring to raise ourselves in life by any dishonourable, mean, or crooked dealings, by any improper interference with our neighbour's concerns, or by any departure, however minute, from truth. Impress us with this important fact, that thy paternal care is extended to all men; that thou desirest the good of all thy creatures, and that the well-being of our worst enemies need not by any means interfere with our own real benefit. Convince us of the grievous sinfulness of ambition and covetousness, whereby this earth has been filled with violence from the beginning of time to the present day.

"And, instead of leaving us to the workings of these dreadful passions, do thou inspire us with that spirit of contentment by which we may be led to make the best of those possessions and enjoyments, those gifts and talents, which thou hast placed in our hands, not only for the promotion of our own well-being, which ought to be but a secondary and a far inferior consideration, but for the glory of Thee our God, and our promotion of the interests of thy kingdom on earth. Teach us to say, 'Thy kingdom come,' and, 'Thy will be done,' and deliver us from all undue desires of temporal and worldly aggrandizement. Assist us in the cultivation of humble views and simple habits. Let us not earnestly wish for any of those ornaments that are not within the reach of all the humble members of the family of God: such as gentle and courteous manners, graceful, neat, and orderly habits, a correct, refined, and elevated taste, and may we habitually cherish such sentiments and employ such language, as shall at once delight the ear, improve the apprehension, and correct the principles of our auditors. Teach us how to distinguish between true refinement and the mere caprices of fashion; and give us that humility and charity which may enable us to conclude, that if in these less important matters and forms of life, other men may judge differently from ourselves, yet they may possibly judge as well.

"In one word, O blessed Lord God, set us free from the dominion of self, and grant that our minds may be habitually influenced by this solemn truth, that man lives not by bread alone.

"And now, all glory be to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, now and for evermore. Amen."