will be. The other day I met kind Ida Torrington, and she asked after you, and said she supposed you must have many occupations at our uncle's. She has just been nursing one of her brothers through a dangerous illness caused by a fracture of the leg, for they could get no nurse that they liked to attend upon him, and she told me she had not been out for three weeks! Next month they are going abroad, where Ida will stay a year or so, and then she says that she shall hope to have the pleasure of a visit from you."

"And so," I ejaculated pettishly (I was by this time in my own room), "everybody expects me to be happy and busy here, do they? Miss Torrington even! Much she would like this kind of life if she were to come here; and so she's to spend a year or two abroad, is she? Perhaps two years to wait, before I have a chance of getting away from this stupid place! Dear me! dear me! how I do wish that I were Ida instead of myself, with money, and society and friends, and such lots of pleasure! One feels as pent up in this place as if one were in a hen-coop. I shall be gnawing the bars through one of these days, if I can't get them open any other way." I sat down moodily at the window, and gazed out upon the delicious summer scene around. By degrees, somewhat better feelings took possession of my heart, and I began to consider what good I was doing, what credit I was gaining to myself, by my singular and unamiable style of behaviour? It was certain that I did nobody any good by it, and only made myself a shadow on the house. It was true that my uncle was not a very genial or a very good-tempered man, that my aunt was chiefly occupied in her household affairs, and was of so easy a temper that she was satisfied for everybody to do and behave as they thought best, without concerning herself much about them; that my cousins were wrapped up in each other, and did not aspire after my sympathy or my companionship; but still, after everything had been taken into consideration, was I not a shadow in the house? Did I do any one thing from morning to night, of my own will, to add to the comfort, the pleasures, the happiness of the family? I half resolved to abandon my solitary course, to take

life thankfully, joyously—to be amiable and occupied as other people were. Why, even Ida Torrington, rich as she was, had her trials and her duties sometimes, it appeared. A slight breeze which had risen, blew gently too and fro the leaves of Helen's prayer-book, which lay on the dressing table (for my uncle's family attended church), and mechanically I put out my hand to hold down one of the leaves, while I read “Oh God, whose nature and property is ever to have mercy and forgive, receive our humble petitions; and though we be tied and bound with the chain of our sins, yet let the pitifulness of Thy great mercy loose us; for the honour of Jesus Christ, our Mediator and Advocate. Amen."

"Oh God!" I cried, suddenly moved, "I have been very wicked, very wrong! I have never thought of myself as I am, rebelling against Thee day by day, and never even asking forgiveness! Oh God! have mercy upon me!" In a paroxysm of tears, I pushed the book away from me, and flung myself on my knees before the window, my head bowed down upon the window seat, and encircled by my arms. I thought now of my mother, and how she must have been watching me all this time in heaven, and seeing how I let my evil spirit get the better of me! I thought of my father, at whose knees I had often prayed while he was with us; and of my brother, who knew so little of how bad I had been, how wrong and proud, and discontented-he in the midst of so much hard labour and yet so cheerful. Then I prayed, and wonderfully humbled and softened, I rose from that tearful prayer, which had seemed to bring me so near to all that was holy and dearest to me.

For several weeks I failed very often in my attempts at goodness, and had many hours of sore discouragement; but I had some triumphs too. My uncle had a good many old-fashioned novels, such as "Evelina," "Camilla," &c., on his book-shelves, and Lucy had a whole shelf of Parlour Library Novels, &c.; these were the only books that I cared much to read, and my hardest struggles used to be, when immersed in some very interesting part, to have the children come in with a button off their shoes. or a heap of cowslips to make

into balls, or a set of sums to be looked over, or a message from my aunt that I was to go up and help her to sort the clothes. One day particularly, I remember I was indulging in my favourite occupation, that of day-dreaming or castle-building-it might be called either and was heaving some deep sighs to think that such a fate as that of my heroine at the time being could never be my fate, and wondering how I would furnish a drawing-room in such a place as Leigh Castle, when Mary Anne came bursting into the rooin, crying, “Oh Annie, mamma wants you to go and help Nancy to wash the dinner things. Helen is out."

66

"Wash the dinner things!" I ejaculated mentally, with a strong feeling of disgust, and only just being able to get up a 'Yes, Mary Anne," in time to save my reputation, I spun out of the room, not daring to trust myself to another moment's reflection.

That autumn my cousin Lucy was taken dangerously ill. I am sorry to say that I had been having a relapse into my sulks for the previous week or two, occasioned by the reading of the lives of Howard and Mrs. Fry, which Lucy had brought from a library in “Ah," thought I, "if one had a chance of doing something like that, there would indeed be good in trying. If I could go to visit prisons or if I could found a good school for poor children, or a Reformatory Institution; or if I had money to build model jails, or model lodging-houses, or if I could get off slaves like Isaac Hopper-then I really would work on and on, and never fail! But as it is." I shrugged my shoulders, put on a hopeless look, and I am afraid kept it for some time. But my cousin Lucy's illness, I must not forget that. Her absence made one less in the house, and I had to take all the children's lessons, and do the sewing, mending, &c., which would sometimes fall to her share. Sometimes I had to help Nancy to lay the cloth; and often had I to give out pounds of rice and sugar and treacle from the storeroom, weigh butter, count eggs, and write accounts, which Lucy could not do because she was in bed, and Helen could not do because she was attending upon her. My poor cousin had a great longing for flowers,

and I volunteered to go out into the garden, and see if anything could be found there. Some tears came into my eyes when I saw how very desolate everything was. "Oh poor Lucy!" I thought, "this may perhaps be the very last service that you will ever ask of me, and I have not even the power of giving you a few flowers! Ah! if I had been thoughtful, if I had been diligent, I might soon have cleared out all this wilderness and planted flowers instead. Then I should have had some to give you." I hunted out a few poor roses, a sweetwilliam, and a sprig or two of wall-flower-these I mixed with green, and took them into her room in a little vase. "It is all I can do for you, Lucy," I said, 66 I am very sorry there are no more. She was too ill to speak much, and by and bye I went out of the room. My uncle was fond of music, and one evening asked if I could play to him a little. I did my best, but it was very poor after Lucy's playing, and my uncle did not ask me to go on. I was very sorry, and very much ashamed. I felt how I had neglected Lucy's teaching while I had it, how seldom and how carelessly I had practised, and now I might have given much pleasure if I had acted differently. "Oh dear," I sighed on going up to bed, "how true it is that little things form the great things of life." If I could only remember it, and if it only was not so very hard to believe just at the right time. The next day was Sunday. The prayers and confessions of the church came home to me as perhaps they had never done before; with a saddened but earnest heart I joined in them, and thought how, in the chapel afar off, my brother was kneeling and praying perhaps for me, and how sincerely I would strive not to let all this supplication rise in vain to our Father in heaven, and that He would aid me to amend my life. Lucy's illness lasted some weeks, and during this time there was abundance of opportunity in which prove the sincerity of my repentance. From this time I discarded novels, gave up castle building, and devoted myself to learn and labour truly in that state to which it had pleased God to call me. I taught the children with heart and spirit; I persuaded Helen to help me in creating a garden out of the tangled half acre before

to

the house; I practised faithfully, and read French instead of "Emilia Wyndham.' I exerted myself tremendously to keep a bright face, and move about with a light step. I kept the rooms tidier, and had pride in decorating them with flowers of my own planting and tending. I did not shrink from sewing and altering, nor even from washing dishes! All these things I did at first, merely from a feeling of duty, but afterwards they became a pleasure to me. It turned out well afterwards, that I made use of my opportunities whilst I had them, for my poor uncle becoming more and more involved, it was thought right for us to do something for ourselves. Lucy and I found situations as teachers, she in a private family, I in a school. Alfred has been more fortunate in his business than we ever dared to hope: I shall never all my life be as clever or as well informed in many things as he is, because I lost so many years, which he employed energetically and industriously. We live very near each other for Alfred has a family now-and have almost daily intercourse. I have charge, for the present, of the very schools which adjoin our own old chapel, and when I see my elder scholars, sitting, as I have described at the beginning of my narrative, and doubtless dreaming and building just as I used to do, so long ago, I sigh, and wonder whether there is anything I can do to impress upon them the danger they are incurring. So, finally, I have written this. And may God in heaven help and keep us all, through this world of trial and many duties, till He shall take us finally, where

"The hand of the good servant in His vineyard
Its deserved repose shall find."

THE BLUE COAT.

[(Concluded from page 60.)

J. W.

"MOTHER," said Harry, one evening, "how changed David is since he first came here to learn to draw: he used to stand alone: no one knew him, and he knew nobody every one respected him, but no one loved him. He had no love for recreation of any kind; now he is the life of every game. He is a master-spirit in