complexion was dazzlingly fair, and the glow of health, and youth, and innocence mantled in her cheeks.

Hannah Barlow's was indeed an innocent, trusting heart. She knew nought of the cares, the vices, the sickening disappointments of this life. She was like a delicate flower which blooms, and opens its bosom to the lovely summer morning, and sheds abroad its fragrance, and basks in the warm sunshine, and is fanned by the gentle breezes. But alas! alas! how false is the promise of life's brilliant morning. The dreams that lead us on for a season through flowery paths, suddenly quit us, and awaking, we shudder at the cold, dreary reality which meets our disenchanted gaze at every turn. The things which had promised fairest, then taunt us the most bitterly; we vainly stretch out our arms towards our fellow-pilgrims for help, and cry to them for sympathy; help they cannot give us, and sympathy they all need too much themselves. But the paramount feeling in Hannah's breast was her love for her parents,

more especially her father. It was a deep holy feeling with her. She was the staff of their age, their cheering light, their choicest blessing; and the constant prayer of her heart was, that she might never cause them a pang or even a moment's uneasiness? Oh! if she could have read futurity.

And was this lovely being unappreciated, did no looks of love follow her gentle movements; did no heart beat more tumultuously at the sound of her melodious voice?

Yes-there was one who cherished Hannah Barlow as his own life; who thought but of her in all this fair world, who prayed for her, who watched over her, and who loved her as few men can love, with all the constancy, the devotion, the delicacy, so seldom existing save in woman's breast.

There was a quiet hamlet a few miles distant from the farm belonging to Hannah's father, and in the centre of it stood a white cottage embosomed in trees. No splendour marked its appearance, and travellers seldom

paused to gaze on its humble beauties; yet the birds loved to linger among the branches of his grove, and poured forth their sweetest songs from its dark shades. The flowers in the garden were the gayest and choicest in the neighbourhood. The summer sun rose in brightness and set in glory; and Autumn came with rich fruits, and winter hung his glittering treasures on every bough, and spring smiled again upon the earth, yet no change came to disturb the peacefulness of that remote spot. The inmate of this cottage was dear as a brother to all the simple inhabitants of the hamlet. His name was seldom uttered without an accompanying blessing; his gentle counsels were revered by rich and poor; his tears were shed in sympathy with every mourner; his holy, fervent prayers were the consolation and support of every penitent sinner. He was the curate of the adjacent church, and the incumbent, who possessed a richer living in a distant county, left him in undisturbed possession of the hearts and grievances, and cares of his parishioners.

Many were the erring souls he had led back into the paths of virtue and peace,-many were the breaking hearts he had rescued from utter despair; and now, when long years have elapsed, and that lowly cottage where he dwelt is rased to the ground, and that tender Pastor sleeps in the green churchyard, and those he loved and comforted sleep beside him-his memory still lives in the hearts of many who have known the blessing of his friendship.

Arthur Travers was the name of this young curate, and he had been sorely tried by adversity. He had followed all his goodly brothers and sweet sisters to the churchyard, and had seen them laid in the tomb one after another. He had watched his tender mother as she withered away with a broken heart, and had buried her by the side of her fair children, and in the same week his father, the last of his kin, had followed all these loved ones to the land of spirits.

Arthur had been left almost destitute, and had struggled manfully against fate. Fortunately

for himself he had been educated for the church, and finally, a nobleman, who had respected and loved his father, exerted himself in his behalf, and not only procured him the curacy of, but gave him the cottage in which he resided, rent-free. There was an elderly widow who occupied a small house near to Arthur's, and with her he frequently passed his evenings; she treated him with the tenderness of a mother, and he, in return, loved her with a filial fondness. It was here that he had first met Hannah Barlow on her return from school, and her beauty, and the atmosphere of light and joyousness which surrounded her, had at once captivated his fancy. Few women could have withheld their affections from such a man as Arthur Travers, had he endeavoured to obtain them; but Hannah was too young too much absorbed by her father-too uninformed in mind to appreciate such a heart as her lover's, and she charmed and bewitched him with her innocent gaiety; she listened with rapt attention to his religious sentiments; she told him every thought