tion, laid our poor Cousin Harry on the bed of sickness, from which he once again arose-so enfeebled that all his thoughts were centred on getting back again to the solitude he hourly more and more regretted having quitted. As soon as his medical adviser would permit, he was on his return home. The parting was truly affecting, but the relief we experienced was beyond description; though it was impossible not to love the man and pity his infirmity; and it is almost proverbial in our family, when any one proposes something rather out of the common way, to oberve, "Remember Cousin Harry."

About a twelvemonth afterwards, the good soul departed this life in peace with all mankind, but broken hearted at their obstinate incredulity. His last words are reported by the faithful old Martha, to have been -"that some one would yet live to see the art of producing water, applied to a thousand useful purposes, hitherto unknown."

GUARDIAN ANGELS.

No inward pang, no yearning love,
Is lost to human hearts,
No anguish that the spirit feels,
When bright-winged hope depas is ;
Though in the mystery of life
Discordant powers prevail;
That life itself be weariness,
And sympathy may fail:
Yet all becomes a discipline,
To lure us to the sky,

And angels bear the good it brings,

With fostering care on high;

Though others, weary at the watch,
May sink to toil-spent sleep,
And we are left in solitude
And agony to weep;

Yet they, with ministering zeal,

The cup of healing bring,
And bear our love and gratitude
Away, on heavenward wing;
And thus the inner life is wrought, 7
The blending earth and heaven,
The love more earnest in its glow,
When much has been forgiven:

MIDSUMMER.

'Tis the summer prime, when the noissless air In perfumed chalice lies,

And the bee goes by with a lazy hum
Beneath the sleeping skies.

When the brook is low and the ripples bright,

As down the stream they go,

The pebbles are dry on the upper side,
And dark and wet below.

The tree that stood when the soil's athirst,
And the mulleins first appear,

Hath a dry and rusty coloured bark,
And its leaves are caried and sere;
But the dogwood and the hazel bush
Have clustered round the brook-
Their roots have stricken deep beneath,
And they have a verdant look.

To the juicy leaf the grasshopper clings,
And he gnaws it like a file,

The naked stalks are withering by,
Where he has been erewhile.
The cricket hops on the glistening rock,
Or pipes in the faded grass,

The beetle's wings are foldod mute.
When the steps of the idle pass.

MARY HEPBURN; OR, THE VICTIM OF SLANDER.

(Continued from p. 372, Vol. II.)

CHAFTER XVI.

A FATHER'S pardon, and revival of his love to a penitent daughter, are glad tidings. It was Mary Hepburn's delight to be the welcome messenger of good; and in her benevolent heart she bore the tidings to Fanny with the same feeling, perhaps, as that which is felt by the mother-bird when carrying the seeds of the desert to feed her young. She estimated the treasure in her bosom of far greater value than the richest jewels of the proudest princess. Thus entrusted with such an inestimable boon to an unfortunate fellow-creature; proud in having brought back the stern old man to nature, and to reason; and knowing that her father would be happy to learn that she had so gloriously anticipated his intentions, Mary's foot was light and fleet on the lea as the sunbeam that follows the cloud shadow over the green waving hay-field. She did not take time to walk, but ran to her father's cottage to communicate her triumph.

Mary rushed into Fanny Fairbearn's arms, exclaiming, "I have softened the obdurate heart! Your father, Fanny, waits to receive you with the open arms of paternal love; he is all impatient to see-to take you again to his bosom, and for ever!"

They were both happy; but their happiness was different, and from different causes: Mary was happy in being the means of making an unfortunate female so; Fanny was happy that she had such worthy and disinterested friends, by whose means she was restored to the inestimable blessing of a father's love.

With a calm smile of gratitude peering through tears of joy, Fanny asked, whether it would be proper to carry her child along with her? "By all means," replied William Hepburn; "your father will yet love the boy as he loved yourself when a child. Let us go, Fanny, immediately, I will myself accompany you to the home of your infancy."

In the meanwhile, as it was near the time to attend in the kirk to receive their tokens, Mary and Jessy Hepburn dressed themselves as they were to be during the day. Their habiliment was exactly similar; both wore white gowns, with tartan scarfs and straw hats. In their stature, lineaments, and general deportment, there was also a striking likeness—a stranger at first sight would have thought them twins. Even those who were daily familiar with the sisters frequently mistook the one for the other, until they were undeceived by the distinguishing feature. This distinction was the colour of their eyes-Mary's were the soft jet violet beneath the tender-leaved, weeping birch; and their mild languishing light beamed religious love and peace. To see their ethereal smile, one would have said, that Mary was fitter to associate with the

seraph in heaven, than to be a dweller upon earth-immortality was in her aspect and her look-for the bright hope of her soul was in her dark eyes. Jessy's were the lovely azure harebell on a sunny bank amid many sweet flowers; they sparkled with vivacity and moral cheerfulness; and it may be said, that she was calculated to make mortals contented and happy. Every body liked to sit by the side of the blue-eyed maiden of Goyanfield.

The two happy sisters had just finished the pleasing labour of the toilette, when Tam Burnwin called at the cottage with his hearty salu. tation-" Gude mornin' to ye a'." Tam was on his way to the kirk to get his sacrament token.

Mary briefly informed him of the amicable reconciliation between Fanny Fairbearn and her father, without, however, so much as mentioning that she herself was the successful intercessor.

If it had not been the sabbath-day, the almost enchanted smith would have danced his favourite highland fling for very joy at hearing such welcome tidings: but as it was he sang a few staves of the old psalmtune of Stroudwater, to the great joy of the laughing maidens. Mary appeared to be more cheerful than usual. She liked to see the honestsmith happy; and accordingly resolved, by flattering a little his harmless vanity, to make him happier still.

For this purpose she went into the garden, and pulled three beautiful young roses from off the white Provence-bush, yet fresh with the small lucid night dew upon them. She planted one of the roses on her own bosom, gave another to Jessy, and drew the stalk of the last through two of the upper button holes of the smith's Aberdeen sey-coat.

As this was being done, the sturdy son of Vulcan stood like a statue, with his head perfectly erect, and his eyes fixed on vacancy, while the laughable expression of his visage exhibited something between the farcical and serious, the ludicrous and sublime. He was as one bewitched.

"Aweel, Mary Hepburn," said the smith, at length, "I maun just be very carefu'o' this same bonny sweet rose, since sic a fair hand has sae kindly placed it whare it is."

"Very good, Thomas!" said both the laughing sisters, at once.

"Now, Smith,” said Mary, "that rose is just intended to show that your love for Fanny Fairbearn is pure, leal, and strong, as it ever was; and when the holidays are over, you must go to see her in her father's house, since everything there is happily put to right again. But well as things stand, they cannot be complete wanting the visits and courtship of Thomas Burnwin."

"When the holidays are owre, Mary Hepburn! When the holidays are owre!" ejaculated the impatient sinith, "that's a lang time, I'm thinkin': 'What wad ye think o'a body, speerin' for the lassie this very night, Mary! Ee?"

"Indeed, smith, there would be very little harm in that," Mary replied; " and believe me, you will be made extremely welcome again to Duntinha', only Arthur Fairbearn is somewhat fastidious as to keeping holy the sacramental time; so, as I before advised, it might be better to defer the visit until the holidays are over."

"I'll do nae sic thing, Mary Hepburn; that wad shew a very cauldhearted lover, indeed. That wadna be like Tam Burnwin, ava. Till the holidays be owre! By that time, Fanny, poor thing! wad be thinkin' that I had tint my troth and reason baith thegither. Na! na! there's something gade here yet; an', gin I be a leevin' man, I'se hae a grip o' her saft hand, an' may be a kiss o' her sweet mou' to boot, this very night."

"Well, you are a faithful lover, and a modest-thinking bachelor, Thomas," said Mary, smiling; "there is nae ill with you, but on the contrary, always respectful decency."

It was now near eight o'clock, and the two maidens, accompanied by the smith, walked away on a beaten footpath to the kirk, which was nearly two miles distant from Gowanfield Cottage. The smith marched with great caution and circumspection, lest by a wrong step he should disturb the rose on his manly breast, or snap it away from its fragile stalk. He was extremely proud of the rose; and from time to time, looked to see whether it was still sticking in the button-hole, where it was planted by the hand, whose touch gave it a double sweetness.

This vein of harmless pride in the smith, was a subject of much pleasantry and merriment to the deft maidens; and they cherished it with all the ingenuity of their wit and good humour; still they were highly pleased to find in his behaviour a sort of grateful susceptibility, which is not always the virtue of more polished minds.

As they entered the church-yard, there stood the Macburrs and Miss Bruntsteen together in the pathway, apparently for the charitable purpose of vomiting their spleen against the envied maidens. Accordingly, while Mary and her sister passed them, one of the very amiable, very lovely graces of Thrisleton, said- "I tald ye, Miss Grizzel, what wad be the case. Ye see wi' your ain een that the creature hauds her head just as heigh as ever she did; an' she looks sae mim an' douse as if butter wad na melt in her mou'; an' gin ye like to believe me-laughin' Jess is nae better than the wanton tawpie her sister."

"I'se warrant that Mary Hepburn an impudent, bare-faced huzzie," replied the ricketty Miss Grizzel Bruntsteen, starching up her twisted and deformed figure, and affecting an air of superior sanctity."

"What was that whilk the ill-bred gigglets said as we passed?" asked the astonished and highly irritated smith.

"For my own part," answered Mary, while a mild smile of contempt lit her whole aspect, "I care not what they say; I am only sorry to see