irreparable misfortune to lose the earliest, the tenderest, and the most inestimable friend that a young woman can have. Very precious was the memory of her dear mother to Agnes Molesworth! Although six years had passed between her death and the period at which our little story begins, the affectionate daughter had never ceased to lament her loss. It was to his charming daughters that Mr. Molesworth's pleasant house owed its chief attraction. Conscious of his own deficient education, no pains or money had been spared in accomplishing them to the utmost height of fashion. The least accomplished, was, however, as not unfrequently happens, by far the most striking; and many a high-born and wealthy client, disposed to put himself thoroughly at ease at his solicitor's table, and not at all shaken in his purpose by the sight of the pretty Jessy, a short, light, airy girl, with a bright sparkling countenance, all lilies and roses, and dimples and smiles, sitting, exquisitely dressed, in an elegant morning room, with her guitar in her lap, her harp at her side, and her drawing table before her, has suddenly felt himself awed into his best and most respectful breeding, when introduced to her retiring but self-possessed elder sister, dressed with an almost matronly simplicity, and evidently full, not of her own airs and graces, but of the modest and serious courtesy which beseemed her station as the youthful mistress of the house. Dignity, a mild and gentle but still a most striking dignity, was the prime characteristic of Agnes Molesworth, in look and in mind. Her beauty was the beauty of sculpture, as contradistinguished from that of painting; depending mainly on form and expression, and little on colour. There could hardly be a stronger contrast than existed between the marble purity of her finely-grained complexion, the softness of her deep gray eye, the calm composure of her exquisitely moulded features, and the rosy cheeks, the brilliant glances, and the playful animation, of Jessy. In a word, Jessy was a pretty girl, and Agnes | was a beautiful woman. Of these several facts both sisters were, of course, perfectly aware; Jessy, because every body told her so, and she must have been deaf to have escaped the knowledge; Agnes, from some process equally certain, but less direct; for few would have ventured to take the liberty of addressing a personal compliment to one evidently too proud to find pleasure in VOL. II. any thing so nearly resembling flattery as praise. Few, excepting her looking-glass and her father, had ever told Agnes that she was handsome, and yet she was as conscious of her surpassing beauty as Jessy of her sparkling prettiness; and, perhaps, as a mere question of appearance and becomingness, there might have been as much coquetry in the severe simplicity of attire and of manner which distinguished one sister, as in the elaborate adornment and innocent showing-off of the other. There was, however, between them exactly such a real and internal difference of taste and of character as the outward show served to indicate. Both were true, gentle, good, and kind; but the elder was as much loftier in mind as in stature, was full of high pursuit and noble purpose; had abandoned drawing, from feeling herself dissatisfied with her own performances, as compared with the works of real artists; reserved her musical talent entirely for her domestic circle, because she put too much of soul into that delicious art to make it a mere amusement; and was only saved from becoming a poetess, by her almost exclusive devotion to the very great in poetry-to Wordsworth, to Milton, and to Shakspere. These tastes she very wisely kept to herself; but they gave a higher and firmer tone to her character and manners; and more than one peer, when seated at Mr. Molesworth's hospitable table, has thought within himself how well his beautiful daughter would become a coronet. Marriage, however, seemed little in her thoughts. Once or twice, indeed, her kind father had pressed on her the brilliant establishments that had offered, but her sweet questions, "Are you tired of me? Do you wish me away?" had always gone straight to his heart, and had put aside for the moment the ambition of his nature even for this his favourite child. Of Jessy, with all her youthful attraction, he had always been less proud, perhaps less fond. Besides, her destiny he had long in his own mind considered as decided. Charles Woodford, a poor relation, brought up by his kindness, and recently returned into his family from a great office in London, was the person on whom he had long ago fixed for the husband of his youngest daughter, and for the immediate partner and eventual successor to his great and flourishing business—a choice that seemed fully justified by the excellent conduct and remarkable talents of his orphan nephew, and by the No. 38. 178 apparently good understanding and mutual for four hours, between the same four people, "I saw Sir Edmund trying to slide through archly: "his presence would, perhaps, have the crowd to reach you," said Agnes, a little mitigated the evil. But the barricade was too complete; he was forced to retreat, without accomplishing his object." This arrangement was the more agreeable to him, as, providing munificently for Jessy, it allowed him the privilege of making, as in lawyer phrase he used to boast, "an elder son " of Agnes, who would, by this marriage of her younger sister, become one of the richest heiresses of the county. He had even, in his own mind, elected her future spouse, in the person of a young baronet who had "Yes, I assure you, he thought it very lately been much at the house, and in favouring out. tiresome; he told me so when we were comof whose expected addresses (for the proposal Jessy; had not yet been made — the gentleman had And then the music!" "the noise that they call music! pursued gone no farther than attentions) he had deSir Edmund says that he likes no music termined to exert the paternal authority except my guitar, or a flute on the water; which had so long lain dormant. and I like none except your playing on the evening, or Charles Woodford's reading Milorgan, and singing Handel on a Sunday ton and bits of Hamlet." But in the affairs of love, as in all others, man is born to disappointment. propose, et Dieu dispose," is never truer than "L'homme in the great matter of matrimony. So found poor Mr. Molesworth, who-Jessy having arrived at the age of eighteen, and Charles at that of two-and-twenty-offered his pretty daughter and the lucrative partnership to his penniless relation, and was petrified with astonishment and indignation to find the connexion very respectfully but very firmly declined. The young man was much distressed and agitated; "he had the highest respect for Miss Jessy; but he could not marry her-he loved another!" he poured forth a confidence as unexpected And then as it was undesired by his incensed patron, who left him in undiminished wrath and increased perplexity. This interview had taken place immediately after breakfast; and when the conference was ended, the provoked father sought his daughters, who, happily unconscious of all that had occurred, were amusing themselves in their splendid conservatory a scene always as becoming as it is agreeable to youth and beauty. Jessy was flitting about like a butterfly amongst the fragrant orange trees and the bright geraniums; Agnes, standing under a superb fuschia that hung over a large marble basin, her form and attitude, her white dress, and the classical arrangement of her dark hair, giving her the look of some nymph or naïad, a rare relic of Grecian art. Jessy was prattling gaily, as she wandered about, of a concert which they had attended the evening before at the county-town: laughing. "And yet," continued she, "it is "Do you call that music?" asked Agnes, most truly so, with his rich Pasta-like voice, and his fine sense of sound; and to you, who it is, doubtless, a pleasure much resembling do not greatly love poetry for its own sake, in kind that of hearing the most thrilling of melodies on the noblest of instruments. I myself have felt such a gratification in hearof Sophocles in the original Greek. ing that voice recite the verses of Homer or Woodford's reading is music." Charles you likely to hear again," interrupted Mr. "It is a music which you are neither of Molesworth, advancing suddenly towards them; "for he has been ungrateful, and I have discarded him." Agnes stood as if petrified: "Ungrateful! oh, father!" "You can't have discarded him, to be sure, papa, " said Jessy, always good-natured; poor Charles! what can he have done?" 66 angry parent; "refused to be my partner "Why, really, papa," replied Jessy, "I'm much more obliged to him for refusing my hand than to you for offering it. I like Charles very well for a cousin, but I should not like such a husband at all; so that, if this refusal be the worst that has happened, gipsy ran, declaring, that "she must put there's no great harm done." And off the "I hate concerts!" said the pretty little on her habit, for she had promised to ride flirt. "To sit bolt upright on a hard bench | pected them every minute." with Sir Edmund and his sister, and ex The father and his favourite daughter remained in the conservatory. "That heart is untouched, however," said Mr. Molesworth, looking after her with a smile. "Untouched by Charles Woodford, undoubtedly," replied Agnes; "but has he really refused my sister?" "Absolutely." "Does he love another?" "He says so; and I believe him.” "Did he tell you the name of the lady?" "Yes." "Do you know her?" "Yes." "Is she worthy of him?" "Has he any hope of gaining her affections? Oh! he must! he must! What woman could refuse him?" "He is determined not to try. The lady whom he loves is above him in every way; and much as he has counteracted my wishes, it is an honourable part of Charles Woodford's conduct, that he intends to leave his affection unsuspected by its object." Here ensued a short pause in the dialogue, during which Agnes appeared trying to occupy herself with collecting the blossoms of a Cape jessamine, and watering a favourite geranium; but it would not do the subject was at her heart, and she could not force her mind to indifferent occupations. She returned to her father, who had been anxiously watching her motions, and the varying expression of her countenance, and resumed the conversation. "Father! perhaps it is hardly maidenly to avow so much, but although you have never in set words told me your intentions, I have yet seen and known, I can hardly tell how, all that your too kind partiality towards me has designed for your children. You have mistaken me, dearest father, doubly mistaken me; first, in thinking me fit to fill a splendid place in society; next, in imagining that I desired such splendour. You meant to give Jessy and the lucrative partnership to Charles Woodford, and designed me and your large possessions for our wealthy and titled neighbour. And with some little change of persons these arrangements may still, for the most part, hold good. Sir Edmund may still be your son-in-law and your heir, for he loves Jessy, and Jessy loves him. Charles Woodford may still be your partner and your adopted son, for nothing has chanced that need diminish your affection or his merit. Marry him to the woman he loves. She must be ambitious indeed, if she be not content with such a destiny. And let me live on with you, dear father, single and unwedded, with no thought but to contribute to your comfort, to cheer and brighten your declining years. Do not let your too great fondness for me stand in the way of their happiness! Make me not so odious to them and to myself, dear father! Let me live always with you and for you always your own poor Agnes!" And, blushing at the earnestness with which she had spoken, she bent her head over the marble basin, whose waters reflected the fair image, as if she had really been the Grecian statue, to which, while he listened, her fond father's fancy had compared her: "Let me live single with you, and marry Charles to the woman whom he loves." "Have you heard the name of the lady in question? Have you formed any guess who she may be?" "Not the slightest. I imagined from what you said, that she was a stranger to me. Have I ever seen her?" "You may see her at least you may see her reflection in the water-at this very moment; for he has had the infinite presumption, the admirable good taste, to fall in love with his cousin Agnes!". "Father!" "And now, mine own sweetest! do you still wish to live single with me?" "Oh, father, father!" "Or do you desire that I should marry Charles to the woman of his heart?" "Father, dear father!" "Choose, my Agnes! It shall be as you command. Speak freely. Do not cling so around me, but speak!" "Oh, my dear father! Cannot we all live together? I cannot leave you. But poor Charles-surely, father, we may all live together! And so it was settled; and a very few months proved that love had contrived better for Mr. Molesworth than he had done for himself. Jessy, with her prettiness, and her title, and her fopperies, was the very thing to be vain of-the very thing to visit for a day; but Agnes and the cousin, whose noble character and splendid talents so well deserved her, made the pride and happiness of his home. MARION WILSON; A TALE OF THE PERSECUTING TIMES. BY THE LATE ROBERT NICOLL.* -They lived unknown ON an evening in the month of December, 1684, a rustic maiden left a country village not many miles distant from the small town of Wigton, and bent her footsteps towards that ancient burgh. The earth was covered deep with snow, over the frozen surface of which the keen north wind came laden with double coldness. Not a single cloud was in the sky, and the twinkling stars and the cold pale moon seemed set in the majestic deepness of its pure blue. Though the night was cold, the maiden felt it not. Her heart was full of far different thoughts, for she was on her way to take a last look of one who had been her protector in days of danger and distress - her betrothed husband-on whom the angel of death had laid his hand. While she wended on her lonely way, she would sometimes stop and listen with breathless attention; for the fear of lawless and godless men-of a soldiery ready for deeds of blood and wickedness, was in her young and innocent heart; and the tears chased each other down her fair cheeks, when she remembered that the arm of him who had sworn, before their common God and Father, to protect her and hers, was nerveless and powerless now. The maiden cautiously approached a small farm house in the outskirts of the town of Wigton, from the window of which light was streaming. Having tapped at the door in a peculiar manner, it was instantly opened by an old gray-headed motherly woman, who bore in her hand a flaming torch of some resinous wood. "Come in, Marion Wilson," was her salutation to the maiden, "an' look for the last time on my son, an' sit for a time by the side of the waefu' mither o' your betrothed husband." "Is he awake?" queried the maiden addressed as Marion Wilson. "No," was the mother's answer, "he sleeps ;" and, after a pause, she added, "Oh! Marion Wilson, it is a sorrowfu' sight to you to see the beloved o' your heart pining awa in his prime. Ye will mourn him sair, sair; but, Marion Wilson, your grief canna be like mine. My darlin' son, on whom the very sun shined mair sweetly than on ithers, as the only son of a widow-the last earthly stay o' an aged parent is fadin' into the grave before my een, and wha's grief can be like mine? But I maunna greet, I maunna mourn as ane that has nae hope." The door was closed and bolted, and the two lonely women entered into one of the apartments of the house of mourning. The roof was low, and the ceiling was formed of axe-hewn wood. A bright fire was burning on the low hearth, by the light of which the wasted body of a young man was seen lying in sleep upon the settle. Tears started into the eyes of the poor young girl when she looked on the dying man, but she restrained herself through fear of disturbing his sleep, and seated herself in silence by his side. "Have the men of Belial who oppress us, again visited your father's house, Marion,” at length said the old woman, breaking silence. "No," was the answer, "we have now nothing left to plunder or destroy." 66 "Naetheless," continued the first speaker, ane on whom I can rely has tauld me, that baith your brither an' yourself are marked out for destruction. But I trust that when that day comes you winna dishonour the choice o' him wha lies there- dishonour yourself by refusin' to bear testimony to the truth, even unto the death." Marion Wilson's woman's heart shuddered and her cheek grew pale when she heard the dreadful intelligence, for she lived in the days of indiscriminate murder, in the accursed "slaying time;" but the thought that she was suffering for the truth came to her aid, and she said meekly, "God's will be * Author of Poems and Lyrics, &c. &c. done; I am ready to suffer the worst that wicked men can do unto me." A pause ensued, which was broken by the feeble voice of the dying man saying, Marion, I see you are come. Take my hand into yours for the last time in this life, for I feel that my moments of existence are numbered. I die in peace, but oh, what will become o' you, Marion, and my mother in these wild times? You will be oppressed and perhaps murdered, and not one to help or comfort you." Invidious grave, why dost thou rend asunder Whom love hath knit, and sympathy made one? Long did the childless mother and the bereaved girl weep by the bedside of him who once would have been the first and kindest comforter to their grief, but whose ear was now dull, dull and cold. But long before the morning's dawn, Marion Wilson left the mother alone with the dead body of her son, and bent her steps homewards; for she dared not allow the morning to dawn on her path, through fear of the cruel oppressors of the land, who were ready to commit every deed of darkness that the wicked could devise and the devilish execute. Next morning, as Marion Wilson was standing in the door of her father's cottage, looking with tearful eyes in the direction of Wigton, she heard, with a start of fear, the sound of a trumpet, and presently she saw a troop of horse approaching the village. The alarm was speedily given, and immediately all who thought themselves in danger, withdrew themselves from the village into the neighbouring woods and glens. Among these were Marion Wilson and her brother, a boy of about seventeen years of age, who had been detected at a conventicle about a week before. Amid the cold snow did the fugitives stand for hours, until the military had wrought their will upon the village and departed. They were then preparing to return to their desolate homes, when an old man, the patriarch of the village, was seen approaching them. He brought tidings that all might return to their homes, with the exception of Marion Wilson and her brother, whose death the soldiers had sworn, and whose father they had warned to expect condign punishment if he dared to shelter, protect, clothe, or speak to his own children. All eyes were turned on the brother and sister at this announcement; but there was no fear in the firm step of Marion, and there was courage and hardihood in the bright dark eye and unblenched cheek of her brother. "Farewell, friends," she said, and while their neighbours returned mourning to their ruined homes, they took their way to the mountain fastnesses for shelter. December passed away, and with it the old year; January came and brought the new. February went with its keen blasts, and April with its sleety showers, and still the brother and sister were wandering through the hills of Galloway, Nithsdale, and Ayr. They had felt the sea blasts, and borne the winter's storms among the hills of Kirkinner and on the Knock of Luce. Many times they had escaped from their enemies as if by a miracle, and many times they had met with friends when in the last extremity with cold and hunger. Happy were they if they got a sheltered glen as a resting-place, and thrice happy if they got a drop of goats' milk from the solitary mountain shepherd. They never dared to read their Bibles save on the topmost rocks of the mountain far above human view, where they sang the songs of God, till the precipices gave back the sound, as if singing an accompaniment to their heartfelt hymn. But all these adversities had not gone and left no trace behind. Marion's cheek had grown pale and her eye dim, and her brother's strength had become weakness under the accumulated effects of mental anxiety and bodily toil. At length the month of May came with the freshness of spring time to cheer their drooping spirits; and, as the storm of persecution had lulled for a moment, they enjoyed rest for a time among the green and lofty hills that separate the counties of Ayr and Wigton. In About the middle of May, impelled by a desire of again looking on their home, though at a distance, they left their hidingplace among these hills, and took their way into Wigtonshire. At sight of Wigton, a strong desire of visiting the mother of her dead lover took hold of Marion's mind. vain her brother represented the rashness and danger of such a step; she was determined to go. Charging her brother to stay where he was until her return, she one still evening departed on her journey. There was a thin summer mist on the hills, and |