Robert," said Jennie, looping her arm in his. "Let us walk through the transept, and look at nothing. I've been saying beautiful! beautiful! till my tongue is weary of the word."

"I cannot be surprised at that," said he, moving, as opportunity offered, into the less crowded portion of the place. One can't go a-head in a London crowd. "You have scarce said another word," he resumed, "since we entered an hour or two ago!"

“O, look what a sad, pale face- there, leaning on yonder gentleman with the white hair!"

"It is, indeed, a sad face, and looks more fit for heaven than earth," said Robert. "I never saw but one other so sad, and that is lost now." "How could they bring her here?" said Jennie. "A crush might kill her, I am sure! Did you observe her, when yonder gentleman bowed, how her colour changed? I am as little given to romancing or poetry as anybody, but I could almost make a tale from that sad face and changing colour. It seems to speak so plainly and sadly of a disappointed life and slow disease."

66

I shall not be able to believe your assertion, if you talk so, Miss Avon," said Robert; and then forgetting time, place, and circumstances, out welled the story of that early love, and then the later one. Kate and Edwin were at the antipodes for them. The sweet pale face was forgotten, the crowd was unheeded. They were alone, as much as though the thousands were converted into trees, and the music changed to gentle whispers of the wind: alone and together, mechanically swaying with the persons, passing and pushing between them, yet alone. It was the most natural thing in the world, yet the strangest in a moment the words he had dwelt upon and written and burned were wiped away and scattered for ever, their places being filled by the truest of all speeches and thoughts those the moment suggested and the feeling gave utterance to.

"When you were with us at Christmas you once spake of that sad face, and cheeked yourself again directly. Tell me its history now, Robert," said Jennie; "it will be a relief to all this sight-seeing, for which I have not much liking.'

day. He was our parson, a man who never
tired of doing good, and was to me the only
friend or father I knew. His daughter was my
playmate and my love. Ah! I remember how
bitterly we cried the day I came away. Her
father brought me, and bound me an apprentice
here in London, and found me a home, and had
me at his house once every year. He knew, from
the first, Alice was not for this world, and I
often heard him say she inherited her mother's
gentle loving nature and diseased frame-who
let her indulge the affection she had for me, and
write; but every time I saw her she was wanner
and paler than before, and there was that strange
light in her eye that struck you in the passer-by
just now; and every time we parted it was as if
to meet no more. At her request I was fetched
once upon a sudden, and came only to find her
dead. I only went once more to her father's, to
whom I owe everything I possess, except my
life; and but for him how valueless that would
have been! This is the history of the pale face
I can never cease to remember, and which till
now I thought made love in me impossible. It
gave me many bitter hours."

"It was indeed sad," said Jennie, looking
wistfully into his face, that showed the marks
of emotion; "but does not the poet say—

" "Tis better to have lov'd and lost
Than never to have lov'd at all' ?
and yet has love many a dark hour of despair,
and even sin, to answer for."

"Not love, Jennie. True love can only lead
to worthy ends, and prompt us to noble deeds;
and they who are too weak to master their
propensity for evil in this world would be equally
so under other strong passions. Have you never
loved? Could you, Jennie-and trust me, you
know not with what fear and diffidence it is
offered-could you accept from me a love even
such as I gave that other one-more matured
and less passionate, yet fervent as that first wild
boyhood love?"

"Mr. Ashlowe, I am bewildered- I never loved another! But-"

'Jennie, I have known dark hours not a few since Christmas. I did not write to you, nor mean to come again. I thought you were betrothed to Hurdy, and the thought was madness!"

"Mr. Ashlowe—”

"Call me Robert: I hate Mister!'"

'Well, Robert, then, it is just that I explain, both for him and myself. You remember the conversation with Kate in the gig, coming from the Grange?"

"It is a sad one, Jennie; for with it is bound the history of my earliest and, as I once believed, my only love. Its possessor was the playmate of my earliest years, and long, long before I knew what love was, she had mine. I am not a Londoner, though I always live here. My father, of whom you are surprised I never speak, lived on the coast, and belonged to a class which have happily well-nigh ceased to exist in England. He died one night in the "That night he had asked me, as you have endeavour to escape from officers who came to done now, at supper-strangely, suddenly; and take him for smuggling. It is the first thing II refused him, though it pained me; for he is a remember his dead face, as I saw it in the morn-worthy, honest, manly fellow." ing, left by the tide among the rocks."

"How very dreadful!" said Jennie, with a shudder, and clinging closer to his arm.

"There was a gentleman who'd always been kind to fetched me to live with him next

"Yes, perfectly."

"So I always-"

"Don't interrupt me, please. And that visit, when you saw us alone, was at my request, that I might soften my rejection; for I thought perhaps Kate was right, and could not endure

the reproach of giving cause for such ahope, and then using harshness or unkindness to him. However, it is all right now; and we are just as good friends as ever-only his mother, who has pride enough for as many acres as they have inches, hasn't got over it yet: but it'll come right in time."

can (even though the snow is falling while she reads this) imagine a soft spring day, such as follows an early morning rain; a dark old church, where, through diamond panes, the little rays of sunlight steal, like angels from heaven, and light upon two sweet faces, ranged before the altar, and two beaming, manly countenances by their side; a red-faced, comely rector, in his surplice; and beyond these a group of friends and villagers, who, as the happy lovers issue from the old stone-porch, throw early flowers in their path, and give them kindly greeting and "In love these are all; and there is nothing wishes for prosperity, amid the shoutings of the more I cannot supply. But for your answer-school-children released, in honour of the occait's so sudden! Be content to know I never loved another !"

"Why keep me in this painful suspense, Jennie? You neither accept nor reject, though I offer you my all-my life, and love. These, and the willing work of my hands, are all I have to bestow."

"Beg pardon, sir!"

"Nay, the fault was mine!" said Robert, making way for the speaker to pass, who, perhaps from being somewhat similarly engaged, ran against, and brought our Ganymede and Corydon back to the Crystal Palace.

And where were Kate and Avon? Where, too, was the pale-faced girl, who brought all this so happily about? And whither had the visitors flown, too?-for they were nearly all gone. They did not know; and, as I fear much, did not trouble themselves to inquire, but kept up a rambling talk, rambling home through the crowded streets, where Kate and her companion had been an hour or more, and the former of whom improved the occasion by a little homily on losing people on purpose. She did it very good-naturedly, though; and I doubt much whether, among all that vast city, four more favoured or happier people could be found.

A word more, and our story is complete-but for that word we must advance matters, and once again beg the dear reader, who has travelled thus far with us, to return to Aspen Hall, and so far make over her belief to us that she

sion, for a holiday; and the ringing of sweet bells, and all the softening influences of such a morning. When I am married, may it be as sweet! and my friends as earnest in their emulation, as those who strive which should first call Kate-Kate of the Hall-"Mrs. Avon."

It was but a little way down to the Hall from the church, where were assembled all who could come together to do the new bride honour.

Edwin walked on a few paces before them— "Jennie," said Ashlowe, while Kate and "Jennie, when shall you and I come forth as they have done now?"

"When," she replied -looking fondly up into his face-"when the bells that ring now shall have tolled for Mr. Floodstone's death, and the farm my father kept is mine, then, Robert, you may turn farmer, and I shall he bride."

As the doctor said, with a wise shake of the head, poor Floodstone couldn't last much longer: there is prospect that ere the green corn was gold those two would again stand by the altar side.

Thus is it ever in life-the sands of one run out, but not before another waits to fill the place.

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

HOME LIFE OF ENGLISH LADIES IN THE XVII. CENTURY. By the Author of "Magdalen Stafford." (London: Bell and Daldy.) It has been said by a great artist in the power of depicting human life and character, that "the happiest women, like the happiest nations, have no history." How much truth is involved in this epigrammatic sentence only the bitterly experienced can tell. Of the majority of the fair and good examples of their sex, whom our author has chosen to illustrate a class and period in the history of English womanhood, there is little story to relate. The period is that of the Commonwealth, or immediately snbsequent to the Restoration, when something purer, higher, and more real than fanaticism or puritanism were born of them, and passed into the religion

of those grave wives and mothers, whose piety entered into and made the law of their daily lives. There is an almost rigid purity and gravity in the saintly outlines of their characters, their straight and orderly walk through life, and the peace (not of the world) that seems to brood about them, even when the vicissitudes of fortune, the loss of friends or children, and other domestic troubles, fall upon them. Secluded in their country homes, and occupied in household duties, the education of their children, the management of their servants, and the care of the poor-for, after the worship of God, these made the circle of their daily occupationsthere was not much space left for outer interests, and certainly little time in which to be concerned by them. All these home-duties pro

ceeded in almost rhythmical succession, so that, but for the reception of friends (informal visits with seventeenth-century roads, and appliances for locomotion, were out of the question), one day must have passed with very little variation from another. These were times in which, besides plain and curious needlework, cookery, &c., &c., the knowledge and practice of medicine and even surgery were accounted necessary on the part of educated women, and in country places, this skill was made available to the sick poor, to an extent that would have been a serious hindrance to the local practice of a qualified country practitioner. One lady (the Countess of Arundel) turned her house into an hospital in order to receive the invalids who came to her from a distance, some of whom remained three months under her roof. Some idea may be gathered of the special character of the diseases the skill of this lady most affected, from the fact that, in some years, as many as "three score dozen sheep-skins were spent merely in making the plaisters she gave.” Indeed, all the Countess's charities and good deeds appear to have been bounteous in the extreme. Daily alms were given at her gate, and three times a week food was prepared for upwards of a hundred poor people in the parish. She pensioned widows, released prisoners, portioned poor maidens, and supported schools. After her husband's death she never wore any but a dress of cheap black stuff. She, however, belonged to the earlier half of the century. Foremost in this series of feminine worthies we find Mrs. Evelyn, with her Parisian accomplishments and natural wit, amiability, and refinement, making Sayes Court the centre of happiness to her husband and his friends; "indeed," he tells us, "there was nothing proof against the abundance of her wit and piety: she made virtue and holia cheerful thing, lovely as herself." Amongst the most charming of these memorials are the pages devoted to Mrs. Walker, the wife of the Rector of Fyfield, because they leave with us the most natural picture imaginable of a loving, clear-brained, clever little woman, full of simple piety, a thrifty manager, and neathanded housewife, whose married life, as her husband wrote forty years after their union, was like the light of the morning when the sun riseth, even as a morning without clouds. and as clear shining after rain." How amiable even are the superstitions of both, touching their marriage the auspicious posy on the weddingring, which made the good doctor take it without searching further, and which fitted the lady's finger as exactly as the motto coincided with his taste. Then the bride's trouble about the lowering morning, and the joy when, before she had got to the waterside and into the boat (they were married at Hammersmith), the sun broke forth, dispelling the clouds, and shining with vigour and splendour,

ness

They appear [says the author] to have been entirely happy in each other. Where they differed, they never disagreed; and, though he sometimes reproved her for maintaining her own opinion too

tenaciously, he had the candour to confess that she was generally in the right, and this, though her conclusions were not always based on the orderly chain of reasoning upon which his own proceeded, as in one instance he relates:

She would often come into my study to me, and when I have asked her what she would have, she would reply: Nothing, my dear, but to ask how thou doest, and see if thou wantest anything,' and then, with an endearing smile, would say: Dost thou love me?' to which, when I had replied Most dearly,' I know it abundantly,' she would answer, to my comfort; but I love to hear thee tell me so.' And once, when I was adding the reason of my love, and began first for conscience, she stopt before I could proceed, as she was very quick: Ah! my dear, I allow conscience to be an excellent principle in all we do, but like it worst in because thou must, but because thou wilt; not as a conjugal affections. I would have thee love me not duty, but delight. We are prone to reluctate against what is imposed, but take pleasure in what we choose.'

Who can read this passage without thoroughly comprehending the largely-loving nature of the woman? Yet there is no maudlin sentimentality in Elizabeth Walker; it is out of her own great love and faith that she puts these questions to that other self; she knows as well as he does that he loves her wholly, tenderly; but it is so sweet to her to hear him say it, to go about all day with the renewal, as it were, of his bygone words to her, in her heart, making the numerous duties of it light work indeed; and yet they were no ordinary duties that Madam Walker, of Fyfield Rectory, undertook. She not only had wool spun on the premises, to give away in garments to the poor, and a blanket to every needy woman on the birth of a child; but she was also skilled both as physician and surgeon, as well as in the making of distilled waters, salves, ointments, oils, and syrups; and not only were her remedies at the service of everyone who needed them, but she would rise herself in the middle of the night to assist a sick neighbour. And then to see her instructing her maids "in cookery, brewing, baking, dairy, ordering linen, in which her neatness was curious, and such like," no wonder there was no lack of good servants in those days, when mistresses superintended their labours; for though, in the quaint phrase of the times," she was neither cook nor dairy-maid, yet was she always clerk of her little kitchen." Here is a glimpse of her-a genial natural glimpse, for what good housekeeper does not plume herthe economy and comfort of home?

self a little on those virtues that add so much to

berry wine, reserved for the entertainment of her She rivalled Mrs. Primrose herself in her goosefriends of higher rank; and for the cider, which won such high encomiums from their acquaintance. She would never allow her husband the slightest credit. "His cider!" she would, between jest and earnest, reply-"'tis my cider. I have all the pairs and care, and he hath all the praise who never meddles with it!"

Indeed, Mrs. Walker appears to have rather jealously guarded her housewifely prerogative;

young girls, have much pleasure in recommend- pier. Knowing far less of holy things and goodness, ing it :

A VALEDICTION.

My hopes go with thee! Let them not be wreck'd,
Or idly ventur'd on a treach'rous sea;
But let them serve as ballast to thy bark,
Till they bring back a goodly argosie!

My heart goes with thee! Let it nerve thine own
To gallant feats, and deeds of high emprize,
Not wrought to win the fleeting fame of earth,
But to abide in angel-memories.

she acted up to the light given her.

Which do you think did the best work?-was the most pleasing in God's sight?

There is a very exciting scene at Elmastone Castle, where the cousins are on a visit to their uncle, Lord Lytterton; and where, in their play, they hide from their companions in a ruinous part of the castle, and, finding a door open, venture into the dungeons, and are locked in for a day and night. The description of the children's conduct under this terror (there are

My thoughts go with thee! Thoughts of trustful four of them-Cousin Robert, Annie, Katie, love

Of patient faith, and gentle tenderness,
That shall go with thee through the desert world,
When sterner thoughts would have no strength to
bless!

My prayers go with thee! Prayers of lonely hours
Of midnight wrestlings when e'en faith is dim;
And prayers of ecstasy that wing their flight

In the full rapture of the choral hymn-`
And God goes with thee! Go thou forth in peace;
His Word thy sword-His Providence thy guide.
Go thou to HIM, and then my hopes and prayers
Shall find fulfilment, whatsoe'er betide.

and the little Lucy) is very touching, and will interest many young hearts:

"Can we get out any way from here?" asked Lucy, plaintively, after she had looked all round, and laid a timid finger on the damp oozing from the stones, and the thick green mould. She hardly waited to be exhorted to further exercise of patience ere she clung to Katie's frock and burst into tears, sobbing out something very bitter about going to Mamma. "Mamma!" It was a magic word to all those young hearts. Not a word was spoken, but with one consent they crouched down on the broken stones, and cried long and heavily. Even the bluff schoolboy covered his face with his hands, while his frame shook with great sobs. Never was he at home for the holidays, but his mother looked into his room at night, to kiss him and say "Good night!" How often that blessing had been received thoughtlessly, and without being valued! Oh! if he could hear it now-feel her warm kiss on his forehead-it would be joy untold! He put his arms right round his little sister, and she nestled to him, and hid her wet face on his breast. She, too, was and softly, as if it were a holy spell. Oh! the thinking of Mamma-breathing the name quite low weight that fell on the boy's heart, as he felt that the blame of all this lay with him-that his urging them to go down those steps to the dungeons had brought them to this evil plight! He ground his teeth in agony, and thought of his mother's tears and anxiety-of the dreary watching and waiting for their return.

ANNIE MAITLAND; OR, THE Lesson of LIFE.. By D. Richmond. (London: Routledge, Warne, and Co., Farringdon-street.)-We have read with much pleasure this pretty story, evidently written by one who knows children well, and who has studied their dispositions and trials. Annie Maitland is an orphan, only child, who has been brought up with great care and tenderness to the time of her mother's death; and is then, through the infirm health of her grandmamma, consigned to the care of an aunt-Lady Katherine Wilmott-who has a large family of children; where Annie finds the selfishness, and vanity, and self-consciousness which have unconsciously been nurtured in her by her solitary education, and companionless life, very much in the way of her happiness. Even her bright little cousin Katie, with her All the misery of their situation dawned upon him now. truthful, loving, cheerful nature, is sometimes He felt that they were wandering withoffended with her; and with all her cleverness, out a hope of escape, or even the power of retracing and neatness, and industry, she is frequently 80 self-willed as to resist Katie's entreaties, and their steps-they were lost! Oh! why had he been in disgrace with her governess; for self-leave the station by the door? Their friends might consciousness, as it has been truly said, is but have sought for them there; but here-why they another form of vanity, which craves for adula- might call and seek in vain, and never find them! tion and admiration at every step, or else feels He moaned aloud in anguish as the evil became wronged and wounded at the omission which it more apparent to his mind. construes into neglect. Instead of thinking and feeling for others, Annie was always think-walls, ing of herself. Herein was the contrast of the two characters-the difference between Katie and Annie:

Lividly the lightning flared and flashed over the in strangely fantastic shapes. Little Lucy closed her eyes, and shook like an aspen; and the thunder crashed and roared louder and louder.

Annie had hardly uttered a sound for the last few hours. She was fairly stunned by terror; her eyes Annie thought a great deal about her duty, and were widely dilated, and a white ring had gathered was sincere in the wish to do well. She read good round her mouth. Often, in her idle moments of books, and thought good thoughts, and said good security, she had fancied herself in scenes of danger, words; but she stopped short before she came to do and planned to herself how, in such cases, she would good works. She was not practical. She planned act with unexampled heroism. Now an opporgreat schemes of all she would do by-and-bye. tunity presented itself; but, instead of acting, she Kate sighed because her opportunities were so small, was overcome by the awefulness of her position, but went on with her little efforts striving to correct cast down, and overwhelmed; needing aid and comher bad tempers and make those around her hap-fort, rather than assisting and saving others. She