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Lattice ll'lllllll.

BY Jill-3S.

CHAPTER I.

“No, dearest mother, no!” I cannot. Whatl after all the tender-
ness, care, and love I have received from you, for now one-and—twenty
years, to leave you and my father, in your old age, to yourselves! Oh,
no! Oh, no!”

“Nay, my child,” said the pale, delicate, nervous woman, thus
addressed by a blooming girl whose face beamed with every promise
for future happiness, which health and cheerfulness, and eyes filled with

'warm afi'ections could give. “Nay, my child, don‘t talk so. You
must not talk so. It is not to be thought of.” And, as she
said these words with effort, her poor heart was dying -with—
in her, not only from sorrow at the thought of parting from her
darling, but with all sorts of dreary, undefined terrors at the
idea of the forlorn, deSsrted life
before her. Abandoned to her-
self and to servants, so fearful,
so Weak as she was, and with
the poor, invalided, and crip-
pled veteran, her husband, a
martyr to that long train of sub
ferinas which honorable wounds,
received in the service of coun-
try, too often leave behind
them, a man at all times so
difficult to soothe, so impossible
to entertainaand old age creep.
ing upon them both; the little
spirit she ever possessed failing;
What should she do without this
dear, animated, this loving,
Clever being, who was, in one
word everything to her? '

But she held to her resolution
—no martyr ever more cour<
ageously than this trembling,
timid woman. A prey to ten
thousand imaginary fears, and
placed in a position where the
help she was now depriving her-
self of. was so greatly needed.

'“ No, my dear," she repeated,
“don’t think of it; don’t speak
of it. You dist/less me very
much. Pray don’t, my dearest
Catherine.”

“But I should be a shocking
creature, mamma, to forsake
you; and, I am sure, Edgar
would despise me as much as I
should myself, it' I could think
of it. I cannot, I ought not to
leave you.”

'The gen'le blue eye of the
mother was fixed upon Phe
daughter’s generous, glowmg
face. She smothered asigh- She
w ai1e ‘i awhile to steady her fal-
trina Voice. She wished to
hide. it possible, from herdaugh-
or the extent'of the sacrifiCe
she was making.

JlIARSH.

 

 

 

At last she recovered herself sufficiently to speak with composure,
and then she said: I

“ To acccpt such a sacrifice from a child, I have always thought the
most monstrous, piece of selfishness of which a parent could be guilty.
My love, this does not come upon me unexpectedly. I have, of (puree,
anticipated it. I knew my sweet girl could not be long known and
seen without inspiring and returning the attachment of some valuable
man. I have resolved—and God strengthen me in this resolve,” (she
cast up a silent appeal to the fountain of strength and courage)—-“ that
nothing should tempt me to what I consider so base. A parent ac-
cept the sacrifice of a life in exchange for the poor remnant of her
own! A parent who has had her owu portion of the joys of youth in
her day, deprive a child of a share in her turn? No, my..dearest love,
never—never! I would (lie, and I will die first.” _.

But it was not death she feared. The idea of death did not appall
her. What she dreaded was melancholy. She knew the unsoundness
of her Own nerves; she had often felt herrell’, as it were, trembling up-
on the fearful verge of reason, when the mind, unable to sup-
port itself, is forced to rest upon another. She had known a
f,cling, common to many nervous people. I believe, as though the
mind would he oversct when
pressed for, if not helped,
strengthened and cheered by
Some more wholesome mind;
and she shrank appalled Item
the prospect. '

But even lhis could not make
her waver in her resolution.
She was a generous, just, disin-
terested woman; though the ex—
igencies of a most delicate con-
stitution, and most susceptible
nervous system, had too often
throw” upon her-from those
who did not undersrand such
things, and Whose iron nerves
and vigorous health rendered
sympathy at such times impos-
sible —-the reproach of being a.
whimsical,Selfishhypochondrinc.

Poor thing, she knew this
well. It was the difficulty of
making herself understood; the
want of sympathy, the impossi-
bility of rendering needs, most
urgent in her case, comprehen-
hensible by her flirnds, which
had added so greatly to the. tim-
orous cowardice, the fear of
circumstances, of changes, which
had been the bane of her exist-
ence. ’

And, therefore, this kind, an.
imated, affectior-ate (laughter.
whose tenderness seemed beer
to weary in Ihc lack of cheering
her; whose fictivih was never
exhausted in the cndcamr to“
assist and serve her; whose good
sense and spirit. lccpt ever) thing
right at home, and more as
panic 31y kwpt those torril to
things, the relVBlItF, in order—-
of when» rte poor mother. li‘ve
many other feel-la and languid
people was so afraid; therefore,
this kind daughter was as the
very spring of her existence; and

LETTIOE ARNOLD.

 

the idea of parting with her was really dreadful.
Yet she hesitated not. So did that man behave
who stood upon the rampart till he had finished
his observation,.though his hair turned white with
fear. Mrs. Melwyn was a heroic coward of this
kind.

She had prayed ardently, fervently, that day, for
courage, for resolution, to complete the dreaded
sacrifice, and she had found it.

f‘Oh, Lord! I am thy servant. Do with me
what thou wilt. Tremblin in spirit, the victim
of my infirmity—4a poor, no fish, cowardly being, I
fall down before Thee. Thou hast showed me
what is right—the sacrifice I ought ,to make. 011,
give me strength in my weakness to be faithful to
complete it 2”

Thus had she prayed. And xlow resolved in
heart, the poor sinkling spirit failing her within,
but, as I said, steadying her voice with an almost
heroic constancy, she resisted her grateful and
* pious child’s representation: “I have told Edgar
~—dear as he is to me—strong as are the claims
his generous alfection gives him over me-—that I
will not—I cannot forsake you.”

“ You must not call it forsake,” said the mother,
gently. “My love, the Lord of life himself has
spoken it: ‘ Therefore shall a man leave his father
and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife.’ ”

“And so he is ready to do,” cried Catherine,
eagerly. “ Yes, mother, he desires nothing better;
 he respects my scruples; he has offered, dear Ed-
”7: gar! to abandon his profession and come and live
here, and help me to take care of you and my
 father.. Was not that beautiful?” and the tears
, stood in her speaking eyes.

“ Beautiful! generous! devoted! My Catherine
will be a happy woman ;” and the mother smiled.
A ray of genuine pleasure warmed her beating
heart. This respect in the gay, handsome young
emcer for the filial scruples of her beloved was
indeed beautiful! But the mother knew his spirit
too well to listen to this proposal for a moment.

“And abandon his profession? No, my sweet
childf’that would never, never do.”

“But he says he is independent of his profes-
sions—that. his private fortune, though not large,
. is enough for such simple, moderate people as he
and I are. In short, that he shall be miserable
without me, and all that charming stuff, momma;
and that he loves me better, for what he calls,
dear fellow, my piety to you. And so, dear mother,
he says if you and my father will but consent to
" take him in, he will do his very best in helping me
 to make you comfortable; and he is so sweet-tem-
pered, so reasonable, so god, so amiable, I am

uite sure he would keep his promise, mamma.”
nd she looked anxiously into her mother’s face,
Waiting for an answer. The temptation was very,

W at: .
‘Agaimose domestic spectres which had so an.

polled her timorous spirit rose before her.
Adenoid ull fireside; her own tendency to mel-
ancholy; poor maimed, sufiering, and, alas,

too often pesvish partner; encroaching, unmanage-
able, servants; the cook, with her careless, saucy
ways; the butler, so indifferent and negligent, «and
her own maid, that Randall, who in secret tyran-
 over her, exercising the empire of fear to an
extent which Catherine, alive as she was to these
evils, did not suspect. And again she asked her-
self, if these things were disagreeable now, when
Catherine was here to take care of her, what would
they be when she was left alone i ‘
And then such a sweet picture of happiness
‘ presented itself to tempt her—Catherine settled
there—«settled there forever. That handsome,
lively young man, with his sweet, cordial ways
and. lite observance of everyone, sitting by
their» earth, and talking, as he did, to the gen-
eral of old days and military matters, the only
subject in which this aged military man took
any interest, reading the newspaper to him, and
making such lively, pleasant comments as he read!
How should she ever get through the debates,
With her breath 80 short, and her voice so indis-
tinct and low? The general would loose all pa—
,7' tiancs,‘he hated to hear her attempt to read such
things,‘ and always got‘Catherins or the young
Lieutenant-colonel to do it. .
. 0h! itwas a sure temptation, Butthis poor,
.  ' autumgrelisted‘it. '  _.
_ “ “shMoflgdllttk serum

/

 

which this noble victory was achieved—laugh if
you will at the expression, but it was a noble vio-
tory over self-“ my love,” she said, “don’t tempt
your poor mother beyond her strength. Gladly,
gladly, as far as we are concerned, would we enter
into this arrangement; but it must not be. No,
Catherine; Edgar "must not quit his profession.
It Would not only be a very great sacrifice I am
sure now, but it would lay the foundation of end-
less regrets in future. N o, my darling girl, neither
his happiness nor your happiness shall be ever sac-
rificed to mine. A life against a few uncertain
years! No, no.”

The mother was inflexible. The more these
good children offered to give up for her sake, the
more she resolved to suffer no such sacrifice to be
made.

Edgar could not but rejoice. He was’ an excel-
lent young fellow, and excessively in love with the
charming Catherine, you mav be sure, or he never
would have thought of offering to abandon a pro-
fession for her sake in which he had distinguished
himself highly—which opened to him the fairest
prospects, and of which he was especially fond—
but he was not sorry to be excused. He had re-
solved upon this sacrifice, for there is something
in those who truly love, and whose love is elevated
almost to adoration by the moral worth they have
observed in the chosen one, which revolts at the
idea of lowering the tone of that enthusiastic good-
ness and self-immolation to principle which has so
enchanted them. Edgar could not do it. He could
not' attempt to persuade this tender generous
daughter to consider her own welfare and his, in
preference to that of her parents. He could only
offer, on his own part, to make the greatest sacri—
fice which could have been demanded from him.
Rather than part from her what would he not do?
Everything was possible but that.

However, when the mother positively refused to
accept of this act of self-abnegation, I cannot say
that he regretted it. N 0; he thought Mrs. Mel-
wyn quite right in what she said, and he loved and
respected both her character and understanding
very much more than he had done before.

That night Mrs. Melwyn was very, very low indeed.
And when she went up into her dressing-room, and
Catherine, having kissed her tenderly, with a heart
quite divided between anxiety for her, dud a sense,
of happiness that would make itself felt in spite of
all, had retired to her room, the mother sat down,
poor thing, in the most comfortable arm-chair that
ever was invented, but which imparted no co ort
to her; and placing herself by a merry blazing
fire, which was reflected from all sorts of cheerful
pretty things with which the dressing-room was
adorned, her feet upon a warm, soft footstool of
Catherine’s own working, her elbow resting upon
her knee, and her head upon her hand, she, with

her eyes bent mournfully upon the fire, began cry.

ing very much. And so she sat a long time, think-
ing and cryin ,' ‘very sorrowful, but not in the least
repeating. editating upon all sorts of dismal
things, lied with all kinds of melancholy fore.
bodings, as to how it would, and must be, when
Catherine was really gone, she sank at last into a
sorrowful reverie, and sat quite absorbed in her
own thoughts, till she—-—who was extremely punc—
tual in her hour of going to bed——for reasons best
known to herself, though never confided to any
human being, namely, that her maid disliked very
muchsitting up for her—started as the clock in
the hall sounded eleven and two quarters, and al-
most with the trepidation of a chidden. child, rose
and rang the bell. Nobody came. This made her
still more uneasy. It was“Randall’s custom not to
answer her mistress’ bell the first time, when she
was cross. And poor Mrs. Melwyn dreaded few
things in this world more than cross looks in
those about her, especially in Randall; and that
Randall knew perfectly well.

“She must be fallen asleep in her chair, poor
thing. It was very thoughtless of me,” Mrs. Mel-
wyn 'did not say, but would have said, if people
ever did speak to themselves aloud. ,

Evenin this sort of mute soliloquy she did no
venturelto say, “ Randall will be very ill-tempered
and unreasonable.” She rang again; and then,
of a roper time yielded to the claims of of-
ten ed ignity, it pleased Mrs. Randall to appear.

f‘I _ very maximum: Really I had no
Mbfi’htoitwhs. Iwu‘ " about Mia's

an

 

 

a- _ w, _ . 

Catherine, and I missed it when it struck ten. I
had not the least idea it was so late,” began the
mistress in an apologizing tone, to which Randall
vouchsafed not an answer, but looked like a
thunder—cloud, as she went banging up and down
the room, opening and shutting drawers with a
loud noise, and treading with a rough, heavy step;
two things particularly annoying, as she very well
knew, to the sensitive nerves of her mistress. But
Randall settled it with herself—that as her mis'.
tress had kept her out of bed an hour-and-a-half
longer than usual, for no reason at all but just to
please herself, she should find she was none the
better for it. '

The poor mistress bore all this with patience for
some time. She would have gone on bearin the
roughness and the noise,'however disagreeab e, as

long as Randall liked; but her soft heart could not

bear those glum, cross looks, and this alarming
silence.

:“I was thinking of Miss Catherine’s marriage,
Randall. That was what made me forget the
hour. What shall I do without her? ”

“‘Yes, that‘s just like it,” said the insolent
Abigail; “nothing ever can content some people.
Most ladies would be glad to settle their daughters
so well; but some folk make a crying matter of
everything. It would be well for poor servants,
when they’re sitting over the fire, their bones ach-
ing to death for very weariness, if they’d some-
thing pleasant to think about. They wouldn’t be
crying for nothing, and keeping all the world out
of their beds, like thosewho care for naught but
how to please themselves.” ,

Part of this was said, part muttered, part
thought; and the poor timid mistress—one of
whose domestic occupations it seemed to be to
study the humors of her servants—heard a part
and divined the rest. ‘

“Well, Randall, I don’t quite hear all you are
saying; and perhaps it is as well I do not ; but I
wish you would give me my things and make
haste, for I’m really very tired, and I want to go
to bed.”

“People can’t make more haste than they can.”

And so it went on. The maid-servant never re-
laxing an atom of her offended dignity—continu-
ing to look as ill-humored, and to do everything as
disagreeany as she possibly could—~and her poor
victim, by speaking from time to time in an anx-
ious, most gentle, and almost flattering manner,
hoping to mollify her dependent; but all in vain.

“I’ll teach her to keep me up again for nothing
at all,” thought Randall.

And so the poor lady, very miserable in the
midst of all her luxuries, at last gained her bed,
and lay there not able to sleep for very discom-
fort. And the Abigail retired to her own warm
apartment, where she was greeted with a pleasant
fire, by which stood a little nice chocolate simmer-
ing, to refresh her before she went to bed—mot
much less miserable than her mistress, for she was
dreadfully out of humor—and thought no hard-
ship upon earth could equal that she endured—-
forced to sit up in consequence of another’s whim
when she wanted so sadly to go to bed.

While, thus, all that the most abundant posses.
sion of the world’s goods could bestow, was mar-
red by the weakness of the mistress and the ill-
temper of the maid——the plentiful gifts of fortune
rendered valueless by the erroneous facility upon
one side, and insolent love of domination on the
other; how many in the large metropolis, only a
few miles distant, and of which the innumerable
lights might be seen brightening, like an Aurora,
the southern sky; how many laid ‘ down their
heads supperless that night! Stretched upon mis—
erableipallets, and ignorant where food was to be
found on the morrow to satisfy the cravings of
hunger; yet, in the midst of their misery, more
miserable, also, because they were not exempt
from those pests of existence—our own faults and
infirmities.

_ And even, as it was, how many poor creatures
did actually lay down their heads that night, far
less miserable than poor Mrs. Melwyn. The
t runny or a servant is noticed by the wise man, if
{recollect right, as one of the most irritating and
insupportable of mortal miseries.

Two young women inhabited one small room
of about ten feet by eight, in the u r etc of
a ed at W somewhere near 4e.

‘ .

memwmui'ikuéfli

 

 

 

up» I

LET TI 0E ARNOLD.

‘3
r

 

ssmet, mm houses appear to have been once

intended for rather substantial persons, but have
' gradually sunk into lodging-houses for the very
poor. The premises look upon an old grave-
' yard; at dreary prospect enough, but perhaps
preferable to a close street, and are filled with
decent but very poor people. Every room ap-
pears to serve a whole family, and few of the
rooms are much larger than the one I have de-
scribed.

It was now half-past twelve o’clock, and still the
miserable dip tallow candle burned in adilapidated
tin candlestick. The wind whistled with that pe-

‘ ouliar wintry sound which betokens that snow is
falling; it was very, very cold; the fire was out;
and the girl who sat plying her needle by the
hearth, which was still a little warmer than the
rest of the room, had wrapped up her feet in an

, old wornaout piece of flannel, and had an old black
silk wadded cloak thrown over her to keep her
from being almost perished. The room was scant-
ily furnished, and bore an air of extreme poverty,
amounting almost to absolute destitution. One by
one the little articles of property possessed by its
inmates had disappeaied to supply the calls of ur-
gent want. An old four-post bedstead, with our.
tains of worn-out serge, stood in one corner; one
mattress, with two small, thin pillows, and a bol-
ster that was almost flat; three old blankets, cot-
ton” sheets of the coarsest description upon it;
three rush-bottomed chairs, an old claw-table, a
very ancient dilapidated chest of drawers—at the

‘ top of which Were a few battered band-boxes—a
miserable bit of carpet before the fire-place; a
wooden box for coals; a little low tin fender, a
poker, or rather half a poker; a shovel and tongs,
much the worse for wear, and a very few kitchen
utensils, was all the furniture in the room. What
there was, however, was kept clean; the floor was
clean, the yellow paint was clean; and, I forgot to
say, there was a washing-tub set aside in one

corner.

The wind blew shrill, and shook the window,
and the snow was heard beating against the panes;
the clock went another quarter, but still the inde-
fatigable toiler sewed on. Now and then she lift-
ed up her head, as a sigh came from that corner of
the room where the bed stood, and some one might

be heard turning and tossing uneasily upon the I

mattress—then she returned to her occupation and
plied her needle with increased assiduity.

- The workwoman was a girl of from eighteen to

twenty,‘rather below the middle size, and of a face
and form little adapted to figure in a story. One
whose life in all probability, Would never be diver-
sified by those romantic adventures which real life
in general reserves to the beautiful and the highly-
gifted. Her features were rather homely, her hair
of light brown, wit/tout golden threads through it,
her hands and arms rough and red with cold and
labor; her dress ordinary to a degree—her clothes
being of the cheapest materials—but then, these
clothes were so neat, so carefully mended where
they had given way; the hair was so Smooth and
so closely and neatly drawn round the face; and
the face itself had such a sweet eXpression, that
all the defects of line and color were redeemed to
the lover of expression, rather than beauty.
' She did not look patient. she did not look
resigned; she could not look cheerful exactly.
Elbe looked earnest, composed, busy, and ex-
ceedingly kind. She had not, it would seem,
thought enough of self in the midst of her priva-
tions, to require the exercise of the virtues of pa-
tience and resignation; she was so occupied with
the sufferings of others that she never seemed to
think of her own.

She was naturally of' the most cheerful, hopeful
temper in the world—th0se people without selfish-
ness usually are. And, though sorrow had a little
lowered the tone of her spirits to composure, and
work and disappointment had faded .the bright
colors of hope; still hope was not entirely gone,
nor cheerfulnes exhausted. But the predominant
expression of every word, and look. 31151 tone: and
gesture was kindness—inexhaustible kindness.

I said she lifted her .head from time totime as
asigh proceeded from the bed, and its suffering
inhabitant tossed and tossed; and at last she
' "broke.st andeaid;

 Wadeyoaget " .  .

of considerable reluctance, she, put her hand into
the drawer, and took out anotherme

 

“It is so fearful cold,” was the reply; “and
when will you have done, and come to bed ? ”

“ One quarter of an hour more, and I shall have
finished it. Poor Myra, you areso nervous, you
‘never can get to sleep till all is shut up—but have
patience, dear, one little quarter of an hour, and
then -I will throw my clothes over your feet, and I
hope you will be a little warmer.”

A sigh for all answer; and then the true hero-
ine—for she was extremely beautiful, or rather
had been, poor thing, for she was too wan and
wasted to be. beautiful now—lifted up her head,
from which fell a profusion of the fairest hair in
the world, and leaning her head upon her arm,
watched in a sort of impatient patience the progress
of the indefatigable needle-moman.”

“ One o’clock striking, and you hav’n’t done yet,
Lettice? how slowly you do get on.”

“I can not work fast and neatly too, dear Myra.
I can not get through, as some do; I wish I could.
But my hands are not so delicate and nimble as
yours, such swelled clumsy things,” she said,
laughing a little as she looked at them, swelled, in-
deed, and all mottled over with the cold! “ I can-
not get over the ground nimbly and well at the
same time. You are a fine race-horse, I am apoor
little drudging pony, but I will make "as much
haste as I possibly can.”

Myra once more uttered an impatient, fretful sigh,
and sunk down again, saying, “ My feet are so
dreadfully cold l”

“ Take this bit of flannel then, and let me wrap
them up.”

“Nay, but you will want it.”

“ Oh, I have only five minutes more .to stay, and
I can wrap the carpet round my feet.”

And she laid down her work and went to the bed,
and wrapped her sister’s delicate, but now icy feet,
in the flannel; and then she sat down ; and at last
the task wasfinished. And oh, how glad she was
to creep to that mattress, and to lay her aching
limbs down upon it! Hard it might be, and wretch-.
ed the pillows, and scanty the covering, but little
felt she such inconveniences. She fell asleep al-
most immediately while her sister still tossed and
murmured. Presently Lattice, for Lettice it was,
awakened a little, and said, “What is it, love?
Poor,’poor Myra! Oh, that you could but sleep as

do.’ .
And then she drew her own little pillow from
under her head, and put it under her sister’s, and
tried to make her more comfortable; and she part-
ly succeeded, and at last the poor delicate suffering
creature fell asleep, and then Lettice slumbered
like a baby.

 

CHAPTER II.

“ O, blessed with temper whose unloaded ray
. Can make tomorrow cheerful as toédey;
* "‘ * * l“ * And can hear
Sighs for a sister ‘with unwounded ear.“
. Porn-J Characters of women."

EARLY m the morning, before it was light, while
the wintry twilight gleamed through the curtain-
lcss window, Lettice was up, dressing herself by
the scanty gleam cast from the street lamps into
the room, for she could not afferd the extravagance
of a candle. ,

She combed and did up her hair with modest
neatncss; put on her brown stuff only-gown, and
then going to the chest of drawe,‘ hing
one with great precaution, lest, she should make
a noise, and disturb Myra, who still simmered-—
drew out a shawl, and began to fold it as if to put
it on. ' '

Alasl poor thing, as she opened it, she became
first aware that the threadbare, time-worn. fabric
had given way in two places. Had it been in one,
she might have contrived to concealthe injuries of
age; but it was in two. ’

She turned it; she folded and unfolded; it would,
not do. The miserable shawl seemed to give way
under her hands. It was already so excessively
shabby that she was ashamed to go out in it; said
it seemed as if it was ready to fall to pieces in
sundry other. places, this dingy, thin, brown, red,
and green old shawl. Mend it would not; besides,
she was pressed for time; so, with the appearance

but Myra still slumbers.

 

.Zl‘hie...,nssa discreet  It "B “has...

a In??? ‘9 «at

not very old, plaid shawl, of various colomwlgell
preserved and clean-looking, and, this cold meal.
in , so tempting. ,

hould she borrow it? Myra was still asleep,
but she would be horridly cold when she got up,
and she would want her shawl, perhaps; but then
Lettice must go out, and must be decent, and there
seemed no help for it.

But if she took ' the shawl, had she not better
light the fire before she went out? Myra Would
be so chilly. But then Myra seldom got up till
half-past eight or nine, and it was now not saver}.

An hour and a half’s, perhaps two heurs’, ute-
less fire would never do. So after alittleideliberav
tion. Lattice contented herself with “ laying'it,” as
the housemaids say; that is, preparing the fire to
be lighted with a match; and as she 
by coal to do this, she perceived with terror how
very, very low the little store of fuel was.

f‘ We must have a bushel in today,” she said.
“Better without meat and drink than fire, in such
weather as this.’.’ /

However, she was cheered with the  n
that she should get a little more than usual   a
work that she had finished. It had been ordered
by a considerate and benevolent lady, ‘who, instead
of going to the ready-made linen warehouses for
what she wanted, gave herself a good can of

trouble to get at the poor work~women themselves .

who supplied these houses, so that they should re-
ceive the full price for their needle-work, which
otherwise must of necessity be divided. f
What she should get she did not quite know, for
she had never worked for this lady beme; 
some ladies, though she always got more 
vate customers than from the,,shops,would beat
her down to the last penny, and .giVIe her as little
as they possibly could. _  ‘, 4
Much more than the usual price of such 
people can not, I suppose, habitually ,  they
should, however, beware of driving hardx
with the very poor. ' ‘ r

a

Her bonnet looked dreadfully shabb as
little Lattice .tookhit out from one of the dilapidat-
ed band-boxes that stood upon the chestof draw—
ers; yet it had been carefully covered with a sheet
of paper, to guard it from the injuries of the dust
and the smoke~loaded air.
I The young girl held it upon her humiliating
it round, and looking at and she oeuld not help
sighing when she thought of the miserably flabby
appearanceshe should make; and allegoingtoa
private house, too; and the errand !--linen for o
trousseau of, a young lady who was  to '
married. , f i  V V '.

What a contrast did the buyingth

between all the fine things that young My waste '

have and her own deStitution! she must , ., 1”
what she was—n simpbhmd, God;f 3%“, 

, erous girl, to whom envious comparisons ” 'oth.

era with herselfy'were “impossible “my my

faults of the selfish—4 st to feelas if the dime»

ence was, to use the common word upon such 350-
casions, “ very hard.” » , ; _ l 
She did not. take it so. She did not, that
it Was very hard that others should be  '  
have plenty, because she was   
iug. They had not robbed her.   had

was not taken from her. ‘Nay,'at  “eat

their wealth was overflowin toward,  flfiie
should gain in her little way y the general 
parity. The thought of the increased pay 
into her mind at this moment in aid of 
and simple-hearted feelings, and she b l", " u ,

up, and shook her bonnehand pulled out) fé lib-
bons,;and made it look as tidy as she could';ia¢~
thinking herself that ifit possibly could he 
she would buy a bit of black ribbon and  it a
little more spruce when she got her money. ' I

And now the bonnet is on, and she  

think it looks very bad, and . Myra.“ Shaw/1"” 
fiected in the little tin-empenn‘y‘ Eh”,  ,q

 Now she steals to the bed in older to make

her apologies to Myra about the slmwhand fin,
, It is half-past seven and
more, and she must be gone. V

A . The young lady for whomlineh lived

about twenty miles use, , -_ ,.~.but  , had
come up about her  ‘, "  Lsét'iofl’ bane
at nine o’clock that   .. clinch war
to have been sent in  huh-Lexi?!

 

MMth  a as“

 

 

 

LETTIOE A RN OLD.

 

 

- force wait till morning to be carried home.
The object was to get to the house as soon as the
servants should be stirring, so that there would be
time for the things to be packed up and accompany
the: young lady upon her return home.

Now, Lettice is in the street. Oh, what a morn-
ing it was! the wind was intensely cold; the snow
was blown in buffets against her face; the street
slippery; all the mud and mire turned into inky-
iooking ice. She could scarcely stand, her face
was blue with the cold, her hands, in a pair of
cotton gloves, so numbed that she could hardly

hold the parcel she carried. '

 She had no umbrella. The snow beat upon her

,und'efended head, and completed the demolition

. of the poor bonnet, but she comforted herself with
‘ [the thought that its appearance would now be at-
tributed to the bad 'weather having spoiled it.
Nay (and she smiled as the idea presented itself),
was it not possible that she might be supposed to
have a better bonnet at home ? ,

So she cheerfully made her way, and at last she
entered Grosvenor Square, where lamps were just
dying away before the splendid houses, and the
wintry twilight discovered the garden, with its
trees plastered with dirty snow, while the wind
rushed down from the Park colder and bitterer
than ever. She could hardly get along at all. A
few ragged, good-for-nothing boys were almost the
only people yet to be seen about; and they al-

" most‘laughed and mocked at her, as, holding her
bonnetdown with one hand, to prevent its abso-
lutely giving way befOre the wind, she endeavored
to carry her parcel, and keep her shawl from flying
up with the other.

The jeers and the laughter were uncomfortable
to‘her. The things she found it most difficult to
reconcile herself to in her fallen state were the

" seeds, and the scorns, and the coarse jests of
those once so far, far beneath her; so far, that

' their very existence, as a class, was once almost
unknown, and who were new little, if at all, worse
off than herself.

The rude brutality of the coarse, uneducated, and
unimproved Saxon, is a terrible grievance to those
forced to come into close quarters with such.

At last. however, she entered Green Street, and
raised the knocker, and gave one timid humble

' knock at the door of a moderate sized house, upon
the right-hand side as you go up to the Park.

Bore lived the benevolent lady of whom I have
spoken, who took so much trouble to break through
the barriers which in London separate the employ-

f and the employed, and to assist the poor stitch-
:ors of her own sex, by doing away with the neces-
sity‘of that hand, or those many hands, through
which their ware has usually to pass, and in each
of Which something of the recompense thereof
 of'necessity be detained.

‘She had never been at the‘house before; but

she had sometimes had to go to other genteel

*‘houses, and she‘ had {too often found the insolence
of the pampered domestics harder to bear than
even the rude incivility of the streets.

. So she stood reelin very uncomfortable; still
r more afraid of the o set her bonnet might pro~
‘ duos upon the man that should open the door, than
-' uponh‘is superiors. .

But “ like master, like man,” is a stale old
proverb, which, like many other old saws of our
mw despised as childish ancestors, is full of pith

 truth.

 The servant who appeared was a grave, gray-
 man, of somewhat above fifty. He stooped

- ohttlo in his gait, and had not a very fashionable

  but his countenance was full of kind mean-

 aud his manner so gentle, that 'it seemed re- poo

” spectful oven to a r irl like this.

Before hearing h:- egrrand, observing how cold
she looked, he bade her come in and warm herself
at the hall stove; and shutting the door in the face
of the chill blast, that came rushing forward as if

“ to force its way into the house, he then returned
to her, and asked her errand. '
f " I come with the young lady's work. I was so
sorry that I could not possibly get it done in time
‘ to send it in last night; but I hope I have not put
her to any inconvenience. I h her trunks are
ligands, up.” I started almost toroit was light
! .

7. “Well,  """.,’Iinbpenot;but it was pity
'Wlfltmh mamas

 

likes'people to be. exact to the moment and punc-
tual in performing promises, you must know.
However, I’ll take it up without loss of time, and
I dare say it will be all right."

“Is it come at last?” asked a sweet, low voice,
as Reynolds entered the drawing-room. “ My love,
Ireally began to be frightened for your pretty
things,” the speaker went on, turning to a young
lady who was making an early breakfast before a
noble blazing fire, and who was no other person
than Catherine Melwyn. ‘

“Oh, madam! Iwas not if the least uneasy
about them, I was quite sure they would come at
last.

“ I wish, my love,” said Mrs. Danvcrs, sitting down
by the fire, “I could have shared in your security.
Poor creatures ! the temptation is sometimes so aw-
fully great. The pawnbroker is dangerously
near. So easy to evade all inquiry by changing
one miserably obscure lodging for another, into
which it is almost impossible to be traced. And,
to tell the truth, I had not used you quite well, my
dear; for I happened to know nothing of the pro.
vious character of these poor girls, but that they
were certainly very neat workwomen; and they
were so out of all measure poor, that I yielded to
temptation. And that, you see, my love, had its
usual effect of making me suspicious of the pow-
er of temptation over others.”

Mrs. Danvers had once been one of the loveliest
women that had ever been seen: the face of an
angel, the form of the goddess of beauty herself;
manners the softest, the most delightful. A dress
that by its exquisite good taste and elegance en:
hanced every other charm, and a voice so sweet
and harmonious that it made its way to every
heart.

Of all this loveliness the sweet, harmonious
voice alone remained. Yet had the sad eclipse
of so much beauty been succeeded by a something
so holy, so saint-like, so tender, that the being who
stood now shorn by sorrow and-suffering of all her
earthly charms, seemed only to have progressed
nearer to heaven by the exchange.

Her life had, indeed, been one shipwreck, in
which all she prized had gone down. Husband,
children, parents, sister, brother—~all !---every one
gone. It had been a fearful ruin. That she could
not survive this wreck of every earthly joy was ex-
pected by all her friends; but she had lived on.
She stood there, an example of the triumph of
those three—faith, hope, and charity, but the
greatest of these was charity.

In faith she rested upon the “ unseen,” and the
world of things “seen” around her shrunk into
insignificance. In hope she looked forward to
that day when tears should be wiped from all eyes,
and the lost and severed meet to part never again.
In charity—in other words, love——she filled that
aching, desolate heart with fresh affections, warm
and tender, if not possessing the joyous gladness
of earlier days.

, Every Borrowing human being, every poor suf-
ferer, be they who they might, or whence they
might, found a place in that compassionate heart.
Nowonder it was filled to overflowing; there are
so many sorrowing sufferers in this world.

She went about doing good. Her whole life was
one act, of pity.

Her house was plainly furnished. The “mut-
ton chops with a few greens and potatoes "—-
laughed at in a recent trial, as if indifference to
one‘s own dinner were a crime—might have served
her. She often was no better served. Her dress
was conventual in its simplicity. Every forth-lug
she could save upon herself was saved for the

r.
You must please to recollect that she stood per-
fectly alone in the world, and that there was not a
human creature that could suffer by this exercise
of a sublime and universal charity. Such peculiar
devotion to one object is only permitted to those
whom God has severed from their kind, and
marked out, as 'it were, for the generous career.
Her days were passed in visiting all those dismal
places in this great city, where lowly want “re.
pairs to die,” or where degradation and deprivity,
the children of want, hide themselves. She sat by
the bed of the inmate of the hospital, pouring the
soft hold: of her consolation upon the sufi‘eriug
and lowly heart. In such places her presence was
W saloon and Wei blessings. oven

,1',:‘ , ,a v
.m-x 3/  =

 

 

 

one was melted, or was awed into good behavior
by her presence. The most hardened of brandy.
drinking nurses was softened and amended by her
example.

The situation of the young women who have to
gain their livelihood by their needle had peculiarly .
excited her compassion, and to their welfare she
more especially devoted herself. Her rank and p0«
sition in society gave her a ready access to many
fine ladies who had an immensity to be done for
them: and to many fine dress-makers who had this
immensity to do. '

She was indefatigable in her exertions to dimin~
ish the evils to which the young ladies—“ improv-
ers,” I believe, is the technical term—are in too
many of these establishments exposed. She it
was who got the Work-rooms properly ventilated
and properly warmed. She it was who insisted
upon the cruelty and the wretchedness of keeping
up the poor girls hour after hour from their natur-
al rest, till their strength was exhausted; the very
means by which they were to earn their bread taken
away; and they were sent into decline and starva-
tion. She made fine ladies learn to allow more
time for the preparation of their dresses ; and fine
ladies’ dress-makers to learn to say, “ N 0.”

One of the great objects of her exertions was to
save the poor plain-sewers from the necessary loss
occasioned by the middlemen. She did not say
whether the shops exacted too much labor, or not,
for their pay; with so great a competition for
work, and so much always lying unsold upon their
boards it was difficult to decide. But she spared no‘
trouble to get these poor women employed direct
by those who wanted sewing done; and she taught
to feel ashamed of themselves those indolent fine
ladies who, rather than give themselves a little
trouble to increase a poor creature’s gains, pre-
ferred going to the ready-made shops, “ because
the other was such a bore."

In one of her visits among the poor of Mary-
le Bone, shehad accidentally met with these two
sisters, Lettice Arnold and Myra. There was
something in them both above the commonstamp,
which might be discerned in spite of their squalid
dress and miserable chamber; but she had not
had time to inquire into their previous history——
which, indeed, they seemed unwilling to tell.
Catherine, preparing her wedding clothes, and well
knowing how anxious Mrs. Danvers was to obtain .
work, had reserved a good deal for her; and Mrs.
Danvers had entrusted some of it to Lettice, who
was too wretchedly destitute to be able to rive any
thing in the form of a deposit. Hence er un-
easiness when the promised things did not appear
to the time.

And hence the rather grave looks of Reynolds,
who could not endure to see her mistress vexed.

“Has the workwoman brought her bill with
her, Reynolds?” asked Mrs. Danvers.

“I will go and ask.” . '

“ Stay, ask her to come up ; I should like. to in-
quire how she is going on, and whether she has any
other work in prospect.”

Reynolds obeyed; and soon the door opened, and
Lettice, poor thing, a good deal ashamed of her
own appearance, was introduced into this warm and
comfortable breakfast-room, where, however, as I
have said, there was no appearance of luxury, ex-
cept the pretty, neat breakfast, and the blazing

re

“ Good-morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Danvera,
kindly; “I am sorry you have had such a wretched '
walk this morning. Why did you not come last
night? Punctuality, my dear, is the soul of busi-
ness, and if you desire to form a private connection
for yourself, you will find it of the utmost impor~
tones to attend to it. This young lady is just
going off, and there is barely time to put up, the
things." '

Catherine had her back turned to the door, and
was quietly continuing her breakfast. She did not
even look round as Mrs. Danvers spoke, but when
a, gentle voice replied:

“ Indeed, madam, I beg your pardon.
did my very best, but"

She started, looked up, and rose hastily from her
chair. Lattice started, too, on her side, as she did
so;  advancing a few steps, exclaimed, “ Cath-
erine! I ~ .

u it ’must—eit than is youi’l'criod '
hastily, reward and  

Indeed, I

 

. LETTIC’E , ARN OLD.

b

 

hand. She gazed with astonishment at the worn I

and weather-beaten face, the miserable attire, the
picture of uttter wretchedness before her. “ You l”
she kept repeating, “ Lettioel Lettice Arnold!
Good Heavens! where are they all? Where is
your father? Your mother? Your sister?”

“ Gone l” said the poor girl. ’ “ Gone—everyone
gone but poor Myra 1”

“And she—where is site? The beautiful crea-
ture, that used to be the pride of poor Mrs. Price’s
heart. How lovely she was! And you, dear, dear
Lettice, how can you, how have you come to this ?”

Mrs. Danvers stood like one petrified with as-
tonishment while this little scene was goin on.
She kept looking at the two girls, but said not ing.

“Poor, dear Lettice l” Catherine went on in a
tone of the utmost affectionate kindness, “have
you come all through the streets and alone this
most miserable morning ? And working—working
for me! Good Heavens! how has all this come
about ?”

“ But come to the fire first,” she continued, tak-
ing hold of the almost frozen hand.

Mrs. Dauvers now came forward.

“ You seem to have met with an old acquaint-
ance, Catherine. Pray come to the fire, and sit
down and warm yourself; and have you break-
fastcd ?”

Lettice hesitated. She had become so accus-
tomed to her fallen condition, that it seemed to her
that she could no longer with propriety sit down
to the same table with Catherine.

Catherine perceived this, and it shocked and
grieved her excessively. “Do come and sit
down,” she said, encouraged by Mrs. Danvers's in-
vitation, “ and tell us have you breakfasted ? But
though you have a warm cup of tea this cold morn-
ing must be comfortable.”

And she pressed her forward, and seated her,
half reluctant, in an arm-chair that stood by the
fire; then she poured out a cup of tea, and car-
ried it to her, repeating: .

“ Won’t you eat? Have you breakfasted ‘3"

.The plate of bread-and-butter looked delicious to
the half-starved girl“; the warm cup of tea seemed
to bring life into her. She had been silent from
surprise, and a sort of humiliated embarassment;
but now her spirits began to revive, and she said,

“I never expected to have seen you again, Miss
Melwyn !”

" Miss Melwyn .’ What does that mean? Dear
Lettice, how has all this come about?”

. “My father was ill the'last time you were in
Nottinghamshire, do you not recollect, Miss Mel~
wynf He never recovered of that illness; but it
lasted nearly two years. During that time your
aunt, Mrs. Montague, died; and her house was
sold, and new people came; and you never were at
Castle Rising afterward.”

“No—indeed—and from that day to this have
never chanced to hear anythln of its inhabitants.
‘But Mrs. Price, your aunt, who was so fond of
Myra, what is become of her?”

“She died before my poor father.”

“Well; but she was rich. Did she do noth-

g. , p .

“ Everybody thought her rich, because she spent
a. good deal of money; but hers, was only income.
Our poor aunt was no great economist—she made
no Savings.” ‘ '

“‘ Well; and your mother? I cannot understand
it. ' No; I cannot understand it,” Catherine kept
repeating. So horrible! dear, dear Lettice—and
, your shawl is quite wet, and so is your bonnet,

poor, dear girl. Why did you not put up your um-‘

brella ?”

'“ For a very good reason, dear Miss Melwyn; be-
cause I do not possess one.” '

“Call me Catherine, won’t you ? or I will not
I speak to you again.” But Mrs. Danvers’s inquirin
looks seemed now to deserve a little attention.
She seemed, impatient to have the enigma of this
strange scene solved. Catherine caught her eye,
slidturning from her friend, with whom she had

11 so much absorbed as to forget everything

9158. She said:

“ Lettice Arnold is a clergyman’s daughter,
malam it ~ _

“ I ileum to think something of that sort,” said ‘

Mrs. Danvers; “ but, my'dear young lady, What
can have brought you to this terrible state of des-
titutlon ?" ’ ' . ,

 

“ Misfortune upon misfortune, madam. My
father was, indeed; aclergyman, and held the little
vicarage of Castle Rising. There Catherine,” look-
ing affectionately up at her, "met me upon her
visits to her aunt, Mrs. Montague.”

“We have known each other from children,"
put in Catherine.

The door opened, and Reynolds appeared:

“The cab is waiting, if you please, Miss Mel-
wyn.”

“ Oh, dear! oh, dear! I can’t go just this mo-
ment. Bid the man wait.”

“It is late already,” said Reynolds taking out
his watch. “ The train starts in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! and when does the next
go? I can’t go by this. Can I, dear Mrs. Danvers 2’
It is impossible.”

“ Another starts in an hour afterward.”

“ Oh! that will doe—tell Sarah to be ready for
that. Well, my dear, go on, go on—dear Lettice,
you were about to tell us how all this happened
—but just another cup of tea. Do you like it
strong ‘2” r

“I like it any way,”~said Lettice, who was be-
ginning to recover her spirits, “I have not tasted
anything so comfortable for a very long time.”

“ Dear me! dear me i"

“You must have suffered very much, I‘fear, my
dear young lady," said Mrs. Danvers, in a kind voice
of interest, “before you could have sunk to the
level of that miserable home where I found

on.”

“Yes,” said Lettice. “ Every one suffers very
much, be the descent slow or rapid, when he has
to fall so far. But what were my sufferings to poor
Myra’s l”

“And why were your sufferings as nothing in
comparison with poor Myra’s ?”

“Ah, madam, there are some in this world not

particularly favored by nature or fortune, who

were born to be denied; who are used to it from
their childhood—it becomes a sort of second na~
ture to'them, as it were. They scarcely feel it.
But a beautiful girl, adored by an old relation, ac-
customed to every sort of indulgence and luxury!
They doated upon the very ground she trod on.
Oh! to be cast down to such misery, that is dread-
ful.” ,

“ I don’t see—I don’t know,” said Catherine,
who, like the world in general, however much they
might admire, and however much too many might
flatter Myra, greatly preferred Lettice to her sis-
ter.

“ I don’t know,” said she, doubtingly.

, “ Ah! but you would know if you could see 1”
said the generous girl. “ If you .could'see what
she suffers from everything—4mm things that I do
not even feel, far less care for—you would be so
sorry for her.” '

Mrs, Danvers looked with increasing interest
upon the speaker. She seemed to wish to go on
with the conversation about this sister, so, much
pitied; so she said, “I believe what you say is very
true. Very true, Catherine, in spite of your skep-
tical looks. Some people really do suffer very
much more than others under the same circum-
stances of privation. ‘

“Yes, selfish people like Myra,” thought Cathe-

rine, but she said nothing. ‘
, “ Indeed, madam, it is so. They seem to feel
everything so much more. Poor Myra—J can sleep
like a top in our bed, and she very often cannot
close her eyes—and the close room, and the poor
food. I can get along—I was made to rough it,
my poor aunt always said-but Myra !”

“ Well but,” rejoined Catherine, “ do pray tell
us how you came to this cruel pass? Your poor
father ”~———-- ”

“His illness was very lingering and very painful
-——and several times a surgical operation was re.
quired. My poor mother could not bear—could any
of us ?——to have it done by the poor blundering
operator of that remote village. To have a surgeon
from Nottingham was very expensive; and then

.the medicines; and the necessary food and attend

ance. The kindest and most provident father
cannot save much, out ’of one hundred and. ten
pounds a year, and what was saved was soon all
no.”  . _  ~ »
“ Well, well,” repeated, Catharinaher eyes fixed
with intense interest upontho speakers; ‘ , »
“His deathbed was a painful scone," Lattice

 

went on, her face displaying her emotion, whileshe
with great effort restrained her tears: “ he trusted
in God ;. but there was a fearful prospect before
us, and he could not help trembling for his child-
ren. Dear, dear father! he reproached himself for
his want of faith, and would try to strengthen us,
‘ but the flesh,’ he said, ‘ was weak.’ He could not
look forward without anguish. It was a fearful
struggle to be composed and ,confiding—he could
not help being anxious. It Was for us, you know,
not for himself.” -

“Frightfull” cried Catherine, indi antly;
frightful! that a man of education, a so olar, “a
gentleman, a man of so much activity in deing
good, and so much power in preaching it, should be
brought to this. One hundred and ten pounds a
year, was that all? How could you exist ‘2” i. g ' L

“ We had the house and the garden besides,,you
know, and my mother was such an excellent mun-
ager; and my father! N 0 religious of the severest
order was ever more self-denying, and there was
only me. My Aunt Price, you know, took Myra——
Myra had been delicate from a child, and was so
beautiful, and she was never made to rough it, my
mother and my aunt said. Now, I seemed made
expressly for the purpose,” she added, smiling
with perfect simplicity. '

“ And his illness, so long! and so expensivel”
exclaimed Catherine, with a sort of cry. '

“ Yes, it was—~and to see the pains that‘he tool:
that it should not be expensive. He would be
quite annoyed if my mother got anything nicer
than usual for his dinner. She used to be obiigedto
make a mystery of it; and we'were forced almost
to go dbwn upon our knees to get him to have the
surgeon from Nottingham. Nothing but the idia.
that his life would be more secure in such hands
could have persuaded him into it. ' He knew how
important that was to us. As for the pain which
the bungling old doctor hard by would have given
him, he Would have home that'rather than have
spent money. Oh, Catherine! there have been
times upon times when I have envied the poor
They have hospitals to go to; they are not ashamed
to ask for a little wine from those who have it:
they can beg when they are in want of a morsel of
bread. It is natural. It is right—Ahoy feel it to
be right. But oh! for those, as they "call it,
better born,’and educated to habits of thought like
those of my poor father! Want is, indeed,
like an armed man, when he comes into their
dwellings.” , ' 1»

“Too true, my dear young lady,” said Mrs. Data
vers, whose eyes were by this time moist ;‘ “but
on, if it does not pain you too much, your story ,
excessively interesting. There is yet a wide st’qi
between where your relation leaves us, and where I
found you.” , - ' " = " 'v

“We closed his eyes at last in deepsorrow.
Excellent man, he deserved a better lot if 80 at
least, it seems to me—but who knows? Nay. he
would have reproved me for saying so. silo mod
to say of himself, so cheerfully, ‘ It’s a rough road,
but it leads to agood place.’. Why could; Ecan
feel this for his wife and children! H; {mind
that so very difficult l” ' a ,7 p; a 

“He was an excellent and ad ' haul
said Catherine. Well?” i - .v .v  "

“Well, my dear, when he had closed villi W
there was his funeral. » We could not bowie -.
ish funeral. The veriest «pauper hosts“; 1’
toward the dead which revolts at that. ' We dklit,
as simply as wepossibly could, consistently with
common decency; but they charge so enormously
for such things; andmypoOr' mother Would not
contest it. When I remonatrated a littlepand said
I thought it was right,“ «to prevent othersibeing
treated in the same way, who could not better
afford it than we could, I never shall forget my

mother’s face: ‘I dare say-ayes, you are right,

Lattice; quite right-«but not this—not  ,1
cannot debate this matter. Forgive me, dear girl;
it is weak-but I cannot.’ - ~ ’ M
“This expense exhausted all that Vfllfift 01’
our little money; only a few pounds remained when
our furniture had been sold, and we were 011“
to give up possession of that dear, deaf, little Par“
sonagc, and we were withOut a 1136!“) shelter “3-
You remember it. Catherinel" , H l -'
.“Rememheritl patentser 1 60' Th“ 5““?
litth $3902. The tiny house. all covered we 
with , ey‘suckies find W' 3"" We“

1

they did smell. And your flower-garden, Lettiee,
how you used to work in it. It was that which
made you so halo and strong, Aunt Montague said.
She adrhired your industry so, you can’t think.
She used to say you were worth ‘a'wholebundle of
fine ladies.” ,. '

“Did she P" and Lettice smiled» again. She
was beginning to look cheerful, in spite of her
dismal story. There was something so inveter-
ately cheerful in that temper, that nothing could
entirely subdue it. The warmth of her generous
nature it was that kept the blood and spirits flow.

, “ It was a sad day when we parted from it. My
fiat; mother! How she kept looking back—look-

g back~striving not to cry; and Myra was
drowned in tears.” -'

“ And what didyou do i’”

“I am sure I don’t know; I was so sorry" for
them both; I quite forget all the rest.”
." “But how came you to London? " asked Mrs.
Danvers. “Everybody, without other resource,
seems to come to London. The worst place, especi-
ally for women, they can possibly. come to.
People are so completely lost in London. Nobody
dies of want, nobody is utterly and entirely desti-
tute of help or friends, except in London.”
, “A person we knew in the village, and to whom
inyfather had been very kind, had a son who was
em loyed in one of the great linen-warehouses,
 he, promised to endeavor to get us needle-

work; and we flattered ourselves, with industry,

we should, all three together, do pretty well. So
We came to London, and took a small lodging, and
furnished it with the remnant of our furniture.
We had our clothes, which, though plain enough,
were a sort of little property, you know. But
when we came to lea’rn the prices they actually
paid for work, it. was really frightful! Work
fourteen hours a day a iece, and we could only

, gain between three and our shillings aweek each

~sometimes hardly that. There was our lodging
to, pay, three shillings, a week, and six shillingsj
left for firing and food for three people; this was.
in the weeks of plenty. Oh! it was frightful l”

“ Horrible l” echoed Catherine.‘

“ We could not 4 bring ourselves down to it at
mice. WolIOped and flattered ourselves that by-
andob‘ye we should get some work that, would pay
better; and when we wanted alittle more food, or
in very cold days a little more fire, we were
tempted to sell or pawn one article after another.
Atlast my mother fell sick, and then all went;
she died, and she had a pauper’s funeral,” concluded

' Lattice, turning very pale.

They, were all three silent. , At last Mrs. Danvers

.beganagun:
, » That was not the lodging I found you in i”

“ No, madam, that was too expensive“ We left
Mend weonly. pay onemid—sixpence a. week for

{thitdho furniturebein our own.”
 ~ “Theeabis at the

, Miss Melwyn,” again
vRoynolds.‘

i- “Obfdearl oh, dear-l. I can’t go, indeed, Mrs.

Denvegs, I'mn’t go ;” with a pleading look, “may
i‘istay one-day. longer t”
“.lfost gladly would I keep you, my dearest love;

“but you fatherrund motherw-and they will have

sent to meet you.”

, “And-suppose theyhave, John must go back ;
 my, stay,.Sarah shall go and take all my
boxes, and say I am coming to-morrow; that will
do.” ‘

“‘ And youtravel alone by railway? Your moth-
mwillinem like that." _

“I m ashamed,” cried Catherine, with energy,
to think of such more conventional difficulties,
 I. stand in the presence of real misery.
 myzdear Mrs. Danvers, my mother will be
quite satisfied when she hears why I staid. I must
been insouibie mature if I could go away with-
out seeing more of dear Lattice."

‘ Lattice'looked up so pleased, o grateful, so hop.

0

Vi.

W“ Well, my’love, I think your mother will not be
nneasy,‘ as Sarah goes; and I just remember Mrs.
Sands travels your way tomorrow, so she will take
care area; for taken care of you nus: be, my
{retry Catherine, till you are a little less youngH
and somewhat less handsome.” .
And she patted the sweet, full, rosy cheek.

LETTIC'E ARNOLD.

Catherine was very pretty indeed, if you care to
know that, and so it Was settled.

And now, Letticc having enjoyed a happier hour
than she had known for many a long day, began to
recollect herself, and-to think of poor Myra.

She rose from her chair, and taking up her bon-
net and shawl, which Catherine had hung before
the fire to dry, seemed preparing to depart.

Then both Catherineand Mrs. Danvers began to
think of her little bill, which had not been settled
yet. Catherine felt excessively awkward and un-
comfortable at the idea of offerin her old friend
and companion money; but Mrs. anvers was too
well acquainted with real misery, had too much ap-
probation for that spirit which is not above earn-
ing, but is above begging, to have any embarrass-
ment in such a case.

“Catherine, my dear,” she said, “ you owe Miss
Arnold some money. Had you not better settle it
before she leaves ‘2”

Both the. girls blushed.

“Nay, my dears,” said Mrs. Danvers, kindly:
“why this? I am sure,” coming up to them, and
taking Lettice’s hand, “ I hold an honest hand here,
which is not ashamed to labor, when it has been
the will of God that it, shall be by her own exer-
tions that she obtains her bread, and part of the
breadof another, if I mistake not. What you
have nobly earnedas nobly receive. Humiliation
belongs to the idle and the dependent, not to one
who maintains herself.”

The eyes of Lettice glistened, and she could not
help gently pressing the hand which held hers.

Such sentiments were congenial to her heart.
She had never been able to comprehend the con-
ventional distinctions between what is honorable
or degrading, under the fetters of which so many
lose the higher principles of independence—true
honesty and true honor. To work for her living
had never lessened her in her own eyes; and she
had found, with a sort of astonishment, that it
was to sink her in the eyes of others. To deny
herself everything. in food, furniture, clothing, in
order to escape debt, and add in her little way to
the comforts of those she loved, had ever appeared
to/her noble and tpraisexvorthy. She was - as asron-
lshed, as many such a heart has been before her,
with the course of this world’s esteem, too often
measured by what people spend upon themselves,
rather than by what they spare. I cannot get that
story in the newspaper—the contempt expressed
for the dinner of one mutton chop, potatoes, and a
few greens—out of my head.

Catherine’s confusion had, in a moment of weak—
ness, extended to Lettice. She had felt ashamed
to be paid as-a workwomanby oneonce her friend,
and in social rank her equal; but now she raised
her head, with a noble frankness and spirit.

“I am very much oblidged to you for recollect-
ing it, madam, for in truth the money is very much
wanted; and if,” turning to her old friend,
“ my dear Catherine can find me a little more work,
I should be very much obliged to her.”

Catherine again changed color. Work ! she was
longing to offer her money. She had twenty
pounds in her pocket, a present from her god-
mother, to buy something pretty for the wedding.
She was burning with desire to put it into Lattice’s
hand.

She stammered-s-she hesitated.

“ Perhaps you have no more work just now,” said
Lettice. “ Never mind, then; I am sure when
there is an opportunity, you will remember what a
pleasure it will be to mate work for you; and that
a poor needlewoman is ,very much benefitted by
Lhavirfig privatecustomers.”

“ y dear, dear Letticel” and Catherine’s arms
were round her neck. She could not help shedding
a few tears.

“But to return to business,” said Mrs. Danvers,
“for I, see Miss Arnold is impatient to be gone.
What is, your char e, my dear? These, slips are
tucked and beauti ully stiched and. done.”

“ I should not get more than threepence, at most
fourpence, at the. shops for them. Should you
think ninepence an unreasonable charge 1’ I be
have it is what you would pay if you had them
done at the schools.”  I

“ Threepeuce, fourpence, ninep‘cnce! Good
Heavens i” cried Catherine; “so beautifully done
as these are; and then your, needles and thread,

 

you have made no charge, for them.” -

 

“ We pay for those ourselves,” said Lattice.

“ But, my dear,” said Mrs.- Danvers, “what Cath.
erine would have to pay for this work, if bought
from a. linen warehouse, would at least be fifteen
pence, and not nearly so Well done, for these are
beautiful. Come, you must ask eighteen pence;
there are six of them; nine shillings, my dear.”

The eyes of poor Lettice quite glistened. She
could not refuse. She felt that to seem over deli.
cate upon this little enhancement of price would
be really great moral indelicacy. “Thank you,”
said she, “ you are very liberal; but it must only
be for this once. If I am to be your needle.
woman in ordinary, Catherine, I must only be paid
what you would pay to others.”

She smiled pleasantly as she said this; but
Catherine could not answer the smile. She felt
very sad asrshe drew the nine shillings from her
purse, longing to make them nine sovereigns. But

she laid the money at last before Lettice, upon the

table.

Lettice took it up, and bringing out an old dirty
leathern purse, was going to put it in.

“ At least, let me. give you a. better purse,” said
Catherine, eagerly, offering her own handsome one,
yet of a strong texture, for it was her business
purse.

“ They would think I had stolen it,”said Lettice,
putting it aside. “No, thank you, dear, kind
Catherine. Consistency in all things; and my old
leather convenience seems to me much more con-
sistent with my bonnet than your beautiful one.
Not but that I shall get myself a decent bonnet
now, for really this is a shame to be seen. And
so, goodbye; and farewell, madam. When you
have work, you won’t forget me, will you, dear 3’"

“ Oh, Catherine has plenty of work,” put in
Mrs. Danvers, “but somehow she is not quite hcr~
self this morning”—aguin looking at her very,
kindly. “You can not wonder, Miss Arnold, that
she is much more agitated by this meeting than
you can be. My dear, there are those. pocket-
handkerchiefs to be marked, which. we durst not
trust to an unknown person. That will be a pro-
fitable job. My dear, you would have to pay five
shillings apiece at Mr. Morris’s for havingthem
embroidered according to that pattern you fixed
upon, and which I doubt not your friend and her
sister can execute. There are six of them to be

done.”
“May I look at the pattern? Oh, yes! I think
I can do it. I will take the greatest possible

pains, at five shillings each ! Ohl madam l—-—Oh,
Catherine !--what a benefit this will be.”

Again Catherine felt it impossible to speak.
She could only stoop down, take the poor hand, so
foughened with hardships, and raise it to her
ips.

The beautiful handkerchiefs were brought.

“I will only takeone‘at a..time, if you please.
Theseare two valuable to be risked at our lodg-
ings. When I have done this, I will fetchau-
other, and so on. I shall not lose time in getting
thelm done, depend upon it,” said Lattice, cheer-
ful y. r .,
“Take two, at all events, and then Myra. can ‘
help you.”

“ N 0, only one at present, at least, thank you.”

She did not say what she knew to be very true,
that Myra could not help her. Myra’s , fingers
were twice as delicateas her own; and Myra, be-
fore their misfortunes, had mostly spent her time
in ornamental work—her aunt holdin plain sew-
ing to be an occupation rather beneat so beauti-
fu and distinguished a creature. Nevertheless,
when work became of so much importancetothem
all, and. fine work especially, as gaining so much
better a recompense in proportion to the time em-
ployed, Myra’s accomplishments in this way proved
very useless. She had not been accustomed to that
strenuous, and to the indolent, painful efi‘ort, which
is necessary to do anything well. To exercise self~
denial, self-government, persevering' industry, vir-
tuous resistance against weariness, disgust, aching
fingers, and , heavy eyes-temptations which haunt
the indefatigable laborer in such callings, she was
incapable of: the consequence was, that she worked
in a very inferior manner. While Lettice, as soon
as she became aware of the importance of, this , ac.

.eomplisbment as to the means of increasing her

power of addin to her mother’s compr had

, been indefatigab e in her endeavors to accomplish

 

‘LETTICE ARNOLD.

 

w

here'elf in the art, mdeas become awry excel-
lent workwoman. ' r '

 

CHAPTER III.

« ' usk . mela‘nchol s ri , ,
Eggiléfilied the fair face 0’; 11211:? ’—-Poru.

AND now she is upon her way home. And oh!
how lightly beats that honest, simple heart in her
bosom; and, ‘oh! how cheerily sits her spirit upon
its throne. How happily, too, she looks about at
the shops, and thinks of what she shall buy; not
of the very cheapest and poorest that is to be had
for money, but upon what she shall choose .’

Then she‘remembers the fable of the Maid and
the Milk-pail, and grows prudent and prosaic; and
resolves that she will not spend her‘money till she
has got'it. She began'to limit her desires, and to
determine that she will» only lay out six! shillings
this moi'ning, and keep three in her purse, as a re-
source for contingencies. Nay, she begins to grow
a little Martha-like and careful, and to dream about
savingsbanks; and putting 'half-a-crown in, out
of the way of temptation, when she is paid for her
first pocket—handkerchief. ‘ ' ‘

Six shillings, however, she means to expend for
the more urgent wants. Two shillings coals; one
shilling a very, very coarse straw bonnet ; four-
pence ribbon to trim it with; one shilling bread,
and Sixpence potatoes, 8. half-pennyworth of milk,
and then, what is left? -— one shilling and a
penny-half-penny. Myra shall have a cup of tea,
with sugar in it; and a muffin, that she loves so,
and a bit of butter. Four-pennyworth of tea,
three-pennyworth of sugar, twopennyworth of
butter, one penny muliin; and threepence-half-
penny remains in the good little manager’s hands.

She came up the dark stairs of her lodgings so
cheerfully, followed by a boy lugging up her coals,
she carrying the other purchases herself—so
happy ! quite radiant with joy—and opened the
door of the miserable little apartment.

It was a bleak wintry morning. Not a single
ray of the sun could penetrate the grayfleecy cov-
ering in which the houses were wrapped; yet the
warmth of the smoke and the fires was sufficient
so far to assist the temperature of the atmosphere
as to melt the dirty snow; which now kept drip-
ping from the roofs in dreary cadence, and splash-
ing upon the pavement below.

The room looked so dark, so dreary, so dismal!
Such a contrast to the one she had just left 1 Myra
was up, and was dressed in her miserable, half-
w0rn cotton gown, which was thrown round her in
the most untidy, comfortless manner. She could
not think it worth while to care how such a gown
was put on. Her hair was dingy and disordered;
to be sure there was but a broken comb to straight-
en it with, and who could do anything with such
a comb ? She was cowering over the fire, which
was now nearly extinguished, and, from time to
time, picking up bit by bit of the cinder-s, as they
fell up0n the little hearth, putting them on 'ao'ain
~endeavoring to keep the fire alive. |Wretched-
ness in the extreme was visible in her dress, her
attitude, her aspect.

She turned round as Lettice entered, and saying

pettishly, “ I thought you never would come back,‘

and I do so want my shawl,” returned to her former
attitude, with her elbows resting upon her knees,
and herf‘chin upon the palms'of her hands.

“ I have been a sad long time, indeed,” said
Lettice, good-humoredly; “ you must have been
tired to death of waiting for me, and wondering
‘ what I could be about. But' I’ve brought some-
thing back! which, will make you amends.‘ And
in the first place, here’s your shawl,” putting it
over her, “ and thank you far the use of its—though
I would not ask your leave, because I could not
bear to woken you. But I was sure you would
lend it rue—and now for the fire. For once in a.
waywe will have a good one. There, Sim, bring
in the coals, put them in that wooden box there.
Now for a good lump or two.” And on they went;
and the expiring fire began to crackle and sparkle,
and make a pleased noise, and a blaze soon caused
even that room to look a little cheerful.

“Oh,” dear! I am so glad we may for once he
allowed to have coal enough to put a spark of hfe
into us.”'said M V

Lettice-had amiss time filled the little old (tin
kettle, and was putting it upon the tire, and then

 

,

she fetched an old tea-pot with a .broken spout,
a saucer without a cup, and a cup without a saucer;
and putting the two together, for they were usually
divided between the sisters, said :

“I have got Something for you which I know
you will like still better than ablaze, a. cup of tea.
And to warm your poor fingers, see if you can’t
toast yourself this muffin,” handing it to her upon
what was now a two-pronged, but had once been a
three-pronged fork.

“ But ,what have you got for" yourself?” Myra
had at least the grace to say.

“ Oh! I have had such a breakfast. And such
a thing has happened! but I cannot and will not
tell you till you have had your own breakfest, poor,
dear girl. You must be ravenous~at least, I
should be in your place—but you never seem so
hungry as I am, poor Myra. HoweVer, I was sure
you could eat amufiin."

“ That was very good-natured of you, Lettice, to
think of it. It will be a. treat. But oh! to think
that we should be brought to this—to think a
muflin——one muffin—a treat!” she added dis-
mally. '

“Let us be thankful when we get it, however,"
said her sister; “ upon my word, Mrs. Bull has
given us some very good coals. Oh, how the kettle
does enjoy them! It must be quite a treat to our
kettle to feel hot—poor thing! Lukewarm is the
best it mostly attains to. Hear how it buzzes and
hums, like a pleased child.”

And so she prattled, and put a couple of spoon-
fuls of tea into the cracked teapot. There were
but about six in the paper, but Myra liked her tea
strong, and she should have it as she pleased this
once. Then she poured out a cup, put in some
milk and sugar, and, with a smile of ineffable
affection, presented it, with the muffin she had
buttered, to her sister. Myra did enjoy it. To
the poOr, weedy, delicate thing, a cup of good tea,
with something toeat that she could relish, was a
real blessing. Mrs. Danvers was right ' so far:
things did really go much harder with her than
with LettiCe; but then she made them six times
worse by her discontent and murmuring spirit, and
Lettice made them six times better by her cheerful-
ness and generous disregard of self.

While the one sister was enjoying her breakfast,
the other, who really began to feel tired, was very
glad to sit down and enjoy the fire. So she took
the other chair, and, putting herself upon the

opposite side of the little table, began to stretch out p

her feet to the fender, and feel herself quite com-
fortable. Three shillings in her purse, and three-
pence halfpenny to do just what she liked with!
perhaps buy Myra a roll for tea; there would be
butter enough left.

Then she began her story. But the effect it pro-
duced was not exactly what she had expected. In-
stead of sharing in her sister’s thankful joy for
this unexpected deliverance from the most abject
want, through the discovery of a friend—«able and
willing to furnish employment herself, and to
recommend them, as, in her hopeful view of things,
Lettice anticipated, to others, and promising them
work'of 'a description that would pay well, and
make them quite comfortable—Myra began to
draw a repining centrast between Catherine’s situ-
ation and her oWn.‘ ,

The poor beauty had been educated by her silly
and romantic old aunt to look forward to making
some capital match. “ She had such a sweet pretty
face, and so many accomplishments of mind and
manner,” for such was the way the old woman
loved to talk. Accomplishments of mind and
manner, by the way, are indefinite things; any.
bodymay put in a claim for them on the part of
anyone. As for the more ositive acquirements
which are to be seen, handle , or heard and appre~
ciated-such as dancing, music, languages, and so
forth, Myra had as slender a portion of those as
usually falls 'to the lot of indulged, idle, nervous
girls. The poor beauty felt all the bitterness of
the deepest mortification at what she considered
this cruel contrast of her fate as compared to
Catherine’s She had been indulged in that pemi.
cious habit of the mind—the making claims. “With
claims no better than her own,” washer expres.
sion. For though Catherine had more 'money,
everybody: said Catherine was only pretty, which
last sentence implied that there was another per.

 

son of Catherine’s acquaintance, who was posi.
tively and extremely beautiful. , , , _

Lettice, happily for herself, had never been: ac.
customed to make “claims.”
never distinctly understoodwhOm such claims were
to be made upon. She could not see why it was

very hard that other people should be happier than .

herself. I am, sure she would have been very
sorry if she had thought that everybody was as un-
comfortable.

She was always very sorry when she heard her
sister talking in this manner, partly because she
felt it could not be quite right, and partly because
she was sure it did no good, but made matters a
great deal worse; but she said nothing. Exhorta—
tions, indeed, only made matters worse; nothing
offended Myra so much as an attempt to make her
more comfortable, and to reconcile lun- to the'iate
she complained of as so hard. . I

Even when let alone, it would often be some
time before she recovered her good humor; and
this was the case how. I am afraid she was a

little vexed that Lettice and not herself had met "

with the good luck first to stumble upon Cathe-
rine, and ‘ also a little envious of the pleasing‘im-
pression it was plain her sister had made. So she
began to fall foul of Letticc’s new bonnet, and to
say, in a captions tone : I _ V

“ You got money enough to buy yourself I. new
bonnet, I see”. .

“ Indeed, I did,” Lettice answered, with simpliog
ity. “It was the very first thing I thought; of.
Mine was such a wretched thing,.and wetted with

the snow—the very boys booted at it. . Poor old '

friend i” said she, turning it upon her hand, “you

have lost even the sha e andpretension to be a.

bonnet. What must I o with thee? The back of
the fire ? Sad fate! No, generous companion, of

my cares and labors, that shall not be thy des-
tin '.
firg; and that will be the best satisfaction to "thy
generous manes.” '

“My bonnet is not so very much better,” said
Myra, rather sulkily. '

“Not so very much, alas! but better, far better
than mine. And, besides, confess, please, my dear,
that you had the last bonnet. Two years ago, it’s
true; but mine- had seen three; and then, remem-
ber, I am going into grand company again tomor-
row, and must be decent.” ,

This last remark did not sweeten Myra’s tem-

er.

“ Ohl I forgot. Of course you’ll keep your good
company to yourself. I am, indeed, not fit to be
seen in it. But you’ll want a new gown and a new
shawl, my dear, though, indeed, you can always
take mine, as you did this morning.”

“ Now, Myra l ” said Lettice, “can you  be.

so naughty? Na , you are cross; I see it in your
face, though you won't look at me. Now don’t be
so foolish. Is it not all the same to us both ? ,Are
we not in one box? If you wish for the new bon-
net, take it, and I’ll take yours: 'I don’t care,,m,y
dear. You were always used to be more ‘ hand.
somely dressed than me——it muSt seem quite odd
for you not to be so. I only want to be 
when I go about the work, which I shall have 
do often, as I told you, because I dare nothsve
two of these expensive handkerchiefs in my 
sion at once. Dear me, girl! Have we notjtrouhles
enough? For goodness’ sake. don’t letgus 
them. There, dear, take the bonnet, and I‘ll 
yours; but I declare, when, I look at the wane
is so horribly coarse, yours, oldies, it is,.,_looks the
genteeler to my mind,” laughing. '_ ' I,

So thought Myra, and kept her own bonnet, Let;
tiee putting upon it the pieoeof new ribbonshu
had bought, and after smoothing and rubbing
faded one upon her sister’s, trimming with ‘1; ha;
own. 1 ,
The two friends in Green Street'sat 
a short time after the door had-closed “mam
tice; and then Catherine began; , . ; J ',

“ More astonishing things happen incite 
world than one ever finds in a book. ' I‘msuré if
such a reverse of fortune as this had been 
to me in a story, I should at once have declarod‘it
to  impossnble. I could not have believed it
credible that, in a society such as curb-full of all

sorts of kind, good-natured people. who are daily <9
. p n amiable girl like u
this, the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of .

doing so much for the

She had, indeed,

Useful to the last, thou light tomorrow’s,

«.

 

 

 

LET T101? ARNOLD.

 

lngland, could be suflered to sink into such abject
poverty.” A v ' ‘

“‘Ah! my dear Catherine, that shows you have
only seen life upon one side, and that its fairest
side—as it presents itself in the country. You
cannot im 'ne what a dreadful thing it may
prove in rge cities. It cannot enter into
the head of man to conceive the horrible contrasts
of large cities—the dreadful destitution of large
cities—aha awful solitude of a crowd. In the
country, I think, such a thing could hardly have
happened, however great the difficulty is of helping
those who still preserve the delicacy and dignity
with regard to money matters, which distinguishes

finer minds-but in London what can be done?

Like lead in the mighty waters, the moneyless and
friendless sink to the bottom. Society in all its
countless degrees closes over them; they are lost in
its immensity, hidden from every eye, and they per-
ish as an insect might perish ;‘ amid the myriads
of its kind, unheeded by every other living crea-
ture. Ah, my love! if your walks lay where mine
havidone, your heart would bleed for these desti-
tute women, born to better hopes, and utterly ship-
Wrecked.”

“ She was such adear, amiable gir .” Catherine
went ' 'on, “ so cheerful. so sweet-tempered—so
clever in all that one likes to see people clever
about! Her mother was a silly woman.”

“ So she showed, I fear, by coming to London,"

aid Mrs. Delivers.

“She was so proud of Myra’s beauty, and she
seemed to think so little of Lettice. She was al-
ways prophesying that Myra would make a great
match; and so did her aunt, Mrs. Price, who was
nowiser than Mrs. Arnold ; and they brought up
the poor girl to such a conceit of herself—to ‘ not
to do this,’ and ‘it was beneath her to do that ’—
and referring every individual thing to her comfort
and advancement, till, poor girl, she could harly es~
cape growing, what she certainly did grow into, a
very spoiled, selfish creature. While dear Lettice
in her simplicity—that simplicity ‘ which thinketh
no evil'-—-took it so naturally, that so it was, and
so it ought to be; that sometimes one laughed,
and sometimes one felt provoked, but one loved
her above all things. I never saw such a. temper.”

“ I dare say,” said Mrs. Danvers, “that your in-
tention in staying in town to-day was to pay them
a visit, which, indeed, we had better do. I had
onlya glance into their apartment the other day,
but it occurred to me that they wanted common
necessaries. Ignorant as I was of who they were,
I was‘thinkin to get them put upon Lady A——-—-’s
coal and Harriet list, but that cannot very well be
done now. However, presents are always permit-
ted under certain conditions, and the most delicate
receive them; and,really this is a case to waive a
feeling of‘that sort in some measure. As you are
mold friend and acquaintance, there can be no
harm in a 'few presents before you leave town.”

“So I was thinking, ma’am, and I am very im-
patient to go and see them, and find out what they
may be most in wept of.”

. “Well, my dear, I do not see why we should
less time, and I will order a cab to take us, for it
is’rather‘too far to walk this terrible day.”

They soon arrived at the place I have described,
and descending from their cab, walked along in
from of this row of lofty houses looking upon the
grave , and inhabited by so much human mis-
ery. he doors of most of the houses stood open,
for they were all let in rooms, and the entrance and
staircase were common as the street. What forms
of human misery and degradation presented them.
calves during one short walk which I once took
there‘flth afriend employed upon a. mission of,

mercy. l , ,

.  in its most fri htful form, panting to in-
hale olith fresh air. goualid misery, the result
ofth'e'gin’ishop—decent misery ready to starve.
Womanisimt up in one room with great heartless,
brutal, disobedient boys—sickness resting untended
upon its solitary bed. Wailing infants—scolding
motherswhumannamre under its most object and
degraded forms. No thrift, no economy, no at~
lamps at cleanliness and order. Idleness, reckless-
ness, dirt, and wretchedness. Perhaps the very
macs ore of towns; perhaps these close, illoven-
ti rooms; most certainly the poisonous gin.
shop, engender a related state of nerves and mus-
“arltlch deprives people of the spirits ever to

w

 

attempt to make themselves a little decent. Then
water is so dear, and dirt so pervading the very at-
mosphere. Poor things, ,they give it up; and ac-
quiesce in, and become accustomed to it, and “ avec
cm malheu‘r sourd dent l’on ne se rend pas compte,”
gradually sink and sink into the lowest abyss of
habitual degradation.

It is difficult to express the painful sensations
which Catherine experienced when she entered the
room of the two sisters. To her the dirty paper,
the carpetless floor, the miserable bed, the worm-
eaten and scanty furniture, the aspect of extreme
poverty which pervaded everything, were so shock-
ing, that she could hardly restrain her tears. Not
so Mrs. Danvers.

Greater poverty, even she could rarely have
seen ; but it was too often accompanied with what
grieved her more, reckless indifference, and moral
degradation. Dirt and disorder, those agents of
the powers of darkness, were almost sure to be
found where there was extreme want; but here the
case was different. As her experienced eye glanced
round the room, she could perceive that, poor as
was the best, the best was made of it; that a cheer-
ful, active spirit—the “How to make the best of
it”-—that spirit which is like the guardian angel of
the poor, had been busy here.

The floor, though bare, was clean; the bed,
though so mean, neatly arranged and made; the
grate was bright ; the chairs were dusted ; the poor
little Plenishing neatly put in order. N 0 dirty gar-
ments hanging about the room; all carefully folded
and put away they were; though she could not, of
course, see that, for there were no half-open
drawers of the sloven, admitting dust and dirt, and
offending the eye. Lettice herself, with hair neatly
braided, her poor worn gown carefully put on, was
sitting by the little table, busy at her work, looking
the very picture of modest industry. Only one fig-
ure offended the nice moral sense of Mrs. Danvers»
that of Myra, who sat there with her fine hair
hanging round her face, in long, dirty, disheveled
ringlets, her feet stretched out and pushed slipshod
into her shoes. With her dress half put on, and
hanging over her, as the maids say, “ no how,” she
was leaning back in the chair, and sewing very
languidly at a very dirty piece of work which she
held in her hand.

Both sisters started up when the door opened.
Lettice’s cheeks flushed with joy, and her eye spar-
kled with pleasure as she rose to receive her guests,
brought forward her only other chair, stirred the
fire, and sent the light of a pleasant blaze through
the room. Myra colored also, but her first action
was to stoop down hastily to pull up the heels of
her shoes; she then cast a hurried glance upon her
dress, and arranged it a little—occupied as usual
with herself, her own appearance was the first
thought—and never in her life more disagreeably.

Catherine shook hands heartily with Lettice,
saying, “We are seen met again, you see;” and
then went up to Myra, and extended her hand to
her. The other took it, but was evidently so ex—
cessively ashamed of her poverty, and her present
appearance, before one who had seen her in better
days, that she could not speak, or make any other
reply to a kind speech of Catherine’s, but by a few
unintelligible murmurs.

“ I was impatient to come,” said Catharine—she
and Mrs. Danvers having seated themselves upon
the two smaller chairs, while the sisters at together
upon the larger one—9‘ because you know, I must
go out of town so very soon, and I wanted to call
upon you, and have a little chat and talk of old
times—and, really—really ”-—-—-—- she hesitated.

Dear, good thing, he was so dreadfully afraid of‘

mortifying either of the two in their present fallen
state.

“And, really—really,” said Mrs. Danvers, smil.
ing, “out with it,,my love—really——really, Lettice,
Catherine feels as I am sure you would feel if the
cases were reversed. She cannot bear the thoughts
of her own prosperity, and at the same time think
of your misfortunes. I told her I was quite sure
you would not be hurt if she did for you, what I
was certain you would have done in such a case for
her, and would let her make you a little more com-
fortable before she went. The poor thing’s wed-
ding-day will be quite spoiled by thinking about
you, if you won’t, Lettice.”

Lettice stretched out her hand to Catherine by
way of answer; and received in return the most

 

tented, and happy, that it did

 

,‘m‘

v~

warm and affectionate squeeze. Myra was very}
glad to be made more comfortable—there was no
doubt of that; but half offended, and determined
to be as little obliged as possible. And then,
Catherine going to be married too. ‘How hard !-—-
every kind of good luck to be heaped upon ker, and
she herself so unfortunate in every way.

But nobody cared for her ungracious looks.
Catherine knew her of old, and Mrs. Danvers un-
derstood the sort of thing she was in a minute.
Her walk had lain too long amid the victims of
false views and imperfect moral training, to he sur-
prised at this instance of their effects. The per-
son who surprised her was Lettice.

“Well, then,” said Catherine, now quite relieved,
and looking round the room, “ where shall we be-
gin? What will you have? What do you want
most? I shall make you wedding presents, on
see, instead of you making them to me. W en
your turn comes you shall have your revenge.” "

“Well,” Lettice said, “what must he must be,
and it’s nonsense playing at being proud. I am
very much obliged to you, indeed, Catherine, for
thinking of us at this time; and if I must tell you
what I should be excessively obliged to you for, it
is a pair of blankets. Poor Myra can hardly sleep
for the cold.”

“It’s not the cold—it’s the wretched, hard,
lumpy bed,” muttered Myra.

This hint sent Catherine to the bed-side.

- “Oh, dear! oh, dear l” cried she, piteously,
“poor dear things, how could you sleep at all? Do
they call this a bed? and such blankets! Poor
Myra l” her compassion quite overcoming her dis-
like. “ No wonder.‘ My goodness l my goodness!
it’s very shocking indeed.” And the good young
thing could not help crying.

“Blankets, dear girls! and a mattress, and a
feather bed, and two pillows. How have you lived
through it? And you, poor Myra, used to be
made so much of. Poor girl! I am so sorry for
you.” ' '

And oh, how her heart smote her for all she
had said and thought to Myra’s disadvantage.
And oh! how the generous eyes of Lettice beamed
with pleasure as these compassionate wordswere
addressed to her sister. Myra was softened and
affected. She could almost forgive Catherine for
being so fortunate.

“You are very kind, indeed, Catherine,” she
said.

Catherine, now quite at her case, began to ex-
amine into their other wants; and without asking
many questions, merely by peeping about, and
forming her own conclusions, was soon pretty well
aware of what was the most urgent necessity.
She was now quite upon the fidget to be gone, that
she might order and send in the things; and ten
of the twenty pounds given her for wedding—lace
was spent before she and Mrs. Danvers reached
home; that lady lau hing, and lamenting over the
wedding-gown, whic would certainly not be
flounced with Honiton, as Catherine’s good god.
mother had intended, and lookin so pleased, cou—
therine’s heart
good to see her.

 

CHAPTER IV.

“ The swaln in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies sprirf, and sudden verdure rise :
And starts ami the thirsty wilds to hear
New falls of water murm‘rmg in his ear. ’ ’--Pom:.

In the evening Mrs. Danvers seemed rather
tired, and the two out over the fire a long time,
withouta single word being uttered; but, at last,
when tea was finished, and they had both taken
their work. Catherine, who had been in profound
meditation all this time, began: '

“ My dear Mrs. Danvers, are you rested? I have
a great deal to talk to you about, if you will let
me.”

“I must be very much tired, indeed, Catherine,
when I do not like to hear you talk,” was the kind
re 1'. '

rill-s. Danvers reposed very comfortably in her
arm-chair, with her feet upon a footsteol before
the cheerful blazing fire; and ,now Catherine drew
her chair closer, rested her feet upon the fender,
and seemed to prepare herself for a "lar confi-
dential talk with her beloved old frien .

“ My dear Mrs. Danvers, you are such a trier,

 

LETTIC’E ARNOLD.

.J

 

ilioth of my dear mother’s landmine, that I think I
may, without scruple, open my whole heart to you
upon a. matter in which more than myself are con-
cerned. If you think me‘Wrong, stop me,” said
she, laying her hand affectionately upon that of
her friend, and fixing those honest, earnest eyes of
hers upon her lace. ' ,

Mrs. Danvers preSSod her hand, and said:

“ My love, whatever you confide to me you know
is sacred; and if I can be of any assistance to you,
dear girl, I think you need not scruple opening
your mind; for you knova am a sort of general

. mother-confessor to all my acquaintanCe, and am
as seeret as such a profession demands.”

Catherine lifted up the hand; she held it, pressed
it,andcontinued to hold it; then she looked at
the fire a little while, and at last spoke.

“Did you never in your walk in life observe one
evil under the sun, which appears to me to be a
most crying one in many families, the undue influ-
ence exercised by, and the power allowed to ser-
vants 1’”

“Yes, my dear, there are few cf the minOr evils
~——if minor it can be called—that I have thought
productive of more daily discomforts than that.
At times the" evils assume a much greater magni-
tude, and are very serious indeed. Alicnated hearts
--divided families—property to a large amount
unjustly and unrighteously diverted frmn its natu-
‘ ral channel—and misery, not to be told, about old

age and a dying bed.”

Catherine slightly shuddered, and said :

“I have not had an opportunity of seeing much
of the world,'you know; what you say is rather
what I feared it might be, than what I. have actu.
ally observed; but I have had a sort of divination
of what might in future arise. It is inexplicable
to me the power a servant may gum, and the
tyrannical way in which she‘will dare toexercise
it. The unaccountable way in which those who
have every title to command, may be brought to
obey, is scarcely to be believed, and to be inexpli-
cable." ‘

“Fear and indolence, my dear. Weak spirits
and a weak body, upon the one side; on the other,
that species of force which want of feeling, want
of delicacy, want of a nice conscience, want even
of an enlarged understanding—which rough habits
and coarse perceptions bestow. Believe me, dear
girl, almost as much power is obtained in this fool—
lish world by the absence of certain qualities as by
the possession of others. Silly people think it so
nice and easy to govern, and so hard to obey. It
requires 'inany higher qualities, and much more
rule over the spirit to command obedience than to

it.” , i

“ Yes, no doubt,.one does not ,think enough of
that. J eremy‘Taylor, in his Iineprayers, has one
for a, new-married Wife‘just about to enter a fam-
il y ; he teaches her to pray for ‘ a right judgment
in all'things;-not to be annoyed at-trifles; nor

' discomposed by contrariety of accidents;’ a’ spirit
‘to overcome all my infirmities, and comply with

. and bear with the infirmities of others; giving of-
fence to none, but doing good to all .I- can ;’, but I
think he should have added a petition for strength
to rule and guide that portion. of. the household
which—falls under her humediate care, with a firm
and righteous hand, not yielding feebly to the un-
due encroachment of others, not suffering,
thrbugh‘ indolence or a mistaken love of peace,
evil habits to creep over those who look up to us
and depend upon us, to their own infinite injury
as well as toour own. Ah i that is the part of a

‘ woman’s duty hardest to fullill; and I almost
tremble,” said the young bride elect, .“ when I
think how heavy the responsibility; and how hard
I shall find it to acquit myself as I desire.”

" In this as in other‘things,” answered Mrs. Dan—
, vars, afiectiouately passing h‘er.hand‘ over her
‘ young favorite’s smooth and shining hair, “I have
ever observed there is but one portion of real
Strength; one force alone by which we can, move
mountains. But in that strength we assuredly
fire able to move mountains. Was this all that your
’ had to say, my dear ?" , ,
“Oh, non-butuit is so disagreeableéyet 
think. Did you ever notice how things went on at
mm“ mY'dcar friend?”
“Yes”? little I have. One cannot help, you

lation in which the different members of a family
stand to each other.” '

“ I thoughtyou must have done so; that makes
it easier for me~well, then, that was one great
reason which made me so unwilling to leave mam-
man”

“I understand,”

“There is a vast deal of that sort of tyranny ex-
ercised in our family already. Ever since I have
grown up I have done all in my power to check it,
by encouraging my poor, dear inamma,'to exert a
little spirit; but she is so gentle, so soft, so indul-
gent, and so affectionate—for even that comes in
her way. She gets attached to everything around
her. She cannot bear new faces, she says, and
I think the servants know, and take advantage of.
They venture to do as they like, because they
think it will be too painful an exertion for her to
change them.”

“Yes, my dear, that is exactly as things go on;
not in your family alone, but in numbers that I
could name if I chose. It is a very serious evil.
It amounts to a sin in many households. The
waste, the almost vicious luxury, the idleness that
is allowed! The positive loss of what might be
so much better bestowed upon those who really
want it, to the positive injury of those who enjoy
it! The demoralizing effect of pampered habits
—-—the sins which are committed through the-temp-
tation of having nothing to do, will make, I fear,
a. dark catalogue against the masters and mis-
tresses of families; who, because they have money
in abundance, and hate trouble, allow all this mis-
rule, and its attendant ill consequences upon their
dependents. Neglecting ‘to rule with diligence,’
as the Apostle commands us, and satisfied, pro—
vided they themselves escape suffering from the ill
consequences, except as far as an overflowing plen-
tiful purse is concerned. Few people seem to re-
flect upon the mischief they may be doing to these
their half-educated fellow creatures by such negli-
gence.”

Catherine looked very grave, almost sorrowful,

at this speech. She said:
I “ Poormammn~but she cannot help itwiudeed
she cannot. ‘She is all love, and is; gentleness it-
self. 'I‘he blessed one ‘ who thinkcth no evil.’
How can that Randall find the heart to tease her!
as I am sure she does-~though mamma never com-
plains. Aud then, I am afraid, indeed, I feel cer-
tain, when I am gone the evil will very greatly in-
crease. You, pcrhaps, have observed,” added she,
lowering her voice, “ that poor papa makes it par-
ticularly difficult in our family—doubly difficult.
His old wounds, his injured arm, his age and in-
firmities, make. all sorts of little comforts indispen-
sable to him. He suffers so much bodily, and he
suitors, too, so much from littleinconveniences,
that he'cannot bear to have anything done for him
in nu unaccustomed way. Randall and Williams
have lived with us ever since [wasrfive years old
--when poor papa came back, from Waterloo al-
most out to pieces. And he is so fond of them he
will not hear acomplaint against them—not even
from mamma. 011 i it is not her fault—poor,
dear mammal”

“No, my love, such a dreadful sufferer. as the
poor general tea often is, makes things verydifil-
cult at times. ,I understand all that quite well;
but wears still only on the preamble of your dis-
course, my Cutherinc; something more than vain
lamentations is to come of it, I feel sure.” ,

“ Yes, indeed. Dear genemussmamma lg She
would not hearzof my staying with her andgiving
up Edgar; nor would she listen to what he was
noble enough to propose, that he should abandon
his profession and come and live at the Hazels,
rather than that Ishould feel I was tampering
with my duty, for his sake, dear fellow l”

And the tears stood in Catherine’s eyes.

“ Nothing I couldsay would make her listen to
it. I could ‘lnndly'be sorry for Edgar’s sake. I
knew what a sacrifice it would be upon his part
--—,«-uiore {than a woman ought to accept from a
lover, I th’ink-a—aonnnin his dotag’e, as one may
say. *Don’t you think so, too, mu’um gm /

“ Yes, my dear. indeed Ida. Well, go on.”

decided what to (lo—~80 sorry to leave this dear,
generous mother to the mercy of those servants of

. in some cases I have seen all the comfort‘ffillififi

M matter of. pri

“ I have been so perplexed, so unhappy, so uné r

upon the increase—that I have not known what to
do. But to-day, while I was dressing‘for dinner,f,a
sudden, blessed thought came into my mind—really,
just like a flash of light that seemed to put every-
thing clear at once—4am it is about that I want to
consult you, if you will let me. That dear Lettice
Arnold! I knew her from a child. You cannot
think what a creature she is. So sensible, N.
cheerful, so Sweet-tempered, so self-sacrificing, yet
so clever, and firm, and steady, when necessary.
Mamma wants a daughter, and papa wants a reader
and backgammon player. Lettice Arnold is the
very thing.”

Mrs. Danvers made no ansv'ver’. .

“ Don’t you think 80? Are you not sure?
Don’t you see it ?” asked poor Catherine, aux»
iously. . _'

“ Alas! my dear, there is one thing I can‘sca'rce-
ly ever persuade myself to do; and that is—ad-
vise any one to undertake the part of humlflo
friend." I

“ Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know it’s a terrible
part in general; and Ican’t think why.” ,

“Because neither party in general understands
the nature of the relation, ,nor the exchange. .101?
duties it implies. For want of proper 'attention'to
this, the post of governess is often rendered so un-
satisfactory to one side, and so very uncomfortable
to the other, but in that case at least sometime :is
defined. In the part of the humble friend'therd is
really nothing—everything depends upon 4 " the
equity and good-nature of the first party, and. the
candor and good-will of the second. Equity not'fto
exact too much—good-nature to consult the com-
fort and happiness of the dependent. On that de-
pendent’s side, candor in judging of what to. b:-
actcd; and goodwill cheerfully to ‘do' the,‘be’st“in
her power to be amiableandagreeable.” I . , ’

“ I am not afraid of mamma. .She‘will nerve?!»
exacting much. .She will study the up ’of
all who depend upon her; sheonly  itj 

‘ too much, I sometimes think, to the sacrifices“

her oWn comfort, and to thespoiling of 
thoughpapa is sometimes so suffering that he can’t
help being .a little impatient, yet he. isa perfect
gentleman, yen know. As for Lettice“ Arnold, if
ever there was a person who knew ‘ how to make
the best of it,’ and sup cheerfully upon fried
onions ‘when she had lost her piece of roastkid, it
is she. Besides, she is so uniformly good-natur’ed,
that it is quite a pleasure to her to 0in e. The
only danger between dearest momma an 'Lettioo
will be—of their quarreling which shall giveiup
most to the other. But, joking apart, she is a that
deal more than I have said-echo is a romantiny
clever, spirited girl, and shows it when she‘is pulled
upon. - ’ourcannot think how discreeu'lipw

tient, yet how firm, she can  , Her parentsgpor
people, Were very difficult to live with, and‘jjcro '
always running wrong. If it had not "for
Lettice, affairs would have got into dreadfpljdou-
fusion. There is that’in her so right,‘such 
herent downright sense. of propriety and justice
--somehow or other I am Confident she warm
let nanaan tyrannize‘ over mamma‘ theories

one. ’ ' / ‘ ‘ 
“Really,” said Mrs. Danvers, “what ;  f

seems very reasonable. There are e:ng '  
every rule. It certainly is one of miniature ll,

  

little as possible to do in recommeu 
women to the situation of humble;,‘friofi

 

ticipate arise to both parties from shell}: 
tion; and I, own Inever saw a fairer ,“cfiWGESPW
sented manna present; provides retraction»
too strong for you all; which may be fearé'i’.“

“ Well, then, you do not disadvisep'me totalk to r
momma about it, and I‘wili ware to you “soon as
I possibly can; .and you Winfbe kind enough to
negotiate with Lattice} if 5’0“, approve ofithe‘terms.
As for Randall she shall not" be too, hard mo.
Now is my hour; I am in the asceudm,uidfwm
win tlhisfllIaattle. I: perish; that is; Minimalism
.matiag,‘ won’t, e married 11 on." 't  3»
and to have ‘Miss ’ marriedpis ‘  f   ,

die to Mrs. Randall as to tlmt’m
of mothers.” ' i ‘  ' ’

The pontest with Mrs. Randall was as horde at
Catherine, in her worst anticipations, could .hau‘

 

 

..,.    " y.’ “wail

 

herswe-wliose: influence; whenésheisalone, andyith

 hemp elude marble.

  

expected. She set herself niostrlo " lya’ ’im‘t
the,_plan. It, indeed,_,gnilitated ..against at 11.3,
E-~   '3' 15°, ' . ’-

   
   

 

’10

LETTIC’E ARNOLD.

 

far more than ever her, own way when “ Miss
Catherine was gone ;” and thou h she had no doubt
but that she should “ keep t e creature in her
place,”‘and teach her “ there was only one mis-
tress hcrc ” (which phrase usually means the
maid, though it implies the lady), yet she had a
sort of misgivmg about it. There would be one at
her (Mrs. Melwyn’s) ear as well as herself,and at, pos-
sibly her master’s too,which was of still more impor-
tance. 'And then “those sort of people are so
artful and cantankerous. Oh! she’d seen enpugh
of them in her day! Poor servants couldn’t have
a moment’s peace with a creature like that in the
house, spying about and telling everything in the
parlor. One can’t take a walk, or see a poor
friend, or have a bit of comfort, but all goes up‘
there. Well, those may put up with it who like.
Here’s one‘ss won’t, and that’s me myself; and so I
shall :2ka hold to tell Miss Catherine. General
and Mrs. Melwyn must chose between me and the
new-comer." .

Poor Catherine! Mrs. Melwyn cried, and said her
daughter was very right: but she was sure Randall
never would hear it. And the general, with whom
Randall had daily opportunity for private converse
while she bound up his shattered arm, and dressed
the old wound, which was perpetually breaking out
afresh, and discharging splinters of bone, easily
talked her master into the most decided dislike to
the scheme. ‘ ‘

But Catherine stood firm. She had the support
of her own heart and judgement; and the greater
the difficulty, the more strongly she felt the ne-
(tensity~ of the measure. Edgar backed her, too,
with all his might. He could hardly keep down
his vexation at this weakness on one side, and in-
dignation at the attempted tyranny on the other,
Ind he said everything he could think of to en-
courage Catherine to persevere.

She talked the matter well over with her father.
The general was the most testy, cross, and unreas-
this .of old men; always out of humor, because
always sufiering, and always jealous of everybody’s
influence and authority, because he was now too
wealtéand helpless to rule his family with a rod of
iron,:: such as he, the greatest of martinets, had
wielded, in better days in his regiment and in his
household alike. He sufiered himself to be gov-
erned by Randall, and by nobody else; because in
yielding to Randall, there was a sort of conscious.
nose of the exercise office will. He ought to be
influenced by his gentle wife, and clever, sensible
daughter’; but there was no reason on earth, but
because he chose to ,_do it, that he should mind

‘ what Randall said.

“I hate the whole pack of them! I know well
enough what sort of a creature you’ll bring among
us, Catherine. A whining, methodistical old maid,
with a face like a hatchet, and a figure as if it had
been pressed between two boards, dressed in a
flimsy cheap silk, of a. dingy brown color, with a

"cap like a gmnadier’s.‘ ‘ Your mother and she will
be sitting moistening their eyes all day long over
the sheet mankiu ; and, I’ll be bound, my own
line won’tbc forgotten among them. Oh! I know
the pious creatures of old. Nothing they hate
likes poorold veteran; with a naughty word or two
in his mouth now and then. Never talk to me Oath.
 I can’t abide such cattle.”

“Dearest papa; what a icture you do draw!

; just to frighten yourself. by, Lettice Arnold is
mlyabout nineteen, I believe; and though she’s
not particularly pretty, she’s the pleasantest-look.
ingcmture‘ on ever saw. And as for bemoaning
herself over or neighbors’ sins, I’ll be bound she’s
not half such a Methodist as Randall.”

‘A “ Randall is a very pious, good woman, I’d have
you to know, Miss Catherine.”

, “I’m sure I hope she is, papa; but you must
 she makes ,a great fuss about it. And Ibe-
Karo, the habit she has of whisperin and turning
up the whites of her eyes, when 5 e hears of a
neighbor’speooodillos, is one thing which sets you
so itng the righteous, dearest papa; now you
has" it is.”

“You’re a saucy baggage. How old is this

an ou’re trying to put upon us, did you say i”

thm, who’s to read to you, papa, when I am gone,

and play backgammOn? You know momma

r  «broaden account of her ohssnand the
 '

“. y, about nineteen, or, perhaps, twenty. And

 

  at m. at;

it’s so dull, husband and wife playing you know.”
(Poor Mrs. Melwyn dreaded, of all things, back.
gammon; she invariably got ridiculed if she played
ill, and put her husband into a passion if she beat
him. Catherine had long taken this business upon
herself.)

“Does she play backgammon tolcrably? and
can she read without drawling or galloping?”

“Just at your own pace, papa, whatever that
may be. Besides, you can only try her; she’s
easily sent away if you and momma don’t like her.
And then think, she is a peer clorgyman’s daugh-
ter; and it would be quite a kind action.”

“A poor parson’s i It would have been more
to the purpose if you had said a poor officer’s. I
pay tithes enough to the black-coated gentlemen,
without being bothered with their children; and
who ever pays tithes to us, I wonder? I don’t see
what right persons have to marry at all; and then,
forsooth, come and ask other people to take care of
their brats l”

“ Ah l but she’s not to be taken care of for noth-
ing; only think what a comfort she’ll be.”

“To your mamma, perhaps, but not to me. And
she’s always the first person to be considered in this
house, I know very well; and I know very well
who it is that dresses the poor old soldier’s
wounds, and studies his comforts—and he’ll study
hers; and I won’t have her vexed to please any of
you.”

“But why should she be vexed? It’s nothing
to her. She’s not to live with Lettice. And I
must say, if Randall sets herself against this mea-
sure, she behaves in a very unreasonable and un~
worthy manner, in my opinion.” ‘

“ Hoity toity! To be sure; and who’s behaving
in an unreasonable and unworthy manner now, 1
wonder, abusing her behind her back, a worthy
attached creature, whose soul object it is to study
the welfare of us all ?. She’s told me so a thousand
times.” _ -

“ I dare say. Well, now, papa, listen to me. I’m
going away from you for good—your little Cathe-
rine. Just for once grant me this as a favor.
Only try Lettice. I’m sure you’ll like her; and if,
after she’s been here for a quarter of a year, you
don’t wish to keep her, why part with her, and I’ll
promise not to say a word about it. Randall has
her good qualities, I suppose, like the rest of the
world ; but Randall must be taught to keep her place,

and that’s not in this drawing-room. And it’s here «

you want Lattice not in your dressing-room. Randall
shall have it all her own way there, and that ought
to content her. And besides, papa, do you know,
Ican’t marry Edgar till you have consented, be-
cause I cannot leave mamma and you with nobody
to keep )ou company.”

“Edgar and you be d—-——nl Well, do as you
like. The sooner you’re out of the house the bet-
ter. I shan’t have my own way till you’re gone.
You’re a sad coaxing baggage, but you havespret-
ty face of your own, Miss Catherine.”

If the debate upon the subject ran high at the
Hazles,so did it in the little humble apartment which
the two sisters occupied.

“ A humble friend! No,” cried Myra, “ that
I wopld never, never be; rather die of hunger
first.’ ' ‘

“ Dying of hunger is a very horrible thing,” said
Lattice, quietly, “ and much more easily said than
done. I We have not, God be thanked for it, ever
been quite so badly oi? as that; but I have stood
near enough to the dreadful gulf to look down,
and to sound its depth and its darkness. I am
very thankful, deeply thankful, for this offenwhich
I should gladly accept, only what is to become of
you i”

“Ohl never mind me. 'It’s the fashion now, I
see, for everybody to think of you, and nobody to
think of me. I’m not worth caring for, now those
who cared for me are gone. Oh ! pray, if you like
to be a domestic slave yourself, let me be no hind-
mnm».. . I

“ A domestic slave! why should I be a domestic
slave? I see no slavery in the case.”

“ I call it slavery, whatever you may do, to have
nothing to do all day but play toad-eater and flat-
terer to a. good-for—nothing old woman; to bear all
her ill-hunters, and be the butt for all her caprioes.
That’s what humble friends are expected to do, I

believe- whotelsem, «hired for?”
 ~ -

as

said Lattice; and as for hearing people’s ill-homers,
and being new and then the sport of their caprices,
why that, as you say, is very disagreeable, yet, per-
haps,it is what we must rather expect. But Mrs. Mel.
wyn, I have always heard, is the gentlest of human
bring. And if she is like Catherine, she must be
free from caprice, and nobody could help quite 10v.
ing her.” i

“ Stuff—love! love! A humble friend love her
unhumble friend; for I suppose one must not
venture to call one’s mistress a tyrant. Oh, no, a
friend ! a dear friend i” in a taunting ironical
veice.

should try to love; for I believe if one tries to‘
love people, one soon finds something lovable about
them, and Mrs. Melwyn, I feel sure, I should soon
love very much.”

“So like you i ready to love anything and every—
thing. I verily believe if there was nothing else
to love but the little chimneysweeper boy, you’d
fall to loving him, rather than love nobody.”

“I’m sure that’s true enough,” said Lettice,
laughing; “ I have more than once felt very much
inclined to love the little boy who carries 'the soot.
bag for the man who sweeps these chimneys—such
a saucy-looking, little sooty ro he.”

“ As if a person’s love coul be worth having,”
continued the sister, “ who is so ready to love any—
body.”

“No, that I deny. Some few people I do find
it hard to love.”

“Me for one.”

“ Oh, Myra 1”

“Well, I b your pardon. You’re very kind
to me. But I’ 1 tell you who it will be impossi-
ble for you to love—-—if such a thing can be; that’s
that testy, cross, old general.” .

“ I don’t suppose I shall have much to do with
the old general, if I go.” ~

“If you go. Oh, you’re sure to go. You’re so
sanguine; every new prospect is so promising.
But pardon me, you seem quite to have forgotten
that reading to the old general, and playing back-
gammon with him, are among your specified em-
ployments.”

“Well, I don’t see much harm in it if they are.
Amen can’t be very cross with one when one’s
reading to him-—-and as for the backgammon, I mean
to lose every game. if that will please him.”

“Oh, it man can’t be cross with a. reader? I
wish you knew as much of the world as I do, and
had heard people read. I’m sure I’ve been put
into such a worry by people’s way of reading, that
I could have pinched them. Why, nothing on earth
puts one in such a fidget. Really, Lettice, your
simplicity would shame a child of five years old.”

“ Well, I shall do my best, and besides I shall
take care to set my chair so far ed that I can’t
get pinched, at least; and as for a poor, ailing,
sufierin old man being a little impatient and
cross, w y one can’t expect to get fifty pounds a
year fer just doing nothing. I do suppose it is ,
expected that I should bear a few of these
things in place of Mrs. Melwyn; and I don’t see
why I should not.” ’

“ Oh, dear! Well, my love, you’re quite made for
the place, I see; you always had something of the
spaniel in you, or the walnut tree or any of
those things which are the better for being ill- ,
used. It was quite a proverb with our poor
mother, ‘ a worm will turn, but not Lettice.’ ”

Lattice felt very much inclined to turn now.
But the mention of her mother-that mother
whose mismanagement and foolish indulgence had
contributed so much to poor Myra’s faults—Janka
for which she now paid so heavy a penalty—
silenced the generous girl, and show made no
answer. ,

N 0 answer, let it proceed from never so good a
motive, makes cross people often more crass;
tillpugh perhaps upon the whole it is the best

19 :1.

So Myra in a still more querulous voice won;
on:

“This room will be rather dismal all by one's
self, and I don’t know how I’m to go about, up
and down, fetch and carry, and work as you are
able to do. I was never used to it. It, comes
very hard upon me.” And she began to cry

 

"Poor Myra! deprlld gal don’t cry; Inever iu~
mm.  aids.

 

 

“ Whomever it might be my fate to live with, I 

 

 

 

 

it was only in the way of argument, because I
thought more might be said for the kind of life
than you thought; and I felt sure if people were
tolerany kind and candid, I could get along very
Well and make myself quite comfortable. Dear
me! after such hardships as we have gone
through, a. little would do that. 'But do you
think, poor dear girl. I could have a. moment‘s
peace, and know you were here alone? No,
no.”

And so when she went in the evening to carry
her answer to Mrs. Danvers, who had conveyed to
her Catherine’s proposal, Lettice said, “that she
should have liked exceedingly to accept Catherine‘s
ofier, and was sure she should have been very hap~
py herself, and would have done everything in her
power to make Mrs. Melwyn happy, but that it was
impossible to leave her sister.”

If that is your only difficulty, my dear, don’t
make yourself uneasy about that. I have found
a place for your sister which I think she will like
VP“? well. It is with Mrs. Fisher, the great mil-
lmer in Dover street, where she will be taken care
of, and may be very comfortable. Mrs. Fisher is
a most excellent person, and very anxious, not
only about the health and comfort of those she
employs, but about their good behavior and their
security from evil temptation. Such a beautiful
girl as your sister is, lives in perpetual danger,
exposed as she is without protection in this great
town.

“But Myra has such an abhorcnce of servitude, ’

as she calls it—such an independent high spirit—-
I fear she will never like it.”

“ It will be very good for her, whether she likes
it or not. Indeed, my dear, to speak sincerely,
the placing your sister out of danger in the house
of Mrs. Fisher ought to be a decisive reason with
you for accepting Catherine’s proposal—even did
you dislike it much more than you seem to do.”

“Oh! to tell the truth, I should like the plan
very much indeed—much more than Ihave wished
to say, on account of Myra; but she never, never
will submit to be ruled, I fear, and make herself
happy, where, of course, she must obey orders and
follow regulations, whether she likes them or not.
Unfortunately, poor dear, she has been so little

accustomed to be contradicted.”

'" “ Well, then, it is high time she should begin;
for contradicted, sooner or later, we all of us are
Certain to be. Seriously, again, my dear, good
Lettice—I must call you Lettice—your innocence
of heart prevents you from knowing what snares
surround a beautiful young woman like your
sister. I like you best, I own; but 'I have
thought much more of her fate than yours, upon
that account. Such a situation as is offered to
you she evidently is quite unfit to fill; but I
went—the very day Catherine and I came to
your lodgings and saw you both—to my 00d
friend, Mrs. Fisher, and. with great difficulty ave
persuaded her at last to take your sister. She
disliked the. idea very much; but she‘s an ex-
cellent woman; and when I represented to her
the peculiar circumstances of the case, she pro.
raised she would consider the matter. She took
a» week to consider of it—for she is a ver can-
tious person, is Mrs. Fisher; and some poop e call
hervery cold and severe. However, she has dc-
cided in'our favor, as [expected she would. I-Icr
compassion always gets the better of her prudence,
‘ when the two are at issue. And so you would
not dislike to go to Mrs. Mclwyn‘s ?”

“ How could I? Why, after what we have suf-
fered, it must be like going into Paradise.”

“ Nay, nay-a little too fast. N 0 dependent sit~
, nation is ever chctly a Paradise. I should be sor-
ry you saw things in a false light, and should be
disappointed.”

“ Oh, no, no, I do not wish to do that—J don’t
think—thank you far the great kindness and in-
terests you are so kind to show by this last re-
mark, but I think I never in my hfe enjoyed one
day of unmixed happiness since I was quite a. lit-
tle child; and I have got so entirely into the habit
of thinking that everything in the world goes 80—-
that whenMI say Paradise, or quite happy, or so 911,
it is always in a certain sense—a comparative

sense.”

“ I am glad to see you so reasonable, that is one pl

‘9“ V57 to be i py‘ but .yop will find: your
m ume in M a not my

 

LE TTIC’E ARN 0L1}.

sweettempcred; and oven dear mild Mrs. Melwyn
is not perfect.” r ‘

“ Why, madam, what am I to expect? If I can
not bear a few disagreeable things, what do I go
there for? Not to be fed, and housed, and paid at
other people’s expense, just that I may please my
own humors all the time. That would be rather
an unfair bargain, I think. No; I own there are
some things I could not and would not bear for
any consideration ; but there are a great many others
that I can, and I shall, and I will—and do my
best, too, to make happy, and be happy; and, in
short, I don’t feel the least afraid.”

“ N o more you need, you right-spirited creature,”
said Mrs. Danvers, cordially.

Many were the difficulties, endless the objections
raised by Myra against the proposed plan of going
to Mrs. Fisher. Such people’s objections and dif-
ficulties are indeed endless. In their weakness
and their selfishness, they like to be objects of pity
--they take a comfort in bothering and wearying
people with their interminable complaints. Theirs
is not the sacred outbreak of the overloaded heart,
casting itself upon another heart for support and
consolation under suffering that is too strong and
too bitter to be endured alone. Sacred call for
sympathy and consolation, and rarely made in vain!
It is the wearying and futile attempt to cast the
burden of sorrowing and suffering upon others, in-
stead of seeking their assistance in enduring it one‘s
self. Vain and useless endeavor, and which often
bears hard upon the sympathy even of the kindest
and truest hearts!

Inefiectually did Lettice endeavor to represent
matters under a cheerful aspect. Nothing was of
any avail. Myra would persist in lamenting, and
grieving, and tormenting herself and her sister;
bewailing the cruel fate of both—would persist in
recapitulating every objection which could be made
to the plan, and every evil consequence which could
possibly ensue. N ct that she had the slightest in-
tention in the world of refusing her share in it, if
she would have suffered herself to say so. She
rather liked the idea of going to that fashionable
mediate, Mrs. Fisher; she had the “arm do den-
tclle” with which Napoleon reproached poor Jose-
phine. There was something positively delightful
to her imagination in the idea of dwelling among
rich‘silks, Brussels laces, ribbons and feathers; it
was to her what woods, and birds, and. trees were
to her sister. She fancied herself elegantly dress—
cd, walking about a show-room, filled with all sorts
of beautiful things; herself, perhaps the most
beautiful thing in it, and the object of a sort of
flattering interest, through the melancholy cloud
“upon her fine features.” Nay, her romantic im-
aginntlon' traveled still farther-gentlemen some.
times come up with ladies to showrooms—who
could tell? Love at first sight was not al eth.
or a dream. Such things had happened. yrs
had read plenty of old, rubbishy novels when she
was a girl. .

Such were the comfortable thoughts she kept
herself; but it was, as I said, one endless oom-
plaining externally. 4 . ,

Catherine insisted upon being allowed to ad-
vance the money for the necessary clothes, which,
to satisfy the delicacy of the one and the pride of
the'other, she agreed should be repaid by install-
ments as their salaries become due. _ The sale of
their few possessions put a. sovereign or so into the
pocket of each, and thus the sisters parted; the
lovely Myra to Mrs. Fisher’s, and Lettice, by rail~
way, to the Easels. f .

 

CHAPTER V.

.Slnce trifles make the sum of human t y . . .
Oh i let the un entle spirit learn from the co,
* A small unkin ness is a. great offence :
Large favors to bestow we strive in vain,
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain. ’
i v HANNAH moon.
Ir Lettice had made her reflections, and had
started upon her new undertaking with a, heart
yearning with the desire to perform its duties well,
Mrs Melwyn had not been without undergoing a
somewhat similar process upon her side, and this
was her course of thought. ‘ ' >
She had at first felt the utmost dislike to the

e

an. :
She had, in the course of 11¢!th so much

I
'1}.

r "

sidesfmmthissortofconnectionfihatshehadta.

ken up quite a prejudice against anythingrcf the
sort. '

hersolf, “that so it should be, but the case wm
universal. If it could be otherwise, what desin
able connections might be formed in aworld such
as the present! S_uch numbers of women of all
ages, and all degrees of mental qualifications, find
themselves suddenly without resource, through the
accident of early death in the case of the profes-

many others, ‘ through disease or advanced age, or
the still more cruel stroke of death, find them-
selves stranded, lonely and deserted, and languish-
ing for a ureside friend. What comfortable, ben-
eficial unions might be brought about in such
cases, one should think; and,.yet why did they
never or seldom turn out well? ‘ p

“ Faults there must be. Where did they lie?
On both sides,” answered her understanding.
“ Not surely alone upon the side of the new
comer—the. paid one, consqu untly the obliged one,
consequently the only one of the parties who had
duties that she was pledged to perform, and which,
it is true, she too often very imperfectly perfum-
ed—but also upon the other She, it is true, is
pledged to nothing but the providing meat, lodg-
ing, and salary; but that will not dispense her from

universal sisterhood, which are not quite uneasily
discharged.

“ It must double the difficulty to the new-comer,”
thought Mrs. Melwyn, ‘f the being treated so care
lessly as she too often is. How hard it must be

formed in love i and howy'im'possible it must be to
Even to be treated with consideration, and kind-

the other—people must try to me. , .

“ How soothing to a poor, deserted orphan to be
taken to the heart! How sweet to forlorn old age
to find a fresh object of afl’ectionl All, but then
these sort of people seem often so di ,
why do they seem so disagreeable? Partly be-
cause people will overlook nothingwhave no mo-
tual indulgence in relations which require to much.
If one’s child has little ways one does not quite
like, who thinks of hating her for it? If one'o
mother is a little provoking and tedious under the
oppressive weight of years or sicknesqwho thinks
of making a great hardship, of it? But if the poor,
humble friend is only a little awkward 0min”,
she is odious; and if the cor, deserted ' 15. 01'
widow, wife, or aged su ering creature lea little
irritable or tedious, she is melt a'tyrautl

“ Oh, how I wish!

“ Well, Catherine is a, sensible, wclhjudfilgig
creature, pad she assures me this Miss Arnold a
remnrkub y sweet-tom cred, affections
judicious girl. Why should I not try “atrium
a being love me? Why should we not be very
happy together? There is Randall, to be aura, acts
herself extremely against it; but, as Morin.
says, ‘ Is Randall to be mistress in this family. or
am I?’ It is come quite to that point. .Andfllm

 

me and Randall. Shewill not been _ p to
me then, whatever she: may to the  and
when she makes herself so disagreeable'ifthis

says she will be, I reallyisghall not so much care.
“ Then," continuing meditations, which,
though I put down inb deli and white, were

. not spoken, “then (regionalism she is so ‘ fly

to be rifled. and is summons; and she said, in
her darling, coaxing way, ,‘ Dea

you so much pleasure to make the poor filo;

amends for all her hardships, and if your  it
a little, cross at times, it Will he quit; an ten“

to you to contrive to make up for it. She Will, be
quite a daughter to you, and in one respect you
will have more pleasure in making ha hump than

from our natural aflections, and the Other Will be
so from generous beneficence; and though natural
affection is such a swm- precious, inestimable
thing, generous beme is yet holder, and

 

I

usual m 

“ It was a very great pity,” she often said to

sions, or of disaster in commercial life; undoc-

obligations as a Christian, and as amemher of the,

to perform duties such as hers, if theyaro not per»
love in such a case—unless we meet with love. _

ncss will not suffice upon the one side, not am
most scrupulous endeavor to discharge duty upon"

do one‘s best, one cannot love or like them. But-

it will be a great thing to have  

young lady is as comfortable to men‘s Catherine

r'tnamma, lawmgivo .

even your own loving daughter, becauseooe is dear ‘ r

 

 

12

LETTICE ARNOLD.

 

“ If'I could make her love me—and with such
an affectionate temper why should I not? She
wants a parent, I want a child. If I study her
happiness disinterestedly, kindly, truly, she cannot

‘ help loving me; but I will try to study her good,

her well-being: and I will let the love for the come
or not asit may,'a,nd God will help me. He always
does help, me, when I have the courage to dare to
forget myself, and leave the issue of things to His
Providence.”

Such were the dispositions upon both sides with
which the two met. But the best resolutions win
no battle. They are part, and a very serious part
of every undertaking, but they are far from being
all. We'are‘so imperfect ourselves, and we have
to do with such imperfect beings, that'evils and
difiiculties, unexpected, are sure to arise in our

_“eommuni'cation with :others, ,even when both sides
_"meet with the very best intentions; 'therefore,

“whoever intends to carry out such good in-

?tentions,__ find make a right piece of work of it,

‘ must calculate upon these things, just as the me-

chanic is obliged’to make a’ large allowance for
unavoidable obstructions in carrying out any of his
theories into action and reality—into useful, every-

‘ {da _ working prder.‘

11 due “time a fly from the railway—one of those

'_ 'dirty,‘ hired carriages which are the disgrace of

- at the door‘of General Melwyn’s handsome mansion-

Englaudé—deposited Miss Arnold and her luggage

of the Hazels, and in all due form and order she
was introduced into the dining-room. It was be-
tween six and seven o’clock in the evening when

' she entered the very handsomely-furnished apart-

'. which she had come up; and she felt in that dis-‘

_ makes people feel and look so awkward.

ment, where over a half-and-half sort of fire—it

having been rather'a warm February day—sat the

general and his lady.

 Lettice was tired, heated and red with the jumb-
 ofthe railway, the bother at the station, and
the‘knock’ing about in the very uneasy carriage in

agreeable sort of journey disorder of toilet, which
' But
the lit the best face upon the matter, and entering,
mag averyrespeetfu‘l courtesy to‘ Mrs. Melwyn,

' ,wh'o'ni'ét her, holding out her hand; and ’with her
f “,facg'hhd her‘appe'arance Lettice felt 'charmed in a

, moment. , ' , _
 saw that in Lettice, spite of present, disad-

‘1

4

Mrs; Melwyn, who did not want penetra-

v'an es, which ‘she was sure she should like very

Quince. Not the general. ’He was a perfect fool

hotthe eye, lip military inen are' too apt to be.

‘ "Whitteverwas awkward or ill-dressed, was perfectly

' ‘ abhorrent to him; and he took a dislike to “the
 creature ” the moment he cast his eyes upon her.

‘, ‘ Stht in we waiting

‘ fume.” .. , I .
" The general wag  we‘ll bred to utter what he‘

   

I. "a; like lli‘oéelbdiiig1
1i.'."-Ha, Stirred up. . .
‘  it blm'fierccl)'~t’hen 'eomplained‘of these
' abominable stays, which hurried 'like touchwood,

l“

, It seemed but an unpromising beginning.
f The heart {if poor Lettice sunk within her in a
way shd’was little accustomed to, as the general,
in every pettish mood, stirred the fire,"and’ said,
' on are, we_ to have dinner, Mrs. ’Melwyn?
, , for? Will you never teach
that: book of youre to be" punctual ?” ‘ ‘

1' ‘, "4"‘It segue: fault, indeed,” was the“ answer,“

in aglow‘,’tluiid voice; “I ventured to order dinner
'to‘be put half an hour, to' suit the railway

 plainly looked—34th“ to have be'cn thus kept
.waitin for Miss Arpold he thought a very unwarg

indeed.
a tire with additional vigor—

t

 Wishfdhad no heat in themf’and wiondered whether

 Melwyn ~yg'io’pld ever have’the energy to order

  will"; as hé‘ Thad desired; and then, cast-
 “ 3mng gfigaaciousil‘ook’at the new-comer, who
. t

 fdtlring?

is , scene, feeling: shocked and un-

' ‘ " smegma, he asked Mrs. 119le

'   in an irritable “tone; it’s stri
 Wduerters.’ {winner}:  

_ '“how‘lori fish “htended to keep the young lady
“ ' "intending , erelbféfore she dressed for dinner 9” and
1.... estedth trthe'ho

usemaid should be sent for,

' ,

'  ow her to her room; ‘ i

' f‘ I will take that'ofllce upon myself,” said Mrs.

1' Helm “001113, Ml“ Arnold, will you follow

are? ' And lighting a candle, for it wasnOw dark,

“For heaven's sake, don’t be long: saiid he;
' gs 1: an

I ’ the proceeded toWard thedoor.

 o‘clock, or as but!
“W” " '

"usual place at table.”

' Lottice.

’then the under housemaid opened the door: “ Tell

“to ‘carry Miss Arnold’s trunks." Miss Arnold was

 

sprint. ‘3.

“Then, Miss-Miss—I beg your pardon—and
Mrs. Melwyn, I hope you will be ready to take your

They heard no more; for Mrs. MeIWyn closed
the door, with the air of one escaping—and, looking
uncomfortable and half-frightened, led the way up
stairs.

It was a pretty. cheerful little room, of which
she opened the door; and a pleasant fire was blaz-
ing in the grate. The bed was of white dimity,
trimmed with a border of colored Chintz, as were
the window-curtains; the carpet quite new, and
uncommonly pretty; chairs, dressing-table, writ-
ing-table, all very neat and elegant; and the tables
comfortably covered each with its proper append-
ages.

It was quite a. pretty little den.

Mrs. Melwyn had taken much pleasure in the
fitting up of this small room, which was next'to
her own dressing-room. She had fancied herself
going to receive into it a second Catherine, and
though the' very moderate amount of money of
which she had the power of disposing as she
pleased, and the noisy remonstrances and objcc~
tions of Randall, had prevented her indulging in
many petty fancies which would have amused and
occupied her pleasantly since the dismal day of
Catherine’s wedding, still she had persisted, con-
trary to her wont, in having in some degree her
own way. So, in spite of all Randall could do, she
had discarded the ugly old things—which the
lady’s maid, excessively jealous of this new-comer,
declared were more than too good for such as her
-—and had substituted this cheerful simplicity;
and the air-of freshness and newness cast over
everything rendered it particularly pleasing.

“ What a beautiful little room ! ” Lettice could
not help exclaiming, looking excessively delighted.
She liked pretty things and elegant little comforts
as well as anybody, did Lettice, though they sel-
dom fell to her share, because she was always giv-
ing them up to other people.

“Do you like it, my dear?” said Mrs. Melwyn,
in what Lettice thought the sweetest, softest voice
she had ever heard. “-I have taken'great pleasure
in getting it ready for you ; I shall be glad, indeed,
if you can’ makbyourself happy in it.”

' “ Happy! ' Who could’ help being happy in such
a’ paradise?” “And with such a sweet, gentle,
charming person as Mrs. Melwyn,” mentally added
“ What matters it how cross the poor old
general is,” thought she. ' '

“But, my dear, I don’t see your trunks. Will
you ring the bell for them? The general must not
be kept waiting for his dinner, and he can not en-
dure those who sit down at his table, either to be
too late, or not to be in an evening dress. Mili-
tary men, you know, are so used to this sort of
precision, that they expect it from all around them.
'You will remember another day, my dear, and "-—

them to bring up'Miss Arnold’s trunks directly."

"She did not at that moment exactly know which
was the proper servant whose office it ought to be

an anomaly. There" was-noprecedent. ' Note. ser-
vant in this'family would stir without a precedent.
The trunk was probably too heavy for the under-
hous'emaid to carry tip—that under-housemaid, one
of the Tags of an establishment like this, kept
inerer to do what the upper-seryauts are too fine
to do. In households like the one before us, you
must have two in every department; there is a
chance, then, ifyou want anything done, you may
get it done. The under-servant is always, as Isaid,
a. sortof fag or slave in 'the eyes of the. upper
Gilles..- They will allow her to make herself useful,
though it should not be exactly her place. Mrs.
Melwyn had provided for the attendance upon Miss
A'rnoldt..by‘ having recourse to this said under.
housemaid, and adding a couple of sovereigns to
her wages unknown to Randall, but she had for-
gotten the carrying up of her trunk. Had it been
Catherine, this would have been done as a matter
of course (by the two footmen, and she had a sort
of faint hope they would do it of course now. But,
she did not like to asksuch a thing, so she said
“ them,” hoping-somebody would answer to ‘ it some
way or other, but—- . _. ‘ s . ,
»~ Ami-Tested Bought-incline the..m at.
 ,,, ,fl ., with _.

 

 

/

“ Why, I am sure I don’t exactly know. Who
is there below ? I suppose you could not carry
them up yourself, Bridget ‘2” _

“I am afraid not, ma’am; there’s only one
trunk, and it looks heavy.” ,

“ Oh l” cried Lettice, “ I can come and help you.
We can carry it up together, for Myra and I carried
it down together.” And she was quitting the
room. But Mrs. Melwyn laid her hand upon her
shoulder. ,

“No, my dear, upon no account ; Bridget, fetch
up the gardner’s boy, he’ll help you to carry the
trunk up.” ,

Mrs. Melwyn looked excessively annoyed and
distressed. Lettice could not imagine what could
be the matter. /

The gentle, kind lady seemed nervous and em-
barrassed. At last, evidently making a very great
effort with herself, she got out, “Excuse me, my
dear, but there is a little thing—I won (1 rather
not, if you please—servants are so insoleut, you
know they are ill bronght up; if ,you pleaSe, my
dear, it will be better not to oifcr to do things for
yourself, which young ladies don’t usually under-
take to do; such as carrying up trunks. And then,
I think, it will be better not to allude to past cir-
cumstances, servants are apt to have such a con-
tempt for people that have not been very rich. It‘s
very strange and, wrong, but so it is. You will be
more comfortable, I think, if you maintain your
own dignity. I hope you will not be hurt at me
for giving you this little hint, Miss Arnold.”

“Hurt! 0h, madam l” And Lettice could not
forbear taking up the beautiful white hand of
this most fair and delicate woman, and kissing it
with the most respectable reverence. “Whatever
you will be so very kind to suggest to me I will so
carefully attend to, and I shall be so much obliged
to you.” '

How sweet was this gentle manner to poor Mrs.
Mclwyn! She began to feel lightened from quite
a load of anxiety. She began to believe, that hap.
pen what would, she, should never be afraid of
Lettice. “Catherine was quite right; 011, what a
comfort it would be l” ,

“ Well then,” she continued with more cheerful-

' ness, “ I will go away and see that your things are

sent up to you, for there is no time to be lost.
Bless me !‘ it’s striking seven. You never can be
ready. Oh! here it comes! I forgot to tell you
that Bridget is to answer your bell and wait upon

' you. I have settled allvthat—you will find her

quite good-natured and attentive; she’s really an
obligiug girl.” ‘

And so she was. The upper-housemaid took
care to preserve strict discipline, and exact prompt
obedience in her own department, whatever the
mistress of the mansion might do in hers.

“Well, then, I will leave you and makelyour
excuses to the general, and you will follow _ me to
the dining-room as soon as you can. We must not
keep dinner waiting any longer. You will excuse
that ceremony, I am sure. The general is an in-
valid, you know, and these matters are important
to his health.” V A ’

And so sayin , she glided away, leaving Lettice
almost too muc astonished to be delighted with

all this consideration and kindness—things to

which she had been little accustomed. Butthe ,
impression she received, upon the whole, was very

sweet. The face and manner of Mrs. Melwyn were

so excessively soft; her very dress, the color other

hair, her step, her , voice; everything spoke so

much gentleness. Lettice thought her the loveliest

being she had ever met with. More charming

even than Catherine, more attaching even than

1Mrs. Danvers. She felt very much inclined to adore
er.

She was but a very few hours longer in the house
before pity added to this rising feeling of attach-
ment ; and I believe there is nothing attaches the
inferior to the superior like pity. V '

Dressed in one of her best new dresses, and with
her hair done up as neatly as she possibly could
in that hurry, Lettice made her way to the dining.
room.

It was a large, lofty, very handsome, and rather
awfully resounding room, with old family pictures
upon every side. There was a sideboard set out
sparklgngglass and plate; a £1:Imall table in the
mag go .t, , .apartm'  ennui  re; WV .wd
Gillie mining lithe light,“ outwit:  e

 

r0
Where there‘islittle kindness of nature, and a
 deal of selfishness'and, ill-tempered indul-

" LETTr'C‘E‘ ARNOLD.

is

 

blazing fire, a splendid Indian screen before the
door; two footmen in liveries of pink and white,
and a gentleman" in a black suit, waiting. The
general and Mrs. Melwyn were seated opposite to
each other at table;

The soup had been already discussed, and the

first course Was set upon the table when Miss

Arnold entered.
. Had she been a young lady born, an obsequious
footman would have been ready to attend her to

' her seat, and present her with a chair; as it was,

she would have been‘spared this piece of etiquette,
and she was making her way to her chair with-
out'm‘issing the attention, when the general, who
observed this saucy footmen standing lounging
about, without offering to move forward, frowned
in what Lettice thought a most alarming way, and
said in a stern yoice, and significant manner,
“ What are you about?” to the two footmcn. This
piece of attention was bestowed upon her to her
surprise and to Mrs. Melwyn’s great satisfaction.

“ We thought you would excuse us. The soup
has been Set aside for you,” said the lady of the
house. ' ‘
gel“; 9h, thank you, ma’am, pray don’t trouble your-

“ Give Miss Arnold soup.”

Again in a stern,"authoritative voice from the
general. Mrs. Melwyn was used to the sternness,
and most agreeably surprised at the politeness,
and quite grateful for it. Lettice thought the
voice and look too terrible to take pleasure in
anything connected with it.

She had no need to feel gratitude either—it was
not done out of consideration for her. The gen-
eral, who, with the exception of Randall, kept, as
far as he'was concerned, every servant in the ut-
most sub’servience, did not choose that anyone who
had the‘honor of a seat at his table should be
neglected'by those “rascals,” as he usually styled
his footrnen. ‘

It being the first evening, Mrs. Melwyn had too .

much politenesss to require Miss Arnold to enter

,upon those after-dinner duties, the performance of

which had been expressly stipulated for by Cathe-
rine; stipulated for, not only with Lettice, but
with the general himself. She had made her
father promise that he would suffer this young
lady to undertake the place of reader—which
Catherine had herself filled for some time, to the
inexpres‘sible relief of her mother—and that Miss
Arnold should be permitted to try whether she

{could play well enough at backgammon to make

an adversary worth vanquishing. ,

, He had grumbled and objected, as a matter of
Course, to'this arrangement, but had finally con-
sented. However, he was not particularly'impa-
tient to begin; and besides, he‘ was habitually a
well-bred man, so that any duty which came under
his category of goodmanners he punctually per-
formed. People are too apt to misprize this sort
of politeness of mere habit; yet, as ‘far/ as it
goes, it is an excellent thing. It enhances the
value of a really kind temper in all the domestic
relations, to an incalculable degree—a degree little
appreciated by some worthy people, who think

5 the honest truth of their affections. And

me, ‘as’ in this cross old man before us, still

is e habit of politeness was not without avail; it
kept him in a certain check, and certainlv ren-

dered" him mere tolerable. “ He was not quite such
abrute hear at he would have been, left to his
uncorrected nature. ‘ ' l ' ,
Politeness is,’and ought to be, a habit so con-
firmed, that we exercise it instinctively—without

 consideration, without attention, Without effort, as

it were; this is the very’iessence of the sort of

r

:,politeness I am thinking of. It takes itbut'of the

category of the virtues, it is true, but it places it

I intbat of the Qualities; and, in Some matters, good

qfialities are almost as valuable, almost morewalu.
able, than if they still continued among the Virtues
*imd this of politeness, in my opinion, is one. ‘

' 3.? Virtuésfl mean acts which are performed

“’55 "a Gértain difiiculty, under the sense of respon-

, nihility’to'duty,under, the self-disicipline of right

Final)“; by qualities, I mean what is spontane-
WS! TQOMtitutionhlgood qualities are spontane-
W'-  u‘natural sweetness of temper—matu-

 

ugmésS a proof of sincerity, and that rudeness >
r

 

ral delicacy of feeling—natural intrepidity; others
are the result of habit, and end by being spontane-
ous—by being a second nature: justly are habits
called so. Gentleness of tone and manner—atten-
tion to conventional proprieties—to people’s little
wants and feelings—are of these. This same po-
liteness being a sort of summary of such, I will
end this little didactic digression by advising all
those who have the roaring of the young in their
hands, carefully to. form them in matters of this
description, so that they shall attain habits—so that

'the delicacy of their perceptions, the gentleness of

their tones and gestures, the propriety of their
dress, the politeness of their manners, shall be-
come spontaneous acts, done without reference to
self, as things of course. By which means, not
only much that is disagreeable to others is avoided,

and much that is amiable attained, but a great deal

of reference to self is in after-life escaped; and
temptations to the faults of vanity—«pride—enviouS
comparisons with our neighbors, and the feebleness
of self-distrust very considerably diminished.

And so, to return, the politeness of the general
and Mrs. Melwyn led to this result, the leaving’Miss
Arnold undisturbed to make her reflections and her
observations, before commencing the task which
Mrs. Melwyn, for the last time, undertook for her,
of reading the newspaper and playing the hit.

Lettice could not help feeling rejoiced to be
spared this sort of public exhibition of her powers,
till she was in a slight degree better acquainted
with her ground; and she was glad to know, with-
out being directly told, what it was customary to do
in these respects. But in every other point of
view, she had better, perhaps, have been reader
than listener. For, if she gained a lesson as to the
routine to be followed, she paid for it by receiving
at the same time a considerably alarming impres-
sion of t‘he-general‘s ways of proceeding.

“Shall I read the newspaper this evening? ” be-
gan'Mrs. Melwyn, timidly. ,

"‘ I don’t care if you do,” roughly. ‘

Polite men, be it observed, en possum, do not at
all make it a rule to evercise that habit to their
wives. The wife is a thing apart from the rest of
the world, out of the category of such proprieties.
To be rude to his wife is no impeachment of a
man’s gentleman-like manners at all.

“Is there anything worth reading in it 1’”

“I am sure I don’t know what you will think
worth reading. Shall I begin with the leading
article ‘2”

“ \Vhat is it all about ?" ' i

“ I am sure I ’can’t say.” -.

“ Can’t you look ?”

“ The sugar question, I think.”

‘ “ Well, what has the fool to say. about that?”

“ ‘The speech of Lord last night upon the
much discussed subject of the sugar question, has
no doubt been read and commented upon, in their
various ways, and according to their different im~

 

'pressions--—shall we say prejudices ?—-¢by our read-

ers. The performance, it is upon all hands agreed,
was masterly, and, as far as eloquence is concerned,
that the accomplished statesman who uttered this
remarkable speech did only justice to’ ”-—--—
“’Well—well—éwell—wellflin a sneering tone,

"‘Ireally do wonder how long you could go on
droning and dinning, and dinning and droning such
palpany empty'editorial nonsense as that into a

man’s ears. Now, I would be glad to ask you—
meiely to ask you, as a rational woman, Mrs. Mel-
wyn~what possible amusement or profit can be
drawn from a long exordiumwhich says absolutely
nothing—tells one absolutely nothing but what
everyone knew before—stuff with which all editors
of ne'wspapers’s‘eem to think it necessary to pre.
face their remarks; What in the name, (if—1... is
the use of wasting yourebreath and my patience—-
can’t youskip? ~Are you a mere reading machine,
madam?” , . r ‘

“’ Shall I pass on to the next subject ?” .

“ No, that’s not my meaningwif you could take

a meaning. rWhat I Want is, only what every ra-

tional person expects when these confounded lucu-
brations of a stupid newspaper editor are read up
-'-—that the reader will have the'sense to leave all
these useless phrases and useleas syllables out, and
give the pith- and marrow to the listener. Well——
well, never mind-4f you can’t, you can’t; get on,
atallevents.”~' ,',  . If . ,, ,
' Mrs. Melwyn colored faintly, looked nervous and

 

uneasy, glanceddown the columns of the news
paper, and hesitated. V . ,_ _ ,

“ ell—~can’t you go on ? What’s the use” of
sitting there, looking like a child of six years old
who’s afraid of being whipped? If you can’t, you
can’t—if you ,haven’t the sense, you haven’t; but
for sake get on.” ‘

“ ‘ Mr. rose, and in a manner upon which
we cannot exactly beStow our approbation, but
which, nevertheless, seemed to us in an unaccount-
able manner to obtain the ear and the attention'of
a very crowded house, 810., &_c.’ ” ' '

“ There you are again i wh'yxthe deuce can’t you
pass over all that, and tell us what theccnfoundod
bloekheads on that side did really say?” ‘ ‘ ’

“ I read this debate to you yesterday, yon‘k‘now.
These are only the editor’s remarks upon  ' Shall
I give you the summary of last'night’p debate 1’” 
' “ No, let’s hear what the fool says upon thid
cursed sugar question. He’s against the measure:
that’s one comfort.”

“' He does not seem to be so exactly,” glancing
down the page. ' ' » '

“ I’ll take the liberty of judging that mattermy-
self, Mrs. Melwyn, if you’ll only be so particularly

 

 

’obliging as to read on.”

Which she did. Now reproached for reading in
such a low, cluttering manner, :with that ’dé—d soft
voice'of hers, that it was impossible to hear; and
when she raised it, asked, “ What the deuce Was
the use of shouting so as to be heard by the fel-
lows in the servants’ hall ?”

In this style the newspaperwas at last, for bet.
ter for worse, blundered through, in'the most un—
comfortable manner possible,'by the terrified reader.

Lettice sat by, deeply attentive. She was a
brave, high-spirited girl, and she did not feel dis.
mayed; her predominant sentiment: was Eliseo};
gratulation that she should be able to spare that
sweet, soft, kind Mrs. Melwyn the ungrateful task.

She ' sat observing, and laying down her own
plans of proceeding. It was notthe first time in
her life she Shad been exposed to what is called
scolding; a thing every day, I verily believe—and
am most happy to do so”--going more and more
out of fashion, though still retained, as ahabt't, by
many people otherwise well-meaning enough. It
was retained in its full vigor by the general, who
was not well-meaning at all ; he usually meant noth-
ing on earth by what he did, but the indulgence
of the present humor, good, bad, or ,indiiferent.
Lettice had lived in a sphere of life where thissort
of domestic violence used to be verycommon; and
she had learned to bear it, even from the lips, of
those she loved, with patience. She knewjhisvery
well, and she thought to herself, “ If I could 

~to“the habit of hardly caring for it from.those7ery

near and dear to me, surely it-will  easy. eneggh

to meet it with indifference from :a poor, cross, .

peevish, suffering. old man, whom I, don’t care, for
in the least. The way must be,,t_o get into the habit
of it from the first, (to let the words: V ' '  ‘

w Pass by me as the idle wind which I regard not"
I. must put all my vanity, all my spirit, alibi flotilla
little tempers, quietly out of the way; and 
trouble myself with what he says, but '  , I 'v
mg on in the best way I, can, to   " 
with the most unrufiled outward: 

 
   

a:

   

tranquility; and the'utmost secret ’

to whether I succeed or not. He shall 
tired of scolding,thanI of lookipgaajfi Intévefiiéai-d
it. He‘ll give over if I canpe‘l‘seifrerte .  “In!
looking all colors and all ways, as that dear, 
MrTs. Melwyn does.” . , ' _  V  "z 7"
he trial at backgamm, . on wasit such "sf ‘ '
could be, worse. 'It‘ mined as if it was 
to give satisfaction here. The generat nightly

"is
I}

   

played his (Muslim‘s bl“ Wasted “Pd. Flam
 

that of his adversary; andea‘s pygmy-,3 ‘

. her stupidity in missing an advantage v 
ib - i

Of Skin “king; 1“ What could be 

terest or pleasure of , playin’ with'sdcli" 
child? "_ and vexed, if the gplaa an .

ended in his own discomfiture, for 'he ‘could‘tict
bear to lose. _ . .  ' ‘
Backgammon, too,was an  e to be
played With oneof a temper such!!! 38- 33"“ ‘
favorablcfhrow of the dice, it“i§,’true,ifilledhi
With a di" ble ‘sarcastic'éxltltation; 

positively bad one, andsti-ll more,.,a.,snmiqn;.,.  

bad ones, drove him furious”:  _‘ ' ’ a '

 

 

 

> v‘

s {‘G‘h‘um Am; ¢.~ \

.srww 

4/. )4' «amtwnwv 11:7??- .1;

 

14,

'i

. of provoking throws, such as sometimes happen,

he would seem half mad, storm, curse, and swear,
in the most ridiculous; if it had not been blasphe-
mous, manner; and sometimes end by banging the
tables together, and vowing he would never play at
this confounded game againas long as he lived.

There was an exhibition of this sort that very
evening. Mrs. Melwyn looked much distressed,
and almost ashamed, as she glanced at Lettice to
see how she’took it; but Lettice appeared to be
too much engaged with a knot in her netting to
seem to take it at all, Which evidently relieved Mrs.
Melwyn. The scene had not, however, been lost
upon our friend, who had observed it with a smile
of secret contempt.

Mentally, however, congratulating herself upon
her good, robust nerves; such things, she well
know, being perilous to those cursed with delicacy
of that sort. The best endeavors, the beat inten.
tions, would be without avail in such cases; such
suiferors would find their powers of endurance de-
stroyed by these successive acts of violence, till it
would be impossible to meet them tolerably. Again
she looked at Mrs. Melwyn, and with great pity.
Again she rejoiced in the idea of saving her from
what she perceived was, indeed, to such a frame
and temper as hers, a source of very great sufl’er-
ing; and again she resolved to keep up her own
spirits, and maintain the only true defense, courage
and indifference. She felt sure, if she could only,
by a little effort, do this for a short time, the effort
would terminate in a habit; after which it would
cost her little or nothing more.

The general, though polite to Lettice in their first
communications, held her in far too little esteem
to care one doit what he did or said before her.
He was an excessively proud man; and the idea
that a girl, so greatly his inferior in every way,
should keep him in check, or venture even to make
a remark upon him, for less presume to judge his
conduct, never entered his head. I wonder what
he would have felt, if he could have been made
aware of that secret smile.

Now a tray with wine, spirits, and water, was in-
troduced. The general took his accustomed glass
of, whisky-and-water,‘ then opened his cigar-box,
and began to smoke. This process invariably
made Hrs. Melwyn feel rather sick, and she rose
this evening to go away; but being asked what
she was moving for, she resumed her seat, and sat
till two cigars had been smoked, and the clock
told half-past ten; when, as the general loved
early hours, she was suffered to take her depar-
mm
' The servant entered with lighted candles. Mrs.
Melwyn took one, and bade him give Miss Arnold
another; and they went up stairs together.

“Good-night, my dear,” said the lady of the
house, with a wearied, worn air, and a tone in
which there was a good deal of sadness.

me never could get used to these scenes, poor
thing; every time the general was cross she felt it
acutely; he had wn dreadfully cross since Cath-
erine married. . Melwyn hardly knew what to
do with him, or how to bear it.

“ ' -night, my dear, I hope you will sleep
comfortably.” ,

“Can I be of any further use to you, madam,
to. ht? " v

“ it, no, thank you; don’t come into my dress-
ing-room; Randall is very particular; she consid-
ers M her own territory. She does not like any.
one to cousin, especially at night; but just let me

' loch whether your fire burns,” she added, entering
,. ,

s room.
Th. fire was blazing merrily; Mrs. Melwyn put

her candle down upon the chimney-piece, and stood

(that a little while before it, looking again irreco-

' m It nomad, as if she wished, and did not

0

km how, to say something. Lettice stood at a
short distance, rupectfully expectant.

h“! declare it’s very cold tonight,” with a little
3 iver.

“I did not feel it cold, but then this is so thor-
oughly comfortable a house.”

“Do you think so? Shall you find it so 2 The
wind comes sharply down the passages sometimes,
but I wish, I hope, you won’t care much for that»
My little painful things; they can’t
be helped. you know, in this world."

“ Ab, madam! if I may venture to say so, there

 

LETTICE ARNOLD. .

is one good thing one gets out of great hardships
-—-little things do seem so very little afterward.”
“ Ay, if they are really little, but"
“ Things that are—that don’t seem little to peo-
ple of more gentle nurture, who have lived in a
different way, seem, and are, little to those who
have roughed it till they are themselves roughened.

 

That‘was what I intended to say. One is so very'

happy to escape dreadful, real, positive distress,
that all the rest is like mere play.”

Mrs. Melwyn looked at her in a pensive, anx-
ious, inquiring manner. She wanted to see if she
was understood; she saw that she was. She saw
something truly heartening and encouraging in
the young girl’s countenance. She shook hands

.with her and bade her good-night very affection-

ately, and went to her own dressing-room. Ran~
dall was cross that night as it was possible for the
most tyrannical servant to be, but some way or oth-
er, Mrs. Melwyn did not feel as if she cared for it
quite so much as usual; she had her mind filled
with the image of Lettice. Something so very nice
about her, she thought to herself, in one respect
even better than Catherine. She should not be so
afraid pf her being distressed by disagreeable
things ; she should venture to tell her about Ran-
dall, and other vexations which she had carefully
concealed from Catherine, lest they should make
her unhappy. Thus she represented it to herself ;
the truth was, lest Catherine should make a point
of Randall being parted with, an effort she knew
herself quite incompetent to make.

She should be able to complain of Randall, with-
out feeling that she should be urged to conquer
her weakness, and part with her. There was some
thing very comfortable in this ; so Randall pouted
away, and Mrs. Melwyn heeded it not very much,
not nearly so much as usual; and when Randall
perceived this, she was excessively offended, and
more and more cross and disagreeable. She had
quite quickness enough to perceive how much her
despotism must be weakened by the rule being thus
divided, and she saw even so early something of
the efiects she deprecated. The observation, how.
ever, did not tend to soften her or to render her
more obliging, it was not the least in her plan to
contend with the new-comer in this way; she
meant to meet her, and her mistress, with open de-
fiance, and bear both down by main force.

 

CHAPTER v1.

“ Cowards die many times before their death.”
~Snsnnsnunn.

Tun courage of Lettice, as I have told you, was
strong, and her nerves good, but in spite of this, as.
sisted by the best resolutions in the world, she did
find it a hard matter to stand the general. She
was very hopeful the first day or two, the habitual
politeness, of which I have spoken, came in aid.
It exercised a sort of instinctive and involuntary
check upon the old man’s rude intemperance of
language when irritated. Lettice did her very best
to read the newspaper to his satisfaction; skipping
every unnecessary word, just as Catherine had been
accustomed to do, without hurting the sense in the
least; and getting over the ground with all the
rapidity the old veteran desire. This was a plan
poor Mrs. Melwyn was far too nervous to adopt. If
she missed a word it was sure to be the wrong one
to miss—one necessary to, instead of encumbering
the meaning. , It was quite indespensable that she
should read simply and straightforwardly what was
put beforc‘her, or she was certain toget into con-
fusion, and have herself scolded. Even the dread-
ed and dreadful backgammon did tolerany well,
while the general’s politeness to the stranger lasted.
Lettice was surprised herself, to'find how easily the
task, which had appeared so awful, was dis-
charged; but she had not long to congratulate her-
self. ' Gradually, at first by slow degrees, but af-
terward like the accelerated descent of a stone
down the hill, acquired habit gave way to constitu-
tional ithumo’r. Alas, they tell us nature expelled
with a pitchfork will make her way back again;
most true of the unregenerated nature—~most true of
the poor blind heathen, or the poor untutored Chris-
tian, to all intents and purposes a heathen-«400
true even of those assisted by better considera-
tions, hi her principles, and higher aids.

First igt was a little low grumbling; then a few
impatient gestures; then a few impatient words-

 

~ ~

words became sentences; sentences of invective—
soon it was with her, just as it had been with oth-
ers. This graduated progression assisted, how-
ever, gradually to harden and prepare her She was
resolved not to look frightened, though her very
knees would knock together at times. She was de-
tcrmincd never to allow herself to feel provoked or
hurt, or ill-used, let the general be, ever so rude ;
and to soften her heart by any such ideas she never
allowed herself. Steadin she kept in mind that he
was a suffering, ilLdisciplined, irritable old man;
and by keeping these considerations in view, she
actually achieved the most difficult—almost heroic
effort. She managed to attain a frame of mind in
which she could pity his sufferings, feel indulgence
for his faults, and remain quite placid under their
effects as regarded herself.

This conduct befove a very long time had elapsed
produced an effect for more agreeable than she had
ever ventured to anticipate.

The general began to like her.

Like many other cross people, he was excessive.
1y difficult to be pleased in one article—the way
people took his scoldings. He was ofiended if they
were received with cheerfulness, in the way Edgar
had tried to laugh them oil, he was still more
vexed if people seemed hurt or suffering under
them; if they cried, it was had, indeed. Like many
others not absolutely wicked and cruel, though he
could not control his temper, he really did feel
vexed at seeing the pain he had produced. His
conscience would cry out a little at such times.
Now, nothing made him so uncomfortable and ir-
ritable, as having a quarrel with his conscience; a
thing that did not very often happen, to be sure,
the said conscience being in his case not a very
watchful guardian, but it was all the more dis-
agreeable when it spoke. The genuine good tem-
per and habitual self-possession, the calmness with-
out disrespect, the cheerfulness without careless-
ness, the respectful attention stripped of all mean.
ness or subservience which Lettice managed to pre-
serve in her relations with him, at last made its way
quite to his heart, that is to say, to his taste or
fancy, for I don’t think he had much of a heart.
He began to grow quite fond of her, and one day
delighted, as much as be surprised Mrs. Melwyn,
by saying, that Miss Arnold really was a very pret-
ty sort of young woman, and he thought suited
them very well. And so the grand difficulty of
managing with the general’s faults was got over,
but there remained Mrs. Melwyn’s and the ser-
vants.

Lettice had never laid her account at finding any
faults in Mrs. Melwyn. That lady from the first
moment she beheld her, had quite won her heart.
Her elegance of appearance, the doveslike softness
of her countenance, the gentle sweetness of her
voice, all conspired to make the most charming
impression. Could there lie anything under that
sweet outside, but the gentlest and most indulgent
of temper?

No, she was right there, nothing could be more ,
gentle, more indulgent than was Mrs. Melwyn’s
temper; and Lettice had seen so much of the
rough, the harsh, the captions, and the unamiable
during her life, that rant her the existence of
those two qualities, an she could scarcely desire .
anything more. She had yet to learn what are the
evils which attend'the timid and the weak.

She had yet to know that there may be much
concealed self-indulgence, where there is a most
yielding disposition; and that they who are too
cowardly to resist wrong and violence courageous-
ly, from a weak and culpable indulgence of their
own shyness and timidity, will afford a poor do.
fense to those they ought to protect, and expose
them to innumerable evxls,

Lettice had managed to become easy with the
general; she could have been perfectly happy with
Mrs. Melwyn, but nothing could get over the dim-
culties with the servants. Conscious of the this.
rule they exercised: jealous of the new-comer—
who soon showed herself to be a clever and spirit-
ed girl—a sort of league was immediately insti-
tuted among them, its declared object being either
to break her Spirit, or get rid of her out of the
house. The persecutions she endured, the daily
minute troubles and vexatious, the dificulties cast
in her path by these dangerous yet contemptible
foes, it would be endless to describe.

Whatever slip wanted she could not get done.

Even Bridget, under the influence of the upper-
housemaid, proved a broken reed to lean upon,
Her fire would never be lighted, nor her room done
at the proper time; and when she came down with
red hands, purple cheeks, and, worst of all, a red
nose, looking this cold spring the very picture of
chill and misery, the general would look cross, and
Mrs. Melwyn not pleased, and would wonder “ How
she could get so starved, and why she did not
make them light her fire.”

She could make no reply but that she would ask
Bridget to be more punctual.

It was worse, when do what she would—ring as
she would—nobody would come to fasten her dress
for dinner till the last bell was sounding; and
when it was impossible for her to pay all those
nice attentions to her appearance which the gen-
eral‘s critical eye demanded. Though he said
nothing he would. upon such occasions look as if
he thought her a sloven; and Mrs. Melwyn, on her
side, seemed excessively fretted and uneasy, that
her favorite would do herself so little justice, and
run the risk of forfeiting the general’s favor; and
this last piece of injustice, Lettice did feel it hard
to bear.

It was the same in all the other minutiae of do-

-- mestic life. Every trifling circumstance, like a
midge’s sting, though insignificant in itself, was
rendered in the sum total most trdublesome.

If they were going out walking, Miss Arnold’s
shoes were never cleaned. She provided herself
with several pairs, that one at least might always
be ready, and she not keep the general and Mrs.
Melwyn waiting. It was of no use. The shoes
were never ready. If there were several pairs,
they were lost, or odd shoes brought up.

She did not care for labor. She had no foolish
pride about serving herself, she had been used to
that sort of thing; she had not the slightest wish
on earth to be a fine lady {but that was forbidden.
It was one of the things Mrs. Melwyn had made a
point of, and continued to make a point of; but
then, why did she not take care she should be
better served ? .

She, the mistress in her own house! Was it in-
difference to her guest's comforts? No, her un-
remitting personal kindness ‘forbade that idea.

What was it then, that left her helpless guest thus.

exposed to want and insult? Yes, want! I may
use the word; for in her new sphere of action, the
things she required were absolute necessaries.
The want in its way was as great as she had
ever known. Yes, insult—for every little negli~
genes was felt as an insult——Lettice knew too well
that as an insult it was intended. What made this
kind Mrs. Melwyn permit such things? Weak-
ness, nothing but weakness—culpable weakness—
horror of that which would give her feeble spirit

ain.
p Lettice found it extremely difficult to be candid
' in this instance. She who had never experienced
what this weakness of the spirit was, found it almost
impossible to be indulgent to it. She felt quite
vexed and sore. But when she looked so, poor
Mrs. Melwyn would put on such a sad, anxious,
weary face, that it was impossible not to feel conv
earned for her, and to forgive her at once. And
' so this good, generous, kind-hearted being’s temper
achieved another victory. She was able to love
Mrs; Melvyn in spite of all her weakness, and the
evil she in conseguence suffered; and this indul-
gent affection made everything easy.

There, were times, however, when she foundvit
almost too dificult to get on; but upon one occa-
sion after another occurring of this nature, and still
more when she discovered that Mrs. __Melwyn was; a
yet ater suderer from this servile tyranny than
herself, she at last determinmi to speak out, and see

' whether things could not be established upon a
more reasonable and proper footing. . ' I

. , There was one day a terrible quarrel wrth Ran.
dall. It happened that Randall was  home,
drinking tea with a friend. She had either bound
“P the general’s ailing arm too tight, Or the arm
had swelled; however, for some reason or other
the injured part became extremely painful. The
general litigated and aware, but bore it for some time
with the mat resolute determination, with which,
to do him justice, he was accustomed to meet pain.
M 133‘ “18 aching became so intolerable that it
was scarcely to he endured; and after ringing
Muir dunes to inquire whether Randall we come

 

LET TI CE ARNOLD.

home, and uttering a heavy imprecation each time
he was answered in the negative; what between
pain and impatience he became so fevered that he
really seemed quite ill, and his sufferings were evi-
dently more than he could-well endure. Poor Mrs.
Melwyn, helpless and feeble, dared not propose to
do anything for him, though she sufferedwsoft,
kind creature that she was—almost more in wit-
nessing his distress than he did in the midst of it. At
last Lettice ventured to say, that she thought it a
great pity the general should continue to suffer
this agony, which she felt assured must be posi-
tively dangerous, and modestly ventured to suggest
that she should be allowed to undo the bandage
and relieve the pressure.

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Melwyn, in a hurried,
frightened way, “ could you venture ? Suppose you
should do mischief; better wait, perhaps."

“Easily said, ma’am,” cried the general. “ It’s
not your arm that’s aching as if it would drop from
your body, that’s plain. What’s that you’re say-
ing Miss Arnold?” '

“If you could trust me to do it, I was saying;
if you would give me leave, I would undo the ban.
dage and endeavor to make it more comfortable. I
am afraid that this pain and tight binding may
bring on positive inflammation. I really should
not be afraid to try; I have seen Mrs. Randall do it
hundreds of times. There is no difficulty in it.”

“Dear Lettice, how you talk !” said Mrs. Mel-
wyn, as if she were afraid Randall was behind the
door. “No difficulty! How could Randall bear
to hear you say so ?" _

“ I don’t know ma’am; perhaps she would con-
tradict me.
difficulty that I could not manage.”

“Well, then, for Heaven’s sake, try, child l”
cried the general; “ for really the pain is as if all
the dogs in Hockley were gnawing at it.’ Come
along; do something, for the love 0 .”

He suffered Lettice to help him off with his coat,
and to undo the bandage, which she accomplished
very handily; and then observed that Mrs. Ran-
dall, in her haste to depart upon her visit, had
bound up the wound in a most careless manner;
and the irritation had already produced so serious
an, inflammation that she was quite alarmed, and
suggested that the doctor should be sent for.

The general swore at the idea of the doctor, and
yet more violently at that old hag Randall’s con-
founded caieless'ness.» Mrs. Melwyn looked miser-
able; she saw the case was bad, and yet she knew
that to send for the doctor, and take it out of Ran-
dall’s hands, would be an insult never to be for-
given.

But Letticc was steady. She was not quite lg.
norant in these matters, and she felt it her duty to
be firm. She expostulated and remonstrated, and
was just carrying her point when Mrs. Randall
came home; and, havingheard below how things
were going on, hurried, uncalled for, into the din-
lug-room.

She came in in a mighty packer, as she would
herself have called it, and began asking who had
dared to open the w0und and expose it to the air;
and, seeing Miss Arnold preparing to apply a bread-
and‘water poultice, which she had made, fell into
such a passion of rage and jealousy that she forgot
herself so far as to snatch it from Lettice‘s hand,
vowing, if anybody was to be allowed to meddle
with her arm, she would never touch; it again so
long as she lived. '

Mrs. Melwyn turned pale, and began in her soft-
est way:

“ Now, really, Randall. Don’t be angry, Randall
--do» listen, Randall. The bandage was too tight;
I assure you it was. We should not have thought
of it else.” '

a What the deviLRandall, are you about to do
now i” cried the general, as she took possession of
the arm, in no gentle fashion.

“ Bind it up again, to be sure, and keep the air
out of it.”

"‘ But you hurt me confoundedly. Ah! it’s more
than I can bear. Don’t touch it--it’s as if it were
on fire !”

“ But it must be bound up, I say,” going on with-
out the least regard to the torture she was evident-
ly putting him to. _ .

But Lattice interfered. .

“Indeed, Mrs. Randall,” she said, “I do not

 

think that you seem to be _ aware  the state of

But I think at all events there is no.

u;
E

inflammation that the arm is in. I assure you, you
had better apply the bread-and-water poultice, and
send for Mr. Lysons.”

“ You assure me. Much you know about the
matter, I should fancy.”

“I think I know this much. DBar Mrs. Melwynl
Dear general! It is more serious than you think.
Pray, let me write for Mr. Lysons l" ,

“I do believe she’s right, Randall, for the in-
fernal torture you put , me to is more than I can
bear. Achl Let it go, will you ? Undo it! Un-
do it l” .

But Mrs. Randall, unrelentingly, bound on. ,

“Have done, I say! Undo it! Will nobody
undo it? Lattice Arnold, for Heaven’s sake l” His
face was bathed with the sweat of agony. ',

Randall persisted; Mrs. Melwyn stood pale, he).
less, and aghast; but Lettice hastened forward,
scissors in hand, out the bandage, and liberated
the tortured arm in a minute.

Mrs. Randall was in an awful rage. She for-
got herself entirely; she had often forgotten her-
self before; but there was something in this, being
done in the presence of a third person, of one so
right-minded and spirited as Lettice, which made
both the general and his wife view it in a new light.
A sort of vail seemed to fall from before their eyes;
and for the first time, they both seemed—and
simultaneously—aware of the impropriety and the
degradation of submitting to it.

“ Randall! Randall ! ” remonstrated Mrs. Mel.
wyn, still very gently, however; but it was a great
step to remonstrate at all—but Randall was abusing
Lettice most violently, and her master and mistress
into the bargain, for being governed by such as
her! “Randall ! Randall! Don’t--you forget
yourself 1"

But the general, who had been silent a second or
two, at last broke forth and roared: . .

“Have done with your infernal noise! won't
you, you bedlam! Here, Lettice, give me the pan!-
tice; put it on, and then write for Lysons, will
you i" - ‘

In matters such as this, the first step is every-
thing. Mrs. Melwyn and her fiery partner had
both been passive as a poor bewitched hen, we are

position and the incubus is gone. *

The arrival of Mr. Lysons completed the victory.
Mortification was upon the eve of setting in. . The
relief from the bandage, and the emollient poultico
applied by Lattice, had in all probability saved the
general’s life. ’ : ‘f

Little Mrs. Randall cared for this demonstration
of her mistaken treatment; she had been too long
accustomed to triumph, to yield the field undis-
puted to a rival. She took refuge in sulky silence,
and when Mr. Lysons was gone, desired to speak
with Mrs. Melwyn.

The usual .hmngue was made. “ As she could
no longer give satisfactiona—would Mrs. Melwyn
please to provide herself in a. month.” *

told, is with a straw over her neck. Once shift her ’

The blood ran cold to Mrs. Melwyn’s 

Whatl Randall! Impossible! . What 
«he do? What would the general do! What
would become of the servants? Who would look
after them? What could be done without the
faithful Randall ? _ _

“ Oh, Randall! you don’t think of loving me,”
she began. \ 

I am not going to repeat the dialogue, which
was much the same as that which usually ensues
when the mistress entrants the maid to stay, than
putting herself into an irremediably false position,
The result of such entreaties was the ml m
Randall, assured of victory, took the matter with a.
high band, and, most luckily for all parties, mm
to be mollified. , ' *

Then poor Mrs. Meltvyn, in dismay and mp1,,
returned to the drawing-room. She looked: fits
ill; she dared not tell the general what 
pened—positively dared not. She resolved to
make one other appeal to Randall first; to bribe
her, as she had often done before, to bribe high,
-—-higher than ever. Anything rather than pan
wig: he; . '

ut s e Was so nervous, so restless, so miserable,
that Lattice observed it with much compassion.
and came and sat by her, which was her way of
comforting her friend when Silo saw she wanted

 

.comfort. Mrs, Helwyn took berated,  hold

ii?

1

 

 

 

.in her prudence.

‘ thee’wltfilov‘lng

16

)

LETTIGE‘ ARNOLD.

 

 

it between both hers, and looked as if she greatly
wanted comfort, indeed.

The general, Soon after this, rose to go to bed.
It'was earlier than his usual hour, for he was
quite worn out with what he had suffered.

So he left the two ladies sitting over the fire,
and then Mrs. Melwyn at last opened her heart,
and disclosed to her friend the dismal tidings—-
the cause of her present misery—and related in
detail the dreadful occurrence of Randall’s resig-
nation.

It was time, Lettice thought, to speak out, and
the determined to venture upon it. She had long
anxiously desired to emancipate the woman she
loved with all the intensity of a child, from the
fearful yoke under which she suffered; to dissolve
the pernicious enchantment which surrounded her.
She spoke, and she did so with so much gentle-
ness, reason, firmness, good nature, that Mrs. Mel-
wy'n yielded to the blessed influence. In short, it
was that night determined that Randall’s resigna-
tion, so far as Mrs Melwyn was concerned. should
be accepted. If that potentate chose to communi-
cate her resolution herself to the general, it was
well, and he must decide; otherwise Lettice would
take upon herself to do this, and, unless he 0p-
posed the measure, Randall should go.

With little difiiculty Lettice persuaded Mrs. Mel-
vyn not to ring for Randall that night, saying that
now she had resigned her position, her mistress
had better allow herself to be put to bed by her
friend. This was not a difficult task. That she
should not meet Randall again was what Mrs. Mel-
wyn in her terror as much desired as Lettice did
In short, the general, under the
influence of Lettice’s representations—she was be-
ginning to gain great influence with him—consent-
ed to part. with the maid; and Lettice had the in-
conceivable satisfaction of herself carrying to that
personhge her wages, and a handsome gratuity,
and of. seeing her that very morning quit the
house, which was done with abundance of tears,
and bitter lamentations over the ingratitude of
mankind.

How the house felt after she was gone, those
who have been visited with a domestic plague of
this nature will understand. To those who have
not, so great a result from so apparently insignifi-
canto. cause Would be utterly unimaginable.

“And so they lived very happy ever afterward.”

Well—don’t stare—they really did.

A good genius was substituted for an evil one.
Under her benign influence it is astonishing how
smoothly and merrily things went on. The gen.
eral was so comfortable that he very often forgot

. to. be cross; Mrs. Melwyn, content with every-
, thing,

but her- power of showing her love for
Lettxoe—though she did this in every way she
could think of.

 so I will leave this good, sensible, God-fear-

ing girl for the, present,

“ blessing and blast in all she does,"

 tell you how Myra went to Mrs. Fisher, and
mothln’g‘about that lady.

 

- CHAPTER W.

W Lord. 011 my soul! and all that is within
' his holy name ;
o forgiveth all thy lnlquities and healeth all thy

’ veth th life from destruction, and crowneth
“3 Jluminous and tender mercies.

MRS. FISHER.

if ..  nnw introduce you to Mrs. Fisher: she is

‘ (favorite of mine, that befOre‘I relate

  Myra I must make you acquainted-
" warms lady. ' '

 was a respectable gentlewomamlike
 about fifty-four, of a grave, authorita-
tive andsomewhat severe aspect; but with the re-
mains of very extraordinary personal beauty which
she had once possessed in an eminent degree. She
was somewhat above the middle size, of an erect,

- firm, full figure, her hair now gently turning gray,
~ drawn over her finely preportioned forehead; her
, eyes Iar , and of a fine color and term—clear and
' steady ; er mouth expressive of sense and tempter;

and her, dress and character with the rest.

, fishery!“ always handsoxnely dressed in silks of
. ‘the best description, but in slight mourning, which

she "always were; and on her head. “‘5, 5 “P

 

rather plainer than the mode, but of the finest and
most expensive materials: nothing could be‘more
dignified and complete than her appearance.

When first Myra was introduced to her she was
both daunted and disappointed; the gravity
amounting almost to-hternness, with which Mrs.
Fisher received her, and explained to her the duties
she was expected to perform, awed in the first
place, and mortified in the second. The establish-
ment of this fashionable modiste, with which Myra
had associated nothing but laces and ribbons,
dresses and trimmings, embroidery and feathers,
flattery and'display, struck cold and dull'upon her
imagination._ She was introduced into a hand-
somely but very plainly furnished sitting-room,
where no one trace of any of those pretty things
were to be seen, and heard of nothing but regular-
ity of hours, persevering industry, Quaker neatness,
attention to health, and the strictest observance of
the rules of what she thought quite a prudish
propriety.

Mrs. Fisher’s, life had been one of vicissitude,
and in its vicissitudes, she, a strong, earnest-minded
woman, had learned much. She had known sor-
row, privation, cruelly hard labor, and the loneli-
ness ,. of utter desolation of the heart. She had,
moreover, been extremely beautiful, and she had
experienced those innumerable perils to which such
a gift exposes an unprotected girl, struggling for
her bread, under the cruelest circumstances of op-
pressive labor. Every description of hardship,
and every description of temptation belonging to
perhaps the hardest and almost the most danger-
ous position of female life, Mrs. Fisher had gone
through. -

She had outlived its sufiering and escaped its
snares.

The suffering, thanks to one of the finest con-
stitutions in the world; the snares, thanks to what
she always, with inexhaustible gratitude, acknowl-
edged as the special mercy and providence of
God.

An orphan at the dangerous age of seventeen,
the lovely blooming young creature was placed by
her friends in one of the most fashionable and
largest milliners’ establishments at that time in
London, and had found herself at once miserable
and excited, oppressed and flattered.

The mistress of this flourishing house, intent
upon making a rapid fortune before the years in
which she conld enjoy it should come to a close,
cared little—I might say nothing—for the welfare
of the poor creatures whose labors were to con-
struct that edifice. She, in fact, never thought
about them. Want of thought may he pleaded as
the excuse, wretched one as it is, for the cruelties
of those days. People certainly had not the claim
of common humanity sounded into their ears as it
is into all ears now. A few admirable philanthro-
pists talked of it, and preached it; but it was not
to be heard calling in the streets, as it is the tri.
umph of our day to acknowledge, till the hardest
heart for very shame is forced to pay some atten-

tion “to the call.

It never entered into Miss Lavington’s head that
she, had any other business with her young women,
but to get all the work she possibly could out of
their hands, and as well done, and as speedily
done as possible. If she objected to nighawork in
addition to day-work, it was not in the slightest
degree out‘of compassion for the aching limbs and
wearicd eyes of the poor girls; but because wax
candles were exPensive, and tallow ones were apt;
to drip; and there was always double the duty re.
quired from the superintendent (her special
favorite), to'keep the youn women at those times
to their duty, and prevent t e materials from being
injured. ‘ '

Oh! those dreadful days and nights of the sea—
son, which the poor Lucy Miles at that place went
through. _ '

She-accustomed to the sweet fresh air of the
country, to the cheerful variety of daily labor in
her father’s large farm, and under the care of a
brisk, clever, but most kind and sensible mother—
to be shut up twelve, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, nay
twenty hours before a birthnig'ht, in the sickening
atmosphere of theclose work-room. The windows
were rarely opened, if ever; for the poor young
things were. so unnaturally chilly for want of ex-
ercise and due circulation of the,blood, that they

"Iaid‘theyshould, and perhaps they might, have

' 1

 

taken cold if fresh air were - admitted. There. w“
nothing they all dreaded so much as taking cold;
those fatal coughs, which every season thinned
the ranks, to be filled with fresh victims, were in-
variably attributed to some particular occasion
when they had “taken cold.” They did not know
that they were rejecting the very cordial of life
alnd inhaling poison when they kept the room so
c ose.

Oh! for the dreadful weariness which proceeds
from inaction of the limbs! so different from the
wholesome fatigue of action. Inaction where the
blood is stagnating in every vein; inaction, after
which rest is not rest, but a painful effort of the
repressed currents to recover their circulating
power—so different from the delightful sensation
of wholesome rest after physical exertion.

At first she felt it almost insupportable. Irhave
heard her say that it seemed at times asif she
would have given years of her existence to be al.
lowed to get up and walk up and down the room
for a few minutes. The sensation was so insup-
portable. That craving desire of the body for
what it is in want of—be it water, be itbread, be
it rest, be it change of posture-is so dreadful in
its urgency. The most abominable tortures men
have in their wickedness invented are founded
‘upon this fact—tortures that render the black his-
tory of inquisitdrs yet blacker; and .here it was,
in one at least of its numerous forms, daily. inflict-
ed upon a set of helpless young women, by a per-
son who thought herself perfectly justifiable, and
whOse conscience never prickedher in the least.

Such is negligent moral habit.

Oh! the delight, at mealtimes, to spring up, I
was going to say—I meant to get up, for there
was no spring left in these poor stiffened frames.
Oh! the delight when the eye of that Superintend-
ent was no longer watching the busy circle, and
her voice calling to order anyone who durst just to
raise a head, and pause in the unintermitting toil.
Oh! the delight to get up and come to breakfast,
or dinner, or tea. r

They had not much appetite when they came to
their meals, to besure. There was only one thing
they were always ready to enjoy, and that was
their tea. That blessed and longebused tea, which
has done more to sweeten private life with its gen-
tle warmth and excitement, than. any cordial that
has'ever been invented. It is but a cordial, how
ever; it is not a nourishment; though a little
sugar, and wretched blue milk, such as London
milk used to be, may be added to it. Most of the
young ladies, however, preferred it without these
additions; they found it more stimulating so, I
believe, poor things!

Such nourishment as they received, it is plain,
would ill supply the rapid exhaustion of their em-
ployment. One by one in the course of the season
they sickened and dropped off; some died out and
out; some, alas! tempted by suffering and insupo
portable fatigue, or by that vanity and levity which
seems to be too common a. result with many girls
living together, did worse. There would have. been
a heavy record against her every June, if Miss
Lavington had taken the trouble to note down
what had become of her missing youngiladies.

tinuance in one posture by going to their meals,
and what a relief it was; but they did not always
get that. When there was more than usual to be
done, their tea would be brought to them where
pthey eat, and there would be no intermission.

So things went on at Miss Lavington’l'. in. those
days. I wonder in how many establishments of
the same description things go on so now! 'How
many to which that voice of humanity which
“ calls in the streets ” has not yet penetrated! '

We shall bysandsby see what was the case in
Mrs. Fisher’s, but for the precent we will go on
with her history.

So beautiful a young creature as she was could
not long escape trials, yet more to be, lamented
than those of physical suffering. -

In the first place, there Was the conversation of
the young ladies themselves ; a whispering manner
of conversation when at work; a busy chattering
of emancipated tongues during the intervals. And
what was it all about? ‘

lovers, beauty and its admirers, dress and its ad-

 

vantages, he; and Madden: mawm‘t you

I

I said they were relieved from their irksoma con-g \

‘ Why, what was it likely to be about ?«--love and '

 ad m. .. '

‘ saw it, I’m certain of it.

warren ARNOLD,

l7

 

 

in the Park last Sunday? More could you be?
and did younot see the carriage go by? What
had you on? Oh, that pink bonnet. I'cribbed a
bit of Mrs. M-—-—-’s blond for a Voilette. If peo-
ple will send their own materials they deserve as
much. I’ve heard Mrs. Saunders (the superin-
tendent) say so scores of times. Well, well, and I
Well, did anything come
of it?

Alas! alas I and so on, and so on, and so on.

And Lucy was very soon taught to go on Sun-
days into the Park. At first, poor girl, merely to
breathe the fresh air and inhale the delicious west
wind, and look at trees and grass, and cows and
deer once more, and listen to the birds singing.

At first she thought the crowds of gayly-dressed
people quite spoiled the pleasureof the walk, and
tried to coax her companions to leave the ring, and
Come and walk in the wood with her; but she soon
learned better, and was rapidly becoming as be-
witched with the excitement of gazing, and the
still greater excitement of being gazed at, as any
of them. ’

She was so uncommonly beautiful that she got
her full—~and more than her full share of the lat-
ter pleasure; and it was not long before she had
those for whom she looked out amid the crowds
upon the ring, and felt her heart beat with secret
delight as she saw them.

Then, as her health began to decline, as dislike
insupportable for her occupation and its confine-
ment; as wearincss not to be described, came on;
as longings for little luxuries to be seen in every
shop which she passed by, for fruit or confection-
ary, haunted her pulled and diseased appetite as the

., vision of food haunts the wretch who is starving;

..q

 

as-the desire of fine clothes, in which her compan
ions managed to array themselves; as the more in-
sidious, and more honorable longings of the heart,
the disconsolate heart, beset her; cravings for
affection and sympathy; when all these tempta-
tions were embodied together in the shape of one,
but too gentle, and insinuating——oh, then it was
perilous work indeed!

Her mother had tried to give her a good, honest,
homely education; had made such a christian of
her, as going to church, reading a. chapter in the
Bible on a Sunday, and the catechism makes of a
young girl.~ There was nothing very vital, or earnest
about it, but such as it was, it was honest, and Lu-
cy feared her God and reverenced her Savior.
Such sentiments were something of a. defense, but
it is to be feared that they were not firmly enough
rooted in the character to have long resisted the
force of overwhelming temptation.

This she was well aware of, and acknowledged

to herself; and hence her deep, pervading, ineffn-'

ble gratitude, for the Providence which she be.
lieved had saved her.

She was getting along very fast on the evil road
upon which she had entered. Every Sunday the
progress which she made was fearful. A few
more, at the pace at which she was advancing, and
there would have been an end of it, when a most
unexpected accident arrested her in the fatal
career.

One remarkably fine Sunday, when all the mem-
bers of the establishment had been enjoying their
usual recreation in the Park, just as Lucy and her

'ddy friends were coming through Grosvenor
ate, they saw the superintendent before them.

“ There's that old Saunders, I declare l ” cried
one. “ Stand back a little, won’t ye? she’ll see our
bonnets else, and I’ll be- bound she’ll know the
rosetts, and where they come from.” ,

There was time for no more. Mrs. Saunders,
who was rather late, being in haste to get home,
attempted to cross, as a curricle at full speed came
driving down Park Lane and before the gentleman
within could draw up, the unfortunate woman was
under the horses’ heels. There was aterrible bus-
tle.. The young ladies with the rosette managed
to escape; but Lucy, who hadat least preserved
integrity thus far, and had nothing about her dress
not strictly her own, rushed forward» and helped
to raise the poor woman, declaring she knew who
she was, and was placed with her by the assas-
tents in the. hackney coach in which she was car‘
ried home; . _ _

Lucy was of a naturally kind and humane dis-
position; and her care of the poor suffering we

“‘33 during the transltto Min Lavington'I-eml-

a

 

ted to the kindnesesnd assiduity with which, every
one else but the under-maid of all being absent,
she tended and waited upon her—so engaged Mrs.
Saunder’s affection, that afterward, during the
whole of the subsequent illness, which broken
limbs and ribs occasioned, she made it her partic—
ular request to Miss Lavington that Lucy might be
spared from the work-room to nurse and keep her
company; adding for that lady’s satisfaction, that
though the best nurse, and nicest young girl of the
lot, she certainly, being the youngest, was the least
of a proficient in the peculiar art she followed.

The poor woman lay groaning piteously upon
her bed, waiting the arrival of the surgeon. The
surgeon, an eldery man, was out of town, and
could not attend; a young man appeared in his
place. He had just joined himself to the old man
in the quality of an assistant and future partner;
and hearing that the case was one of an accident.
and urgent, he hurried to the house, resolving to
send for more A experienced assistance, if such
should be found necessary.

He was shown up stairs, and hastily entered the
room in which the sufferer lay. She was—very
much bruised about the Chest, and she drew her
breath with difficulty; and though exceedingly
weak and faint, was unable to lay down. She was
resting in the arms of one who appeared to the
young man like an angel. ‘

The lovely girl, with a face of the tenderest pity,

was holding the poor groaning woman upon one,

arm, bending over her with an air of almost divine
kindness, and softly wiping the dew~drops which in
the agony came starting upon the patient’s brow.

The young man received an impression which
death alone ei‘faced, though the bright visionary
glance was only momentary. He was instantly by
the side of his patient, and soon with much skill
and courage doing what was necessary for imme-
diate relief, though at the very first moment when
he discovered the serious nature of the case, he had
begged the young lady to tell Miss Lavington that
it would be proper to send for some surgeon of
more experience and eminence than himself to take
the direction of it.

“Don’t go away,” said Mrs. Saunders feebly, as
Lucy was rising to obey. “ Don’t send her away,
mister—I can’t do without her—Miss Lavington’s
not at home—one need not ask her for me. Who
should be sent for? ”

The young man named a gentleman high in his
profession. Was it that able and benevolent
man whom the world has so lately lost ? That kind,
frank, manly, courageous man of genius, whom no
one approached but to find help and comfort? I
don’t know--but be he who he might, when he
did at length arrive, he gave the most unqualified

praise to the proceedingsof our young gentleman,

and called the color to the pale cheek of the young
and serious-looking student by his approbation.
He finished his visit by assuring Mrs. Saunders
that she could not be in safer hands than those in
which he had found her, and recommended her to
to put herself entirely under the charge of the
young practitioner, adding an assurance that he
would be ready at any inStant to come if he should
be wanted; and that he would, at all events, call
once or‘ twice as a friend during the progress of
the case.

Mrs. saunders liked the looks of the young man
much—and who did not? and was quite contented.
with this arrangement, to which, as I told you, was
added the comfort of retaining Lucy Miles as her
nurse and companion during what threatened to be
a very tedious confinement. Miss Lavington well
knew the value of a Mrs. Saunders in such an es-
tablishment as hers, and was willing to make any
sacrifice to forward her recovery. _

So Lucy left the w'earying worloroom and the
dangerous recreations of the Sunday, to sit and
watch by the bedside of a peevish, uncomfortable
sort of an old Woman, Who was perpetually mak-
ing demands upon her patience and good-nature,
but who really suffered so greatly from her acci-
dent, that Lucy’s- pity and kindness were proof
againsteverything. The young surgeon went and
came—«went and came-41nd every time he came,
this angel of beauty and goodness was ministering
by the old Woman’s bed. And those eyes of his,
eyes of such prevailing power in theiralmost en-
thusiastic expression of, serious, earnestness, were

bent upon her; and sometimes her eyes, soft and

 

v

melting as those of the dove, or bright and lus-
trous as ,twin stars, met his.

He could not but linger in the sick woman’s
room a little longer than was necessary, and the
sick woman unwittingly favored this, for she took
a great liking to him, and nothing seemed to re-
fresh and amuse hcr amid her pains like a little
chat with this nice young man. And then the
young surgeon remarked that at such times Lucy
was allowed to sit quietly down and amuse herself
with a little needlework, and he thought thisan
excellent reason for making his visits as longr as he
decently could.

The young nurse and the young doctor all this
while had conversed very little with each other;
but she listened and she gazed, and that Was quite
enough. The case proved a very serious one.
Poor Mrs. Saunders, superintendent as she was,
and not workwoman-driver, not slave—~yet could
no more than the rest escape the deleterious ef.
fects of the close work-room. Her constitution
was much impaired. The wines and cordials she
had accustomed herself to take to support nature,
as she thought, under these fatigues, had increased
the mischief, the wounds would not heal as they
ought; contusions would not disperse; the inter-
nal injury in the chest began to assume a very
threatening appearance. Mr. L. came to the assis-
tance of the young surgeon repeatedly; all that
human skill could do was done, but Mrs. Saunders
grew alarmingly worse. e -

For a long time she resistcd the evidence which
her own sensations might have afforded her, and
avoided asking any questions whicli'might enlight.
en her. She was determined not ’to die rand, even
in a case so awfully serious and real as this, peo«

'ple seem to cling to the persuasion, so prevailing

in lighter circumstances, that because a thing skan’t
be, it won’t be, and because they are determined it
is not, it is not. So, for many days, Mrs. Saunders
went on, exceedingly angry if everybody did not say
she was getting better, and half inclined to dismiss
her young surgeon, much as she liked him, because
he looked grave after he, had visited her injuries.

He did look grave, very grave. lie was exceed.
ineg perplexed in his mind as to what he ought to
do: voung surgeon as he was, fresh from those
schools which, alas! so many who are acquainted
with them represent as the very nurseries of infi.
delity and license both in speech and action, he was
a deeply, seriously pious man. Such young men
there are, who, like those three, walking unscathed
through the furnace of fire in the faith of the Lord
their God, walk through a. more terribly destructive
furnace—the furnace of temptation~ -in the same,
faith. and “ upon their bodies the fire hath no pow.
er, neither is a hair of the head singed”.

In what tears, in what prayers, in what anguished
hope, what fervent aspiration, this sole treasure of
a widowed mother, steeped in poverty to the very
lips, had been reared, it would be long to tell; but,
she had committed him to one never found faith-
less, and under that blessing she had found in her
pure and disinterested love for the being intrusted
to her charge, that which had given her  elo. ;
quencc, and a power, and a strength, whiChhad 
told upon the boy. ,  r I ‘

He proved one of those rare creatures, who “pass
through every stage of existence, as child, as school;
boy, as youth ; through nursery, SQhOOL. college,
marked as some bright peculiar tramps-peculiar
only in this one thing, sincereunaflectedjgwdness.
Ills religion had been, indeed, With him lilting lit:
tle professed, and rarely talked about,bnt it had
been a holy panoply about his heart-43. bright
shield, which had quenched all the darts of evil:
it shone around him like something "of, a radiance
from a higher world. There was a sort of glory
round the young snint's head. ' L '  ,

Such being the man, you will not be surprised to
hear that his practice called forth most serious re-
flections—amoral; melancholy and sad thoughts-and,
in no sick-room where he had ever attended more
than in the present one. ‘ - r ‘

He could not frequent the house ire-much as his
attendance rendered necessary without being pretty
well aware of the spirit of the place; and while he
grieved ’over the ruinous waste of health to which
these young creatures were exposed, he was struck
to the heart with horror at the idea of their m'cral

' ruin.

Enhancers talked openly and  7 

 

 

 

18

LETTIOE ARNOLD.

 

 

and betrayed the state of mind she was in; so com-
pletely, so entirely devoted to, wrapt up in, buried
fathoms and fathoms deep in the things of this
world; so totally lost to—so entirely to seek in
everything connected with another: that the large,
mournful, serious eye, as it turned to the sweet
young creature sitting beside her, and passing her
daily life in an element such as this, gazed with an
expreSsion of sad and tender pity such as the min—
ister of heaven might cast upon a perishing soul.

She did not quite understand all this. Those
looks of interest, so inexpressibly sweet to her, she
thought were excited by the view of her position
as affected her health and comfort. She thought
it was that consumption which, sooner or later,
she believed must be her fate,which he was anticipa-
ting with so much compassion. She was blind to
the far more dreadful dangers which surrounded
her. .
Poor Mrs. Saunders! At last it could no longer
‘ be concealed from her. She must die.

He broke the intelligence to her in the gentlest
terms, as she, at last, in a paroxysm of terror,
asked the question ; giving her what hope he could,
but still not denying that she stood in a fearful
strait. It was a terrible scene that followed. Such
a frightful agitation and hurry to accomplish in a
few counted hours what ought to have been the
business of a life. Such calling for psalms and
prayers; such piteous beseechings for help; and,
last of all, such an awful awakening of a slumber-
ing conscience.

Like Richard’s bed, on the eve of Bosworth
. fight, it seemed as if the spectral shadows of all
those she had injured in the body or soul, by her
unerriug demands upon one, and her negligence as
to the other, rose a host of dismal spectres round.
Their pale, exhausted, pleading looks, as she
scolded and threatened, when the clock struck one,
and the task was yet undone, and the head for a
moment dropped, and the throbbing fingers were
still. Those hollow coughs in which she would
not believe—those hetic flushes that she would not
see—end worse, those walks, those letters, at which
she had connived, because the girls did so much
better when they had some nonsense to amuse
them.

What fearful revelations were made as she raved
aloud, or sank into a drowsy, dreary delirium. The
old clergyman, who attended her, consoled, and
reasoned, and prayed in vain. The twp young
, peoples-that lovely girl, and that feeling, interest-

ing young man—stood by the bed appalled; he,
ghastly pale—pale with an agony of despairing
pity—vehe, trembling in every hmb.

The death agony, and then the poor woman
went to her account. There was no one in the
room but themselves; it was late at night, the
A morning, indeed, began faintly to dawn. The maids

4 were all one to bed, glad enough to escape the
scene. Flo stood silently watching the departing
breath. It stopped. He gave a deep sigh, and,
steeping down, piously closed the eyes. She had
turned away in horror and in dread, but shedding
some natural tears. He stood looking at her some
time, as there she stood, weeping by the bed; at
last he spoke: .
~“ This may seem a strange tune to choose, but I
have something to say to you. Will you listen to
H

She took her handkerchief from her eyes, and
ed at him with a wondering, grave sort of look,
as a child mi ht do. His voice had something so

’ v remarks is in it. .

l 0 passed to the side where she was standing,
and said, “I am a very, very poor man, and I have
a helpless mother entirely dependent upon me for
so port, and, if it {vere my last morsel of bread,
ay, and wife and children I were perishing for want
of it, it is all: who should have it.” . .

She only looked at him wondering like.

“ “rise fearful precipice upon which you stand.
That poor creature has sunk into the gulf which
yawns beneath your feet. May God, in his mercy,
look upon her! But you, beautiful as one of

J heaven’s angelsu-as yet pure. and sinless as a
chiidwmust you fall, sink, perish, in this mass of
loathsome corruption? Better Starve, better die——

 7!

{all flail, alas !” she cried, with a scared and terri.

and look. “Alas: alas! ten hundred thousand

 

 

times better.
do ‘3”

“ Take up your cross, venture upon the hardships
of a poor man’s wife. Discard all the prides, and
pomps, and vanites—the vain, vain delusions of
flattery; trample upon the sin, triumph over the
temptation. Put yourself under the protection of
an honest man, who loves you from his soul.
Starve, if it must be, but die the death of the
righteous and pure.”

She gazed at him, amazed; she did not yet un-
derstand him.

“ Marry me.
mother’s roof.
let us labor and suffer together, if need be.
all I can offer you, but it Will ‘save you.”_

The arms, the beautiful arms were expanded, as
it were, in a very agony of joy. The face ! oh, was
it not glorious in its beauty then! Did he ever
forget it ?

And so the contract was sealed, and she was
rescued from the pit of destruction into which she
was rapidly sinking.

And this it was that had excited such impas-
sioned, such lasting, such devoted feelings of grati-
tude to Him who rules the course of this world, in
a heart which had only to be shown what was
good to embrace it.

Fisher was all he had said; extremely poor. His
salary as assistant, was handsome, nevertheless.
He received one hundred a year and his board from
the gentleman with whom he was ; but his dress,
which was necessarily rather expensive, and his
mother, who had only an annuity of twelve pounds
a year, consumed it all. Still you see he was by
no means actually starving;and he thought the
young wife he was going to bring. home would be
no very great addition to his expenses, and he
trusted, if children came, that he should, by his ex.
ertions, be able to provide for them. In two years
his engagement with the present gentleman as his
assistant would be at tin-end; and he had received
from the old man, who was a sort of humorist in his
way, several very strong hints about partnership, if
he would be satisfied with a reasonable share.
Partnership would, in thecourse of time, he knew,
become sole proprietorship, at the death or retire-
ment of his aged patron-one of which events
could not be very far distant. '

It was, therefore, with great satisfaction, after
having summoned the necessary attendance, and
sent his young betrothed to rest, that Fisher walked
home on a fine fresh morning.

It was true he had taken a step most people
would call very imprudent, thus to encumber him-
self with a young wife at the very outset of his ca-
reer; certainly, he had never intended any such
thing. He had always resolved to be patient, and
have a little store of money by him, before he per-
suaded anyone to begin the world with him. He
could not bear the idea of all being dependent upon
his own life, and risking the chance of leaving a
widow and a young family destitute. But this was
an, exceptional case, for he could not, without trem-
bling, contemplate the dangers which surrounded
this young and innocent girl. His medical knowl-
edge taught him but too well the perils to the
health of one so fresh and blooming, from labors
in close rooms to which she was so little accus-
tomed—death stared her in the face, unless she
escaped it by means at which he shuddered to
think.

The only way in which he, young as he was,

Oh, what must I- do? what must I

Come to my blessed, my excellent
It is homely, but it is honest; and
It is

could possibly help her, was 'to withdraw her from

the dangerous scene and make her his wife; and
on that step he had been for some days resolving.
The emotion she had shown, the timorous joy, the
sweet confidence in his love and honor, had given
a rapturous feeling of happiness to him Quite now.
He had intended benevolently and kindly: he had
met with all the blessings of sincere attachment.
Instead of Walking to Mrs. Stedman’s to take
some rest, which he very much needed, he went to
his mother’s house, or rather the house where he
had taken a snug little apartment for his mother.
It lay somewhere out Brampton way; in which
district neat rows of small houses are to be found
looking backward upon pleasant greens and gar.
dens. There he had found a modest little suite of
apartments; one sitting-room andtwo bedrooms»—
a room for his mother, and another smoothness ‘ oo-
cupied by him‘self. ' ,

n

 

The little hut, a tiny place it was, was clean to
the greatest nicety,‘ and though fitted up in the
very simplest and cheapest manner, had an air of
perfect comfort. The walls were stained green,
the drugget upon the floor was pink and fawn; the
chairs were covered with what used to be called
Manchester stripe—very clean and pleasant-lool;~
ing, and excellent for wash and wear. There was

a pretty little table for tea and dinner, and a nice, '

round three-clawed one close by the mother’s side
-—who was established in the only article of luxury
in the room, a very comfortable arm-chair.
the old lady passed her life.

She had lost the use of her lower limbs for
some years; but her health of body and mind in
other respects was sound. The only thing for
which the son had as yet coveted a little more
money, had been that he might possess the means
to give his mother the enjoyment of exercise and.
air; and when he passed young men, the very pic—
ture of health and strength, lounging idly in their
carriages, as one sometimes does in the Park,
though not given to such nonsense, he could not
help uttering a secret exclamation against the fin
equalities of fortune, and thinking ,the blindness
of the goddess of the wheel no fable.

They were but passing thoughts these, such as
the best have when they languish for the means
of bestowing good.

Such indulgenccs, however, were rarely to be
thought of, though now and then he mana ed to
obtain them; but as the best compensation he
could make, he paid a few guineas a year more for
the pretty apartment, of which the back room,
elongated into a little bow-window, formed the sit-
ting-room—what would have been the front sit~
ting-room being divided into the two bedrooms.
The pleasant bowavindow looked over a row of
gardens belonging to the neighboring houses, and
these to a considerable tract of nursery-ground
filled with rows of fruit-trees, and all the cheer.
ful pleasant objects to be seen in such places. In

summer the arm-chair was wheeled to the window, '

and the whole of the view was disclosed to the old
lady; in winter itwvas returned to the fire; but
even there she did not lose her pretty view alto-
gether, the room was so little that from her place
she might easily command it. Miss Martineau,
in a book of hers, has given us a most valuable
and interesting account of the way in which, dur-
ing a tedious and most trying illness, her active
spirit confined to one place, she used to amuse
herself, and while away the. time by looking out
of her window through her telescope, and watch-
ing all that was going on. This old lady did much
the same, minus the good telescope, which she had
not. Her son, however, had presented her with
an old-fashioned opera-glass, which he had picked
up at some second-hand retailer or other, and as it
was a good one, and, moreover, very light to the
hand, it did as well forher, and better.

In some things the old lady had a little resem-
blance to Miss Martineau. She had the some cheer-
ful activity of mind, the same readiness of adapt.
ing herself to circumstances-—things in a great
measure constitutional. She was, moreover, a very
shrewd, sensible woman, and deeply pious—pious
in the most excellent way; really, vitally, seriously.
She came of a good old puritan stock, where piety
had been cherished from generation to generation.

Some physiologists say, that even the acquired '

moral qualities and habits descend to the succeed-
ing generation. It is possible an aptness for good
or evil may be, and often is, inherited from those
who have gone before. It would seem to
have been so in this case. The pious father
and mother, children of as pious parents, had left
this pious daughter—and her ’excellencies had dc-
scendcd in accumulated measure to her son. This
old lady had been sorely tried-«loath and poverty
had done their worst—except in as far as the cruel
ravagcr had spared her this one boy, one of many
children, all followed the delicate, consumptive
man who had been their father. She had home it
all. Strong in faith, she had surrendered her tron.
sures to the Lord of Iaifc, in trust that they should
be found again when he maketh up his jewels,
Cheerful as was her temper, life’s course had been
too rough with her, for her to value ,it very much,
when these lovely, promisinv buds, but half dis.-
closed, were one after the other gathered. But she
had escaped the racking agony of the loving, but

There;

2.9

~.__‘
M

too faithless mother—when all the sweets of na-
ture in its abundance flow around her, and they are
not there to enjoy. '

“ When suns shine bright o’er heaven‘s blue vault
serene,
Birds sing in trees, and sweet flowers deck the
plain
Weep I for, thee, who in the cold, cold grave
Sleep, and all nature‘s harmony is vain.
But when dark clouds and threat’ning storms
arise,
And doubt and fear my trembling soul invade:
My heart one comfort owns, thou art not here;

Safe siumbering, in the earth’s kind bosom
laid."

She was happier for than the author of these
lines.

She looked upward; She almost saw those she
had lost, the objects of a glorious resurrection—-
already living in the ineffable presence of the God
whom they had so faithfully endeavored to serve.

I need not tell :you, after this, that her spirits
were subdued to a holy calmness and composure.

Her life had been one of the most active endeav-
ors after usefulness. The good she had managed
to do can scarcely be calculated. Grains of sand
they might be, these boarded minutes, but it was
golden sand; the heap accumulated was large and
precious, at the end of sixty-five years.

What money she had possessed she had expend-
ed courageously in giving a professional education
to her son. Her little annuity of twelve pounds a
year was all she had saved for herself. ‘ Upon that
she believed with her own exertions, she could
manage to exist till her son was able to support
both; but she had been struck down earlier than
she calculated upon. Sherhad at this time lost the
use of her lower limbs altogether, and was visited
with such trembling in hervhands, that she was
obliged to close the task abruptly, and to sit down
dependent upon her son before she had expected
it

It had been very trying work till he obtained his
present situation, and he still felt very poor, be
cause he was resolved every year to lay twenty
pounds or so by, that, in case anything should hap-
‘pen to him, his mother might have some little ad
dition to her means provided. He was rather
strangely provident for the case of his own death ;
so young man as he was; perhaps he felt the fal-
tering spring of life within, which he had inherit-
ed from his father.

/ Three years the mother and son had thus
lived together, and Fisher was master of sixty
pounds.

He had never allowed himself to cast a thought
upon marriage, though of a temper ardently to de-
sire, and rapturously to enjoy, domestic felicity.
He said to himself he must first provide for his
mother's independence, and then think about his
own happiness. But the accident which had brought
him and Lucy together had produced other thoughts
--thoughts which he had, but the very day before
the nursing so suddenly closed, communicated to
his mother, and she had said:

“ 1 think you are quite right, John. Imprudent
marriages are, in most cases, very wrong things-—
a mere tempting of Providence; and, that no bless-
ing follows such tempting, we know from the best
authority; but this is a most pious, benevolent, and
very rational attempt tosave a fellow-creature upon
the brink of destruction, and I think it would be a
want of faith, as well as a want of common human-
itv, in either of us to hesitate; I am very glad she
adorns such a sweet, innocent, pretty creature, for
' your sake, my darling John; I hope she will bring
a blessing into your dwelhng and repay you for

your goodness to me; I am sorry she must cpme
and live with your old mother, for young wives
don‘t like that—but I promise you 1 W1“ ‘10 my
very' best to be as amiable as an old woman can;
and, moreover, I will neither be cross or disappomt‘
ed if she is not always as amiable as a yOung w0~
man ought tobe. Will that do? .Yes, yes; fetch
her stray from that sink of iniquity, ap’d well all
get along somehow or other, never fear.
. And so Lucy Miles, blushing like a rose, and» 33
hex-young delighted husband thought, more
Mateo“! than an angel of light, was In a 16W

 

 

LETTIC’E ARNOLD.

weeks married to John Fisher, and she went home
to the old lady.

“Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
The time of early youth, and there you
learnt
From years of quiet industry to love
The living being of your own fireside.”

The eloquent tongue of Fisher had over and over
again related with deep feeling the history of all he
owed to his mother, and Lucy, far from feeling in-
clined to be jealous of the devoted afiection he felt
for her, like a good loving girl as she was, extend-
ed the ardent attachment she felt toward her hus-
band to everything that belonged to him.

She had lost her own parents, whom she had
loved exceedingly, though they were quite ordinary
people. She soon almost worshiped old Mrs.
Fisher.

Lucy had been little improved by those who had
the rearing of her; she was a girl of excellent dis-
position, but her education had been commonplace.
In the society of the old lady her good gifts, both
of head and heart, expanded rapidly. The passion-
ate desire she felt to render herself worthy of her
husband whom she adored almost as some superior
being, made her an apt and docile pupil.

A few years thus spent, and you would scarce-
ly have known her again. Her piety was deep, and
had become a habit—a part of her very soul; her
understanding naturally excellent, had been devel-
oped and strengthened; the most earnest desire to
perform her part well—to do good and extend vir-
tue and happiness, and to sweeten the lives of all
with whom she had to do,had succeeded to thought-
less good nature, and a sort of instinctive kindness.
Anxiety for her husband’s health, which constantly
oppressed her,,a sort of trembling fear that she
should be bereaved early of this transcendent be-
ing; this it was, perhaps, which enhanced the
earnest, serious tone of one so young.

She was extremely industrious, in the hope of

adding to her husband’s means of rest and recrea-
tion, and the accidental acquaintance with a French
modiste, who had fallen ill in London, was in great
distress, and whom Fisher attended through char-
ity, had put her into the way of improving herself in
this art more than she could have done even in
that eminent school, the work-room of Miss Lav-
ington. The French woman was a very amiable
and pious person, too. She was a French Protes-
tant. The connection ripened into friendship, and
it ended by placing Mrs. Fisher in the state of life
in which we find her. Fisher fell desperately ill in
consequence of a fever brought on at a dissection,
from which he narrowly escaped with life; the fe-
ver left him helpless and incapable of exertion.
The poor mother was by this time dead; he succeed-
ed to the vacant arm-chair. Then his wife resolved
upon doing that Openly which she had till now
done covertly, merely working for the bazaars.
She persuaded her husband when a return to his
profession appeared hopeless, to let‘her employ his
savings in setting up business with Madame Noel,
and from small beginings had reached that high
place in her profession which she now occupied.
‘ No sooner had Mrs. Fisher established a work-
ing-room of her own, and engaged several young
women to labor under her superintendence, than the
attention of her husband was seriously turned to the
subject of those evils from which he had rescued
his wife. ’

She had suffered much, and experienced several
of the evils consequent upon the manner such
places were managed ;( but she would probably
not have reflected upon the causes of these evils,
nor interested herself so deeply as she afterward
did in applying the remedies, if it had not been for
the promptings of this excellent man.

His medical skill made him thoroughly aware of
the injurious effect produced upon the health by the
ill-regulated system of such establishments; and
his thoughts, as he sat resigned to helplessness in
his arm-chair, were seriously directed to that sub-
jeot. ,

In consequence of his suggestions it was that
Mrs. Fisher began her life of business upon a plan
of her own, to which she steadily adhered. At
first she found considerable difficulty in carrying it
out—there are always numerous obstructions to be
met with in establishing any haprovements; but
where the object is rational and benevolent, per.

 

li

severance and a determined will triumph over
every difficulty.

The first thing Fisher insisted upon was ventila‘
tion; the second, warmth; the third, plenty of
good, wholesome, and palatable food; the fourth
exercise. He determined upon a house being
selected which was not closely built up behind. and
that the room in which the young ladies worked
should be large and commodious in proportion to
the inmates. A portion of the little money he had
saved was sacrificed to the additional expense thus
incurred. He looked upon it, he told his wife, as
given to charity, for which she must expect no re-
turn, and for which he should look for no interest.
A good wide grate, which should be Well supplied
with a cheerful fire in winter, was to assist the
ventilation proceeding from a scientific plan of his
own, which kept the room constantly supplied with
a change of air; and under the table at which the
girls sat at work, there was in winter a sort of long,
square wooden pipe filled with hot water, and cov-
ered with carpeting, upon which they could put
their feet; the extreme coldness of the feet arising
from want of circulation, being one of the causes
to which Fisher attributed many of the maladi
incident to this mode of life. ‘

The next object of attention was the table.
Fisher had been at school, at one or two difi'erent
schools, resembling each other in one thing only——
the scandalous—I must use the strong and ofien-
sive word—the scandalous neglect or worse than
neglect—the infamous and base calculations upon
the subject of food which pervaded thg system of
those schools, and which pervaded, I am sprry to
say, so many of the schools with which he had
chanced to be acquainted. In the course of
his practice as a medical man, his opportunities for
observation had been above the common.

In fine ladies’ schools, I cannot assert that the
shameful economy of buying inferior provisions,
and the shameful indifference as to how they were
cooked, which prevail in so many boys’ schools,
were to be found-but a fault almost equally
great prevailed too generally. There was enough.
These growing girls, stimulated to most unnatural
exertions both of body and mind, peculiarly un-
natural to growing girls who require so much
care, fresh air, exercise, and rest, for their due dc—
velopment——these young things had very rarely
nearly so much to eat as they could have eaten.

Sometimes enough was literally not set before
them; at others, a sort of fashion in the school to
consider a good appetite as a proof of coarseness,
greediness, and vulgarity, worked but too efiectu-
ally upon these sensitive creatures. A girl at that
age would rather be starved than sneer-ed at or rid-
iculed for eating.

But in boys’ schools, expensive boys’ schools too,
where six times as much was paid for a boy’s
board as would have boarded him, either through
scandalous parsimony, or the most in excusable
negligence, he had seen meat brought into the
house not fit to eat; cheap and bad in itself, but

rendered doubly unwholesome in summer by the

most utter carelessness as to whether it was fresh.
Boys are hardy things, and it is right they should
not be accustomed to be too nice; but wholesome,
plain roast and boiled is what they pay for'and
ought to have; and the defrauding them of what
is so necessary to health, vigor, and even intellect,
in this unprincipled manner, is almost the very
worst form of robbery any man can be guilty of.

Fisher was resolved it should not be so in his
wife’s house. He and his wife had agreed that
the young ladies she employed should be lo (1
and boarded under her roof, unless they had rec
spectable parents who could and. would be fully
answerable for them; and tbeyshould have aplea.
tiful and a pleasant table—that he was resolved
upon. As he was competent to little else, he took
this matter upon himself. He calculated what
ought fairly to be laid out, and he laid it all out.
He would not economize a penny. If he was abloto
make a good bargain with his butcher, the young
ladies, not he, should have the benefit of it all.
They should have a bit of fish, or a little poultry,
or a little good fruit, poor girls, to vary a meal. to
which they could not bring the sturdy appetite of
much out-of-door exercise. L

Then came the great chapter of that exercise.
There was the ‘diflicultywhow much time could
Mrs Fisher possibly afiord to lose ?--to abandon

W ' was t

 
  

 

' ‘ ah friendship with Mrs. Fisher.

 
 
 
  

 

 

90

LETTICE ARNOLD.

 

 

 

w

to this object ?—-for the work must paw-or it could
not continue to be done. But the difficulty dimin—
ished upon examinatiOn. Time may be counted
by strength as well as'by minutes. The something
may, by two difierent hands, be accomplished in
most unequal portions of time.

The dreadful feeling of weariness, which, as
Lucy, she so well remembered—one consequence of
sitting so long in an unchanng position, and at
the same employmcntmthat dreadful feeling could
not be forgotten by her. Her horror at the recol-
‘ lectiou was so strong, that of this matter she
thought more than even her benevolent husband.

He recollected to have heard that the Jesuits,
those misters of human developement, physical as
well‘as intellectual, never suffered a pupil to be
employed more than two hours upon thesamc thing
without a change, to get up and turn round the
chair, to pace five minutes up and down the room
would in many cases suffice. Mr. Fisher laid down
his plan.

Two hours the young ladies worked, and then
for ten minutes they were allowed to lay down their
needles; they might walk about the room, into the

assage, up and, down stairs, or sit still and lounge.

Y but precious, usci'ul lounge, so fatally denied to
the wearied spins of many, a growing girl, was here
permitted. They might look about them, or close
their eyes and be stupefied ; in short, do just what
they liked. _ i

It wassoon foundby experience that the work
done after this refreshing pause more than made up
for the time thus expended.

Such were some of the plans of this kindjhearted
and highlyprincipled man, and the blooming looks,
the gay spirits, the bright eyes, of the happy lit-
tle community did credit to the. scheme.

Fisher lived but a few years to carry out the
rule he had instituted ; but to his wife it Was as a
sacred legacy from his hand, and during the whole
couirse other subsequent lifcsbe faithfully adhered f
to t. ‘ ,

, Her house was like a convent in some things,
but it wasa very happy convent. Everything pro-
ceeded: with a clock-work order, and yet there was
8.- liberty sueh as. few girls thus employed, in spite
of their intervals of license, could enjoy.

V It Was ahappy party, over which this remarka-
, blyhandsome, and now distinguishedly fashiona-
ble milliner‘, and; dignified-inching lady presided.
‘ , Nothing indisereet and unseemingly was ever per-

;mitted. The rule, pcrhaps, might be a little too
gave, and the manner of the young ladies too se-

te; but they were innocent and good; and they
had their reoreations, for Mrs. Fisher took them
Q  turn and turn about, upon a Sunday, in her
image, and the others walked I with the two an.
' ufierint’emlbnttmpersons carefully selected for their

 _ principles .and good conduct.

; Mrs. Fisher, too, was a. little bit of a match-malo-
,, or: audit she had a Weakness, it Was her fondness
 fat“ settling her young ladies. ' Nothing pleased her
better tha'n'when theywere sought, and they were
, such-nice,"Well-behaved girls, this often happened,
«Lb worthy young men in their own rank of life.

rs; Fisher always gave the wecldingvgown and
, hamlet, and the wedding dinner, and a white satin

rccticule or bag,,drawn with rose-colored ribbons,

With a pretty pink and ‘white purse ih‘it, with sil-

Ver tassels and rings, and containing a nice little
r sum for the bridels pocketsmoney. You will easily
understand how Mrs; Danvers had struck up quite
Once, indeed, in

crdays‘of outh and gayety, shehad been one of
 uable customers. She had long done
V'hifine things, but the interest she took in the
i  '03 Mrs. Fisher’s establishment had endeared

 heir   much to that good lady, and hence she
  ornament request, consented to take Myra,
3116385 her own instinct, the moment she cast her
eyes upon this beautiful,'dawdling-looking being,
bad assured her that she was, to use her own
phrase, not one of her sort.
‘ _ Myra was grievoust disappointed, upon her side.

She was quite ovate be blind to the Solid advam
tages of her position, and to look with querulousi

" x >  regret upon- nil the flashy and brilliant part of such

_ a. business, in which‘she was not allowed to take
stateroom.  ‘ ‘ , y  ‘ '
v " ' yhccause the was subroutine} dicijhirs.

  

 «some Mirna-1w: sermons,

 

 

 

theatre which was to have been the scene of her
triumphs. ' ‘r

The beautiful thimgs she was employed in man-
ufacturing left her hands to be seen no more—~and,
alas! never by her to be tried on. It was tantal-
izing work to part with them, and forever, as soon
as they left her hand.

Then she was obliged to be punctual to a mo-
ment in her hours; a grievous yoke to her who
had never been educated to submit to any.
To dress with the most careful attention to
neatness, though there was “nothing but a pack
of women to look at her ”-—to listen to “ a prosy
book ”-—-a book, I forgot to say, was read aloud in
the work-room—instead of gossipping and having
a. little fun; and to walk out on Sundays under the
wing of that old, hideous harridan, Mrs. Sterling,
instead of going with her companions where she
pleased. In short, it was worse “than negro
slavery,” but there was no help for it-there she
was, and there she was obliged to stay. ,

Well, and did she improve under this good disci-
pline? Was she any the better for it? I am sor-
ry to say very little.

There are subjects that are almost unimprovablc.
She was, by'nature, a poor, shallow, weedy thing;
her education had been the worst possible for her.
Evil habits, false views, low aims, had been im-
bibed, and not one fault corrected while young;
and self-experience, which rectifies in most so much
that is wrong, seemed to do nothing for her. There
was no substance to work upon. Mrs. Fisher was
soon heartily tired of her, and could have regretted
her complaisancc to Mrs. Danvers’ wishes in receiv—
ing her against her judgment; but she was too
good to send her away. She laughed, and accepted
her as a penance for her sins, she said—as 'a thorn
in the flesh—~and she let the thorn rankle there.
She remembered her honored Fisher, and the scene
by'the bedside of poor Saunders. She looked upon
the endurance of this plague as a fresh offering to
the adored memory.

She bore this infliction" like a martyr for a long
time; at last a smart young tailor fell in love with
Myra at church-13. place where he had been better
employed thinking of other things. And so I be-
lieve he thought after he had married her, in spite
of the White dress and silk bonnet, and the reticule
with pink ribbons, and the bride’s pocket-money,
which Mrs. Fisher bestowed with more pleasure
and alaority than even she had been known to do
upon many a worthier subject. '

 

CHAPTER VIII.

“Yet once more, oh, ye laurels, and once more, '
Ye rn‘yrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude.
And with forced fin ers rude, _
Shatter your leaves , store the mellowmg year.
Bitter constraint, and sad oceasxon dear, .
Compels me.”—-— ‘ Mxmoiv’s “Lycidas.

I MUST beg of you to slip over a portion of
time, and to suppose about two years passed over
our heads, and we return to Lettice, who has passed
that period at General Melwyn’s.

So useful, so cheerful, so thoroughly good, so
sincerely pious, so generously dismtcrested she
was; and the transformation she had accomplished
was astonishing. '

And was she as happy herself as she made
others? Nobody at the Hazels thought pf exactly
asking that question. And yet they might have

reflected a little, andinquired, whether to one, the

source of‘so much comfort to others, the natural
felicity of her age‘ was not-denied? .

Could a young being like her be very happy,
living with two old'people, and without one single
companion of her own age? Without ‘PTOSPeCti
without interest in that coming life, which the
young imagination paints in‘such‘lovely colors ?

One may boldly affirmshe was not so happy as
she deserved to be and that it was quite impossi-
ble, with a heart formed for every tender affection
as was hers, that she should. '

She began to be visited by a troublesome guest,
which in the days of hardship she had, never
known. The very ease which surrounded her, the

exemption from all necessity for laborious industry

actually increasing the evilggradually seemed to
row upon her. There was a secret distaste for
lite—we; Void in the. heart, not filled by natural at?
factionsvu-«a something r'whieh asked for tenderer

 

 

 

relations, more earnest duties—a hoine—«a house-

hold—~a family of her own! .

She blamed herself very much when first this
little secret feeling of dissatisfaction. and discon-
tent began to steal over her. How chuld she beso
ungrateful? She hadevery comfort in the world
~—more, much more, than she had any title to ex-
pect; infinitely more than many far more deserv-
ing than herself were allowed to enjoy. Why
could she not have the some light,rcoutcnted spirit
within her breast, that had carried her trium.

phantly through so many hardships, and enlivened

so many clmxded days ‘2

Poor Letticel It was vain to find fault with
herself. Life would seem flat. The mere routine
of duties, un5weetened by natural affection, would
weary the spirit at times. There was a sweetness
wanting to existence—and existence, without that

invigorating sweetneSs, is to the best of us atedious f

and an exhausting thing.

So thought Catherine, when, about eighteen,

month's or two years after her marriage, she came,
for the first time, with Edgar to visit her father and
mother.

The regimental duties of the young ofiiccrhad 

carried him to the Ionian Islands very shortly all
ter his marriage; promotion had brought him

home, and he and his young and happy wife, with V
a Sweet infant of about twelve months old, hast» "

ened down to the Hazels to visit Catherine’s
parents. , . ‘ L

I pass over the joy of the meeting—4 pass over
the satisfaction felt by Catherine at the happy
evolution whiCh' had taken plath her father’s
improved temper, her mother’s more tranquil

spirits, the absence of Randall, and the general.

good behavior which pervaded the household. '

Shelooked upon every member of it with, satis- U

faction except one; and that was the very onewho
ought to have been the happiest, for she’ was the
cause and the origin of all this happiness. But

Lettice did not, she thought, look as‘she used to

do; her eyes had lost something of their vivacity,
and the good heart of Catherine was grieved.

“ It pains me so, Eclgar—-you can not think, she
said to her husband, as she walked, leaning upon
his arm, through the pleasant groves and gardens
of the Haz’els. 7
happiness for thinking of her. Poor door, she
blames herself so for not being perfectly happy—L‘-

as if one could have effects without causes-nus if ,

the life she leads here could make anyone per-
fcctly happy. Not one thing to enjoy-for as to
her comfortable mom, and the good house, and the
pretty place, and all that sort of thing, a person
soon gets used to it, and it shuts out uneasiness,
but it does not bringdelight, at least to a young
thing of that age. Child of the house as I was,
and early days as they were with me when you
were among us, Edgar-I never knew what true
happiness was till thenv-that is, I should, very soon
have :felt a want of some, object of interest,
though it was my own father and mother.” ‘ ' 1,
“So I took the liberty to lay: before you, my fair
haranguer, if you recollect, when you. made so
many difficulties about carrying my knapsack.”
“Ah! that was because it seemed so heartless,

so cruel, to abandon my parents just when they

wanted me so exceedingly. But what a debt, of
gratitude I owe to this dear Lettice for settlingall
these matters so admirably for me]? ‘ , 
‘91 am glad you confess to a little of that debt,
which I, on my part, feel to be enormous.” ‘ K 

“ I heartily wish there were any means, of, 

ing it.
she has made all of us.” , . _ , . .
The young officer shook his handsumshead. j;

Ipv‘ViSh I could make Lattice as happyea

“ Mommas in our rank of life make-such repaint y

of endeavoring tosettlc their daughters-pm start

them in households of their own—«where, iflthey, 

are exposed to many troubles which they escape
under their father’s roof, they have many more 23;
terests and sources of happiness. But there 1,,
nobody to think of such matters as connected with
this poor father-less and motherlcss girl.” ,

“ Mothers, even in your rank, mylove, don’t “1,

ways succeed in accomplishing this momentous (lbs .

ject. I don’t see what possible chance there is for
one in Lettine’s condition-vexccpt the grand him,

one, namely, the chaptcr of ‘accidcnts,’f f

the.ezfectivc-,one-—-in..my opinion almost the, only

v

 

 

 

 

“I can Searcer enjoy my own

 

 a. «1.». Wuhan. My... .w, ..

 

 

 

 

 

M
M

“Ah! that chapter “accidents! fit is a poor
dependence)“ . ~  r : ‘ . , 

“Nay. Catherine, that is not said with your
usual piety.” .. _

“True-J am‘sorrywand yet, where another’s
happiness is concerned, one feels as if it were

- wrong to trust to‘) much—even to Providence;
with great reverence be it said-I mean, that in no
given-event can we exactly tell how much we are
expected to use ourown exertions, how much dili-
gence on our part is required of us, in order to
produce a happy result.”

“I agree with you quite and entirely; and if
there is a thing that angers me beyond measure, it
is to see a pious person fold his hands—sit down
and trust the happiness of another to, as he says,
Providence. If I have any just idea of Providence,
an ample retribution will be in store for these
sort of rehgionists.”

“Well, that is just as I feel-ébut in a sort of
confused way. You say those things so much bet-
ter than I do, Edgar.”

“ Do I ? Well, that is news to me.”

“ But to return. Cannot we do something for
this good creature ? ”

“I don’t exactly see what we can do. Besides,
there is your poor mother. Would you pull down
all her little edifice of happiness, by taking Let-
tice away from her?”

“ That is a terrible consideration; and yet what
'was true of me is doubly and trebly true. of Let-
tice. ' My darling mother would not hear of me re-

- linquishing my happiness upon her account—and
ought Lettiee to be allowed to make such a sacri.
flee? ”

“ Well, well, my dear, it is time enough to' be
gin to deprecate such a sacrifice when the oppor-
tunity for it occurs; but I own I see little hope of
a-romanee for your poor, dear Lattice, seeing that
an important personage in such matters, namely,
a herofleems to me to be utterly cut of the ques-
tion. There is not a A young gentleman within
twenty miles, so far as ‘I can see, that is in the
least likely to think of the good girl.”

“ Alas, no! that is the worst of-it."

But the romance of Lettice’s life was nearer
than they imagined.

V The visit of Catherine at the Hazels cheered up

‘ Lettice very much ; and in the delights of a little

_.society with those of her own age, she soon forgot
all her quarrels with herself ; and brushed away the
cobwebs which were gathering over her brain. She
was enchanted, too, with the baby, and as shefe’lt
that, while Catherine was with her mother, she
rather interfered with, than increased Mrs. Mel-
wyn’s enjoyment, she used to indulge herself with
long walks through the beautiful surrounding
country, aonmpanyiag the nurse and helping to
carry the babe.  - .

She visited several lonelypl‘aces and remote cot-
tages, where she had never been before: and' be—
gan to feel a new interest given to existence, when
she was privileged to assist others under the pres-
sure of that want and misery which she under.
stood but too well. One evening she and the
nurse'had strayed in a new direction, and did not
exactly know where they were. Very far from
the house she was aware it could not. be, by the
time she had been absent, but they had- got into
one of those deep. hollow lanes, from which it is
impossible to catch a glimpse of the surrounding
country; those lanes so still, and so beautiful, with
their broken sandyvbanks, covered with tufts of
feathering grass, with'peeping primroses and vio-
lets, and barren strawberries between; the beech
and fish of the cop'ses casting their slender branch
res'acmss, and checker-lug the way with innumer—
able broken lights! While, may be, as was here

"ithe'case, along pebbly stream runs sparkling and
shining upon one side of the way, forming ten

f thousand'little pools and waterfalls as it courses

.. awed with the scene, Lettuce could not pro.
vail upon herself to turn back till she had pursued
her wa - a little farther. At last a'turn lathe lane

“brought her to allowly and lonely cottage, which
stood in a place where the bank had. a little re-
ceded, and the ground formed a small grassy S‘Eml‘

, ' circle,'with the steep banks rising all around it—~

 - here stood the cottage.

It was an'ancient, picmm'lmkifig “gig; "

wtmkmaotwhea; Ihue flea do.

 

 

mama whom.

near Stony Cross in Hampshire, which the tradi-
dition of the country affirms to be the very identi-
cal cottage into which the dying William Rufus
was carried, and I am half inclinedto believe it.

Their'deep, heavy roofs, huge roof—trees, little
low walls and small windows, speak of habits of
life very remote from our own—and look to me as
if like a heap of earth—a tumulus—such edifices
might stand unchanged for tens of ages. .

The cottage before us was of this description,
and had probably been a ,woodinan’s but when the
surrounding country was all one huge forest. The
walls were not more than five feethigh, over which

hung the deep and heavy roof, covered with moss,

and the thatch was overlaid'with a heap of black
mould, which afforded plentiful nourishment to
stone crops, and Various tufts of beautifully feath-
ered grass, which waved in fantastic plumes over
it. , The door, the frame of which was all aslaut,
seemed almost buried in, and pressed down by
this roof, placed in which were two of them old
windows which show that the roof itself farmed
the upper chamber of the dwelling. A white roSe
bush was banded up on one side of this door; a
rosm‘ary tree upon the other; a. little border with
marigolds, lemon, thyme and such like pot-herbs,
ran round the house, which lay in a tiny lot of
ground carefully cultivated as a garden. etc a
very aged man, bent almost double as it wOuld
seem with the weight of years, was very languidly
digging or attempting it. ‘

The nurse was tired, So was the babe, so was
Lettice. They agreed to ask the old man’s leave
to enter the Cottage, and sit down a little, before
attempting to‘ return home. _

“ May we go in, good man,'and rest ourselves a
little while ?” asked Lettice.

(‘Anan ”

“ Will you. give us leave to go in and rest our-
selves a little? We are both tired with carrying
the baby.” v

“I don’t 'know well what it is you’re saying.
How many miles. to Brainford? Maybe two; but
it’s a weary while sin’ I’ve'been there.”

“ He can’t understand us, nurse, at all. He
seems almost stone deaf. Let us knock at the door,
and see who’s within, for you look ready to drop;
and I am so excessively tired I can hardly help
you. However, give me your sleeping babe at
all events, for you really seem as if you could stand
no. longer.” '

She took the child, which had long been fast
asleep, went to the cottage door and knocked.

“ Come in,” said a voice.

Not such a voice asshe expected to hear, but
a sweet, well-modulated voice, that of a person of
education. A man’s voice, however, it was. She

 

hesitated a. little, upon which some one rose and
- opened the door, but started back upon seeing a

young lady with a. child in 'herarms, looking ex-
cessively tired, and as if she could hold up'no

‘ longer. .

I “Pray, come in,” he said, observing she hesi-
tated, and, retreating back a little as he spoke,
showed a small bed not far from the fire, standing
in the chimney-place, as it is called. In this bed
lay a. very aged woman. A large, but very, very
ancient Bible lay open upon the bed, and a chair
a little pushed back was standing near it. It
would seem that the young gentleman had risen
from the chair where he to all appearance had been
reading the Bible to the bed-ridden old woman.
“Pray,-come- in and sit down," be repeated, hold-
ing the door to let Lettiee enter. “You look ex-
ceedingly tired. The place is very humble‘but
perfectly clean, and poor old Betty Rigby will be
very happy to- give you leave to enter.”

The young man who spoke was dressed in deep
black; but as there was. a crepe band round his
hat which lay upon the table, it would seem! that
he Was in mourning, and possibly, therefore, not a
clergyman. He was something above'the middle.
height; but his figure was spoiled byits extreme

thinness, and a stoop in the shoulder which seemed,

to be theeffeet of weakness. His face Was very
thin, and his cheek perfectly pale; but his fea-
tures were beautifully proportioned, and his large
gray eyes beamed with a subdued and melancholy
splendor. There was the fire of fever, and there
was that of genius.

The expression of this editand whet
. {a . K. .

in the extreme" ", but it was V aluminum" plinth!

“duv—

r

 

21

by its :‘c‘aSt 'of deep sadness. Lctt‘ic‘e ' looked ~at
him, and ‘was struck by his appearance in a way
she had never in her life been before. He was, I
believe, as much 'struck'with hers. These unex-
pected meetings, in'totally unexpected places, oil
ten produce such sudden and deep impressions.
The happier being was moved and interested by the

elicacy, the attenuation, the profound sadness of
the beautiful countenance before hcr; the other
with the bloom of health, the cheerful, wholesome
expression, the character and meaning ‘of the face
presented to him, as the young girl stood there
holding the sleeping infant in her arms. Cer-
tainly'though not regularly pretty, she was a very
picturesque and pleasing-looking object at that mo-
ment.

[The old woman from her bed added her invita-
tion to that of theyCung man.

“Please to walk in, miss. It’s a poor place.
Please take a chair. Oh, my poor limbs! I’ve
been bed-ridden these halfscore years; but pray,
sit down and rest yOurselves, and welcome. Law!
but that‘s a pretty hair'n, ben’t it.” -

Lotticc took the offered chair and sat dawn, still
holding the baby; the nurse occupied the other;
the young man continued standing.

“I am afraid we have interrupted you," said
Letticc, glancing at the hook. _ .

“ Oh, pray don’t think of it! I am in no hurry
to be gone. My time,” with a suppressed sigh,
“is all my own. I will finish my lecture lay-and-
bv.”

.“Ay, do, do, that’s a good gentleman. Do you
know, ma’am, he’s been the kindest ‘fn'end, young
as he looks, that evcr'Tc'r mygp‘od man in t with.
You see we lie here out of thewa‘y like; it’s a big
monstrous parish this, (indoor pgrson has a, world
of work to do. So we gets ' rather overlooked,
though, peor man, I believe he'does‘whnt‘he can.
I’ve lived here these ten years," crippled and bed.
ridden" as you see, but I got along pretty well for
some time, for I was a bit of a schollard in my
youth; but last winter my eyes took to being bad,
and since then I’ve not been able to read a line.
All gets, dizzy like. And I'was very‘dull and sore
beset that I couldn’t even see to read the word of
God, and my poor husband, that’s the old man as
is delving in the garden there, why he has hardly
any eyes left in his head. Enough just to potter
about like, an’ see his way, but he couldn’t read a
line, and it was never so; and so that blessed
young gentlcmzui~lawl where is he ? Why, I de-
clare,hc’s gone l”

The young gentleman had, indeed,'quietly glided.
out of the cottage as soon ashis eloge began.

“That young gentleman—I can say what I like
now he is gene—has‘been so good to‘us. V‘fMany‘s
the halfocmwn he’s given, me, andf’a‘ Warm winter-
coat of his cum to my peer rheum’ati‘zed’ old man.
0h l'he’s a blessed'one—and then he ’c‘orhes'anil -’
sits and reads to ‘me of an afternoon for-rm hoof.
together, because as how One day he calledfh’ev
found me. a-cryino; for, why, I could'no longer
,read the Holy ll ord——and he "says ‘Chcer' up,
Betty, be of good comfort, I‘ll read it’ to‘ you
daily ’--and when I said ‘daily, sir--tliat’ll take:
up too [much of your'time, ‘I fear ’-—-—he‘s‘ighe‘d a
little, and said he’d nothing particular ’to do With
his time.” '

‘,‘ Who is he?
hood?” , V I , 5

“ No, miss, he’s‘oiily beenlhere mhybeaha'lf-year
or so. He came down-on a ,visit'to"_ r.’flickman,
the doctor but there,:Brainwbod way,“and presently
,hewent and lodged at a'cottagehard by, to;  nem-
Iliekm’an, who’s a, "‘8 t namé‘forsuch‘ complaints '
as his’n—A-Aé—I' gn‘t‘khow‘ "what’s the name...‘ ,5;
but he's vet: bad, they say, and , not able to dig,
anything in t e"'world. Welli‘he’s‘the best, kindest,» 7
Christian young man, yen ever'see'm- I ever see '
The power Of good he does among the poor—~13er
young fellow-«is not to be told or counted—Jbut
he’s so melancholy like, and so gentle, and‘So kind,
it makes one a’mdst cry to‘lo’ok athim; that‘s‘tho
vibrst of it.” _ ' ‘

b “He looks like a clergyman; I could fancy he
wasin holy orders. Do you know whether he is so
or not '3” ‘ « '

“ Yesa mfl'am. I have heard say that he is a par.
son, buttiObody in these parts has ever seen him

,‘  ‘ he“ belong to this ' neighbor-

 

’ ("-1 hum--1. “ca-g“ 7'

in, a pglpiti but noggit’strikes me‘I've heard that
Lliowas ‘ “" "to  ‘ ‘ g ‘

-_....

’W‘ om __

\t'

 

 

22

LETTIC’E ARNOLD.

 

 

parish. but he was ta’en bad of his chest or his
throat, and never able to speak up like, so it would
not do; he cannot at present speak in a church, for
his voice sounds so low, so low.”

“ I wonder we have never met with him, or heard
of him before.”

“Oh, miss! he’s not been in this country very
long, and he goes out nowhere but to visit the
poor; and tired and weak as he looks, he seems
never tired of doing good.”

“ He looks very pale and thin.”

“Ay, doesn’t he ?” .I‘m afraid he’s but badly;
I’ve heard some ,say he was in a galloping con-
sumption, others a decline; I don’t know, but he
seems mighty weak like.”

A little more talk went on in the same way, and
then Lettice asked the nurse whether she felt
rested, as it was time to be returning home, and,
giving the poor bed-ridden patient a little money,
which was received with abundance of thanks, Let-
tice left the house.

When she entered the little garden, she saw the
young man was not gone; he was leaning pensiver
. against the gate, watching the swinging branches
of a magnificent ash tree, which grew upon a green
plot by the side of the lane. Beautiful it was as it
spread its mighty magnificent head against the
deep blue summer sky, and a soft wind gently
whispered among its forest of leaves.

Lettice could not help,‘as she observed the coun-
tenance of the young man, who seemed lost in
thought, admiring the extraordinary beauty of its
expression. Something of the sublime, something
of the angelic, which we see ii] a few remarkable
countenances, but usually in those which are spirit-
ualized by mental suiferings, and great physical
delicacy.

He started from his reverie as she and the nurse
approached, and lifted the latchet of the little
wicket to let them pass. And, as he did so, the
large, melancholy eye was lighted up with some-
thing of a pleasurable expression, as he looked at
Lettice, and said:

“A beautiful afternoon. May I venture to ask
were you intending to visit that poor bed-ridden
creature? I thought by the expression she used
that you were not acquainted with her case, and
probably had never been in the cottage before.
Will you excuse me for saying she is in great ne-
cessity ?” .

“ It is the first time I have ever been down this
lane, sir, but I assure you it shall not be the last;
I will come and see the poor woman again. There
are few things I pity so much as the being bed-
ridden.” '»

She had walked into the lane. He had quitted
the garden too, and continued to walk by her side,
talking as he went.

“ I hope there is not so much sufiering in that
state as we are apt to imagine,” he said: “ at least,
I have observed that very poor people are enabled
to bear it with wonderful cheerfulness and patience.
, I believe, to these who have lived a life of hard
lobar, rest has something acceptable in it, which
compensates for many privations-but these old
creatures are also miserably poor. The parish can-
not allow much, and they are so anxious not to be
forced into the house, that they contrive to make
a very little do. The poor .woman has been for
years receiving relief as member of a sick-club;
but lately the managers have come to .a resolution,
that she has been upon the list for such an unex.
ampled length of time, that they cannot aflord to
go on with the allowance any longer."

“How cruel and unjust?”

“Very sad, as it effects her comforts, poor crew
ture, and certainly not just; yet, as she paid only
about three years, and has been receiving an show-
once for fifteen, it would be difficult, I fancy, to
make the sort of people who manage such clubs
see it quite in that light. At all events, we can
get her no redress, for she does not belong to this
parish, though her husband does; and the club of
which she is a member is in a place at some dis—
tance, of which the living is sequestrated, and
there is no one of authority there to whom we can
apply. I only take the liberty of entering into
these details, madam, in order to convince you that
any charity you may extend in this quarter will be
particularly well applied.”

 

, ‘f I shall be very happy. if 1 cube of any use?
said

manna sassy» say,  littlest,,the

my time is at my own disposal—4t belongs to an-
other, I cannot call it my own, and my purse is
not very ample. But I have more money than
time,” she added, cheerfully, “ at all events. And,
if you will be pleased to point out in what way I
can best help this poor creature, I shall be very
much obliged to you, for I am quite longing for
the pleasure of doing a little among the poor. I
have been very poor myself; and, besides, I used
to visit them so much in my poor father’s day.”

“ I have more time than money,” he said, with
a gentle but very melancholy smile; “and, therefore,
if you will give me leave, I would take the liberty
of pointin out to you how you could help this poor
woman. If—if I knew”

“I live with General and Mrs. Melwyn—I am
Mrs. Melwyn’s dame de campagnie,” said Lettice,
with simplicity.

“And I am what ought to be Mr. Thomas’s
curate,” answered he, “ but that I am too inefficient
to merit the name. General Melwyn’s family never
attends the parish church, I think.”

“ No; we go to the chapel of ease at Fumival’s
Green. It is five miles by the road to the parish
church, and that road a very bad one. The general
does not like his carriage to go there.”

“ So I have understood ; and, therefore, Mr.
Thomas is nearly a stranger, and I perfectly one,
to the family, though they are Mr. Thomas’s par.
ishioners.

“ It seems so strange to me—a clergyman’s
daughter belonging formerly to a small parish-—
that every individual in it should not be known to
the vicar. It ought not to be so, I think.”

“I entirely agree with you. But I believe Mr.
Thomas and the general never exactly understood
or suited each other.”

“ I don’t know—I never heard.”

“I am myself not utterly unknown to every
member of the family. I was at school with the
young gentleman who married Miss Melwyn. Yet
why do I recall it? He has probably forgotten me
altogether—and yet, perhaps, not altogether. Pos-
sibly he might remember James St. Leger ;” and
he sighed.

‘ It was a. light, suppressed sigh.
escape him without his observing it.

Lettice felt unusually interested in this conversa-
tion, little as there may appear in it to interest any.
one; but there was something in the look and tone
of the young man that exercised a great power
over her imagination. His being of the cloth—a
clergyman—may account for what may seem rather
strange in her entering into conversation with him.
She had been brought up to feel profound respect
for everyone in holy orders; and, moreover, the
habits of her life at one time, when she had sunk
to such depths of poverty, had, in a considerable
degree, robbed her of the conventional reserve of
general society. She had been 80 used at one time
to be accosted and to accost without thinking of
the ceremony of an introduction, that she probably
forgot the absence of it in the present case, more
than another equally discreet girl might have done.

The young man, on his part, seemed under the
influence of a strange charm. He continued to
walk by her side, but he had ceased to speak. He
seemed lost in thought—melancholy thou ht. It
certainly would seem as if the allusion to dgar’s
home, and his own school life had roused a host of
painful recollections, in which he was for the time
absorbed.

So they followed the windings of the deep hol-
low lane together. Necessarily it would seem, for
this lane appeared to defy the proverb and have
no turnin . But that it had one we know—«ind
to it the ittle party came at last. A gate led to
some fields belonging to the estate of the Hazels
—-Lettice and the nurse prepared to open it and
enter. "

“Good-morning, sir,” said Lettice, “this is my
"35’ 3 I will strive to do something for the poor
woman you recommended to me, and I will men.
tion your recommendation to Mrs. Mclwyn.”

He started as if suddenly awakened when she
spoke; but he only said, “Will you? It will be
right and kind. Thank you, in her name.” And,
with a grave, abstracted sort of salute, he left her,
and pursued his way. . . .

Catherine was standing rather anxiously upon

- ‘ ' - rot-ind and condemns-int

as ,.

 

It seemed to

 

had become of her nurse and her baby, when nurse,
baby, and Lettice returned.

“Dear people,” she cried, “I am glad you are

come back.”

She had been, if the truth were told, a good
deal fidgeted and frightened, as young mothers are
very apt to be, when the baby does not come home
at the usual hour. She had sufi'ered a" good deal
of uneasiness, and felt half inclined to be angry.
A great many people with whom I am acquainted
would have burst out into a somewhat petulant
scold, when the cause for anxiety was at an end,
and baby and her party, all safe, appeared quietly
walking up the road as if nothing in the world were
amiss. The very quiet and tranquillity which proved
that they were quite unconscious of having done
anything wrong, would have irritated some people
more than all the rest. I thought it was very nice
of Catherine to be good-homered and content as
soon as she saw all was safe, after the irritating
anxiety she had just been going through. She,
however, ran eagerly down the steps, and her
eyes sparkling with impatience, caught her little
one in her arms and kissed it very fast and hard.
That being the only sign of an impatient spirit
which she showed, and, except crying out, “ Oh! I
am so glad to see you safe back, all of you. Do
you know, Lettice, I began to wonder what had
become of you ?”—-not a syllable approaching to
reper passed her lips. .

“ Dear Mrs. D’Arcy! Dear Catherine! I am
afraid we are late. We went too far—~we partly
lost ourselves. We got into a long, but oh, such
a lovely lane! where I'never was before; and then
we have had a little wee bit of an adventure.”

“Adventure! Oh, goodness! I am glad of that.
Adventures are so excessively rare in this country.
I never met with one-in my life, but happening
upon Edgar, as the people say, when he was com-
ing from hunting, and the wind had blown off my
hat—a wind that blew somebody good, that. Dear,
beloved Lettice, I wish to goodness, that I do, an
adventure of the like of that might have happened
to you.”

Lettice colored a little.

“Gracious i” cried Catherine, laughing merrily,
and peeping at her under her bonnet, “I declare,
you’re blushing, Lettice. Your adventure is soon-—
thing akin to my adventure. Have you stumbled

upon an unparalleled youth—by more accident, as ’

I did—and did he, did he pick up your hat?”

“If he had,” said Lettice, “ I am afraid my face
with my hair all blown about it, would not have
looked quite so enchanting as yours must have
done. No, I did not lose my bonnet.”

“Anything else? Your heart, perhaps 7”

“Dear Catherine, how can you be so silly.”

“Oh, it was such a blessed day when I lost
mine i” said Mrs. D’Arcy, gayly. “Such a gain of
a loss! that I wish just the some misfortune to
befall everyone I lovc~and I love you dearly,
Lattice.” , __

“There must be more than one heart lost, I
fancy, to make adventures turn out as well as
yours did. Catherine.” , , ,

“Oh! that’s a matter of course in such sort of
things. There is always an exchange, where there
is love at first sight. But now do tell me, that’s a
dear girl, what your adventure was.”

“I only saw a clergyman reading to a poor wo-
man—~or rather, I only saw a clergyman, a Bible,
and a poor woman, and thence concluded that he
had been reading to her.” '

“Oh! you tiresome creature. Poor, dear, old
Mr. Hughes, I’ll be bound. Good old fellow—but
such a hum-drum. Nay, Lattice, my dear, don’t
look shocked and cross. A clergyman may be a
very stupid, humadrum, tiresome follow, as well as
any other man. Don’t pretend to deny that."

“ I would as lief not hear them called so. But
this was not Mr. Hughes.”

“Oh, no! I remember now on were not in his
parish. If you went down riarWOOd Lane far
enough, you would be in Briarwood parish. Mr.
Thomas, perhaps?” . .

t‘ No.”

“ Mr. Thomas’s curate. Ohl of course, the
curate. Only, I dont‘think Mr. Thomas keeps
one.”

“No; I believe not Mr. Thomas’s, or anyone

else's curate; but a gentleman who says he km’

Captain Darcy- at when 

m ' , 5%.

 

 

‘

uneven unwary:

23

 

 

“ Nay, that is too charming. That really is like
an adventure.” W

“Here, Edgar l” '

He was crossing the paddock at some little
distance.

“Come here for one instant. Do you recollect
what I was talking to you about, this very morn-
ing? Well, Lettice has met with an adventure,
and has stumbled upon an old acquaintance of
yours, reading the Bible to an old woman; he was
at school with you.”

“ Well, as there were about five hundred people,
more or less, who had that honor—if you mean to
know anything about him, Miss Arnold, you must
go a little more into detail; and, first and fore-
most, what is the young gentleman’s name ?”

“James St. Leger,” said Lettice.

A start for answer, and,

‘“ Ha! Indeed! Poor fellow! he turned up
again. I little thought our paths in life would ever
cross more. How strange to unearth him in such
a remote corner of the world as Briarwood. Poor
fellow! Well, what is he like? and how does he
look ?"

“Ill and melancholy,” said Lettice. “I should
say very ill and very melancholy—and with reason
I believe; for though he is in holy orders, some-
thing is the matter with his throat or his chest,
which renders him useless in the pulpit."

“ You don’t say so. Ilis chest! I hope not.
And yet,” continued Edgar, as if musing aloud, “ I
know not. He was one when I knew him, Miss
Arnold, so marked out through the vices of others
for misery in this world, that I used to think the
sooner he went out of it the better for him.”

“ Ah i” cried Catherine, “ there is an interesting
history here. Do tell it us, Edgar. Of all your
charming talks, what I like almost the best are
your reminiscences. He has such a memory, Let-
tioe; and so much penetration into the characters
of persons, and the connection of things, that noth-
ing isso delightful as when he will tell some old
history of his earlier years. Do, dear Edgar, tell
us all about this charming young curate of Briar-
wood.” ‘

“ Flatterer! Coaxing flatterer! Don’t believe
a word she says, Miss Arnold. I am as empty-pated
a rattle-skull, as ever was turned raw into one of
Her Majesty’s regiments—and that‘s saying a good
deal, I can tell you. But this dear creature here
loves a bit of romance in her heart. What’s
o’clock ?”

“ 0h l” looking at the tiniest of watches, “a full
two hours to dinner; and such a day, too, for a
story—and just look at that spreading oak with
the bench under it, and the deer lying crouching
there so sweetly, and the wind just lulling the
boughs, as it were, to rest. Here, nurse, bundle the
baby away to her nursery. New, do, there’s a dun
ling Edgar.”

“Why, my love, your am making awful preparo
ation. It is almost as terrible ’as reading a manu-
script to begin a relation, all sitting solemnly upon
a bench under a tree together. There is not much
to tell, poor fellow; only I did pity him from my
heart of hearts.”

Catherine had her way, and they sat down under
the green" leafy canopy of this majestic oak; and
she put her arm in her husband’s and her hand into
that of Lettiee, and thus sitting between them,loving
and beloved, she listened, the happiest, as she was
one of the honestest and best, of heaven‘s crea-
tures. '

“We were both together at a large rough sort of '

preparatory school,” began Edgar, “where there
might be above a hundred boys or so. They were
mostly, if not entirely, intended for the military
profession, and came from arents of all sorts of
positions and degrees, and 0 all sorts of principles,
characters, and manners. A very omnium gather-

‘um that school was, and the ways of it were as

rough as in any school, I should think, they could
possibly be. I was a tall, healthy rebel, when I
was sent there, as strong as a little Hercules, and
excessively proud of my force and prowess. 
bold, daring, cheerful, merry lad, as ever left his
mother’s apron-string; very sorry to quit the dot-
iugest of mothers, "and the happiest'of homes, and
the pleasantest of fathers; but mighty proud to
come out of the Gynyswm, and .to be a man, as I
‘1’”ng it high timeI shopld,1n clot: trawsers
“'3  Wfi'adfluk  _, kl

.

 n ...‘ nib;

«ances, too young to be equitable.

 

plunged, plump headforemost amid the vortex, and
was soon in a thousand scrapes and quarrels, bat-
tling my way with my fists, and mymerry eye; for
they used to tell me the merry eye did more for
me even than my impudence in fighting everything
that would condescend to fight such a youngster.
I was soon established, and then I breathed after
my victories, and began to look round.

“So long as I had considered the throng about
me but in the light of so many adversaries to be
beaten by main force, and their rude and insulting
ways only as provocative to the fray, I had cared
little for their manners or their proceedings, their
coarseness and vulgarity, their brutality and their
vices. But now, seated in peace upon the em-
inence to which I had fought my way, I had time
to breathe and to observe. I cannot describe to
you how shocked, how sickened, how disgusted I
became. Par parenthese, I will say that it has
always been an astonishment to me, how parents
so tender as mine could send a frank, honest-
hearted, well-meaning little fellow into such a place.
But the school had a high reputation. I was then
a fourth son, and had to make my way as best I
could in the profession chosen for me. So here I
came. I was about ten or eleven years old, I
must add, in excuse for my parents, though I called
myself so young, I felt younger, because this was
my first school. To resume. I When I had van.
quished them, it is not in words to describe how I
despised and detested the majority of my school-
fellows—for their-vulgar pleasures, their offensive
habits, their hard, rough, brutal manners, their
vicious principles, and their vile, blasphemous im-
piety. I was a warm lover and a still more ardent
hater, and my hatred to most of them exceeded all
bounds of reason; butit was just such as a straight-
forward, warm-tempered fellow, is certain to enter-
tain without mitigation in such a case.

“It is a bad element for a boy to be living in.
However, I was saved from becoming an utter
young monster, by the presence in the school of
this very boy, James St. Leger.

“ In the bustle and hurry of my early wars, I
had taken little heed of, scarcely observed this boy
at all. But when the pause came, I noticed him.
I noticed him for many reasons. He was tall for
his age, slender, and of extremely delicate make,
but with limbs of a symmetry and beauty that re-
minded one of a fine antique statue. His face,
too, was cxtremly beautiful; and there was some-
thing in his large, thoughtful, melancholy eyes,
that it was impossible ever to look upon and to
forget.

“ I no sooner observed him at 9.11, than my whole
boyish soul seemed knit to him.

“ His manner was extremly serious; the ex-

pression of his countenance sad to a degree—-

deeply, intensely sad, I might say; yet through
that deep sadness there was a tender sweetness
which was to me most interesting. I never shall
forget his smile—for laugh he never was heard
to do.

“ I soon discovered two things, that made me feel
more for him than all the rest. One, that he was
an extremely well-informed boy, and had received
a home education of a Very superior order; and
the other, that he was most unfortunate, and that
his misfortunes had one peculiaringredient of bit-
terness in them, namely, that they were of a na.
ture to excite the scorn and contempt of the vul~
gar herd that surrounded him, rather than to
move their rude hearts to sympathy and pity.
“The prepensity to good in rough, vulgar,
thou htless human beings, is very apt to show
itsel in this way—in a sort of contemptuous
disgust against vice and folly, and an alienation
from those connected with it, however innocent.
We must accept it, upon reflection, I suppose as a
rude form of good inclination; but I was too
young for reflection—400 young to make allow-
' Such conduct
appeared to me the most glaring and barbarous
injustice, and excited in me a passionate indignw
tion.

“ Never did I hear St. Leger taunted, as he of—
ten was, with the frailtiesof his mother or the
errors of his father, but my heart was all in a
flame—my fist clinched~my cheek burning.
Many a fellow have I laid prostrate upon the
earth with ,meudden blow who dared, in my: res:

amtochase th'eeolor  g , {lg

l '.
. . .

 

alluding to the subject. There was this remarka-
ble in St. Leger, by the way, that he never colored
when his mother’s shame or his father’s end was
alluded to, but went deadly pale.

“ The history was a melancholy one of human
frailty and is soon told. His mother had been ex-
tremely beautiful, his father the possessor of a
small independent fortune. They had lived hap-
pily together many years, and she had brought
him five children; four girls and this boy. I have
heard that the father doted with no common pas-
sion, in a husband, Catherine——upon the beauti-
ful creature, who was moreover accomplished and
clever. She seemed devoted to her children, and
had given no common attention to her boy in his
early years. Hence his mental accomplishments.
The husband was, I suspect, rather her inferior in
intellect; and scarcely her equal in refinement and
manner, but it‘s no matter; it would have been
probably the same whatever he had been. She
who will run astray under one set of circum.
stances, would probably have run astray under
any. She was very vain of her beauty and tal-
ents, and had been spoiled by the idolatry and
flattery of all who. surrounded her.

“ I will not pain you by entering into any par-
ticulars; in brief, she disgraced herself, and was
ruined.

“ The rage, the passionate despair, the blind
fury of the injured husband, it was said, exceeded
all bounds. There was, of course, every sort of
public scandal. Legal proceedings and the nec-
essary consequences—a divorce. The wretched
history did not even end here. She" suffered hor-
ribly from shame and despair I have been told,
but the shame and despair had not the effect it
ought to have produced. She fell from bad to
worse, and was utterly lost. The husband did the
same. Wild with the stings of wounded affec-
tion, blinded with suffering, he flow for refuge to
any excitement which would for amoment assauge
his agonies; the gaming~table, and excess in
drinking, soon finished the dismal story. He shot
himself ina paroxysm of delirium tremens, after
lfiaving lost almost every penny he possessed at
are» .

“ You tremble, Catherine. * Your hand in mine is
cold. Oh, the pernicious woman ! Oh, the depths
of the misery—if I were indeed to tell you all I
have met with and known—which are entailed
upon the race by the vanity, the folly, and the vice
of women. Angels! yes, angels you are. Sweet
saint—sweet Catherine, and men fall down and
worship you, but woe for them when she they wor-
ship proves a fiend. ' ‘ ,

“ Dear Miss Arnold, you are shedding tears, but
you would have this dismal story. You had better
hear no more of it, let me stepmow.”

“ Go can-pray go on, Edgar. Tell usabout the
poor boy and the girls, you said there were four of
them.”

“ The boy and his sisters were taken by some
relations. It was about a year after these events
that I met him at this school. They had sent him
here, thinking the army the best place for him.
To get him shot off, poor fellow, perhaps, if they
could. His four sisters were all then' living, and
how tenderly, poor lad, he used to'talk' to meabout
them. How he would 'eve over the treatment
they were receiving, wit the best intentions he
acknowledged, but too hardening and severe he
thought for girls so delicate. - They Wanted a
mother’s fostering, a father’s protection, poor
things, but he never alluded in the remotest way
to either father or mother. Adam, when he sprung
from the earth, was not more parentless than he
seemed to consider himself. But he used to talk
of a future for his sisters, andsometimes in his
more cheerful moods, would picture to himself what
he would do when he should be a man, and able
to shelter them in a home, however 1,113,513,“:
his own. His whole soul was wrapped up in than

' girls.”

“ Did Youcver hear what became of them 1’” 
. “ Three died of consumption, I have been told,
Just as they were opening into the bloom of early

womanhood, almost the loveliest creatures that
ever were seen.”

“And the fourth ‘2"
“She was the most beautiful of all-a fine,

highspifited, dash-inuth Her brother’s g

, ' ‘ Huv'

 

 

 

 

at
"e

 

» Hewas such a
ad’Edgar. St. Leger had loved him so entirely at

 

 

24 LETTIOE - ARNOLD.
“Well?” ‘ aplace where the‘noise and hustle and ,stir of the People donltvstarve to death. nowadays—at least

“She followed her mother’s example, and died
miserably at the age of two-and-twenty.”

“ What can we do for this man ?” cried Cathe-
rine, when she had recovered voice a little. “ Ed-
gar, what can we do fer this nian ‘3”

“ Your first question, dear girl—always your
first question—what can be done? Ever, my love,
may you preserve that precious habit. My Gathe~
rine never sits down lamenting, and wringing her
hands helplessly about other people’s sorrows.
The first thing she asks is, what can be done ?”

 

CHAPTER IX.

Strongest minds
Are often those of whom the noisy world
Hears least : else surely this man had not left
His graces unrevealed and unpr‘oclaimed.
~Wanswon'r8.
' THE first thing to be done, it was obvious to all
parties, was for Edgar to go and call upon Mr. St.
ger, which he did.
He found him occupying one very small r00m,
which served him for bed and sitting-room, in a
' small cottage upon the outskirts of the little se-
cluded town of Briarwood. He looked extremely
ill; his beautiful countenance was preternaturally
pale; his large eyes far too bright and large; his
form attenuated; and his voice so faint, husky and

" low that it was with difficulty he could make him-

self heard, at least for any length of time together.
 The expression of his countenance, however,
was rather grave than sad; resigned than melan-
choly. He was serious but perfectly composed;
nay, there was even a chastened cheerfulness in
his manner. He looked like one who had accepted
the cup presented to him; had already exhausted
most of the bitter potion, and was calmly prepared
to drain it to the dregs.

And so it had been.

No man was ever more exquisitely,~ constituted
to suffer from circumstances So agonizing than be.
But his mind was of a lofty stamp; he had not
sunk under hissufierings. He had timely consid-
ered the reality of these things. He had learned
to connect—really, truly, faithfully the trials and
sorrows-of this world with the retributions of an-
other. He had accepted the part allotted to him in
the mysterious scheme; had played it as best he
could, and was now prepared for its impending
close. ‘

It is. consoling to know one thing. In his char-
acter of minister of the holy word of God he had
been allowed the privilegeof attending the last ill-
ness of both mother and sister, both so deeply, deep-
ly, yet silently beloved, in spite of all ; and, through
thesis blessed means, the full value and mercy of

, which, perhaps, such grevious sinners are alone able

to entirely estimate, he had reconciled them, as he
truSted, with that God “ who'forgiveth all our in.

, ‘iduities and healeth all our diseases.” Having been

allowed to do this, he felt as if it would be the
basost ingratitude to murmur ‘ because his services

'in‘ the pulpit. were suddenly arrested by the disease gun

in his chest, and with it a stop put to further use-
fulness, and even to the supply of his daily bread.
_ He was calmly expecting to die in the receipt of
' parish relief, far he had not a penny beyond his
curatels salary; and it 'was 1 impossible to allow
Mr, Thomas, who was a poor man himself, to con-
tinue that, now the hepe‘of restoration to useful.
ness seemed at an end. It was not likely, indeed,
that he should, upon the spare hermit‘s diet which
his scant means allowed, recover from a complaint

of which weakness was the foundation.

He had tried to maintain himself by hispen;
butthecomplaint which prevented his preaching
'was equally. against the pOSition when writing. He
cons do so little in this way that it would not far-
nish‘him, with a leaf 9. week. A ray of enuine

, ‘ pleasure, however, shot to his eye, and'a fa at but

beautiful flush mounted to' his cheek, when Edgar
entered and cordiall held out his hand. :
ear warmvhearted fellow, was

school, and these days were not so very long
since! , The impression old Time had not even yet
attempted with his busy fingers to 'ei‘face.

“ I am so glad to have found you out, my dear fel-
L r be an. “Who would have thought of

 “we ,0  more; .. .0 re  w 
Mahdi-quid” “mm” .-

,V'

 

Great Babylon cannot even be heard. But what
are you doing inthis place ? for you look ill, I must
say, and you seem to be left to yourself without a
human being to look after you.”

“,Much so. You know I am quite alone in the
world.”

“A dismal position that, and I am come to put
an end to it. My wife insists upon making your
acquaintance, and scuttled me off this morning
without giving me time to eat my breakfast, though,
to own the truth, I was‘ready enough of myself to
set out. The general desired me to bring his card;
he is too infirm to go out himself, and he and Mrs.
Melwyn request the favor of your company to din-
ner to-morrow at six o’clock.” I

“I should be very happy—but—-” and he hesi-

tated a little.
I “I’ll come and fetch you in the dog-cart about.
five, and drive you down again in the evening. It’s
a more step by IIatherway Lane, which is quitepas-
sable at this time of the year, whatever it may be
in winter.” I

St. Leger looked as if he should like very much
to come. His was a heart, indeed, formed for so-
ciety, friendship, and love; not the least of the
monk or the hermit was to be found in his compo-
sition. And so it was settled.

St. Leger came to dinner, as arranged, Edgar
fetching him up in the dog-cart.

Everyone was struck with his appearance. There
was a gentleness and refinement in his manner
which charmed Mrs. Melwyu; united to the ease
and politeness of a man of the world, equally ac.
ceptable to the general; Catherine was delighted;
and Lettice only in a little danger of being too well
pleased.

His conversation soon showed him to be a man
of a very superior turn of thought, and was full of
information. In short, it was some time, with the
exce tion of Edgar, since so agreeable a person had
sat own at that dinner-table; for the Hazels lay
rather out of the way, and neither the general
nor Mrs. Melwyn were of a temper to cultivate so-
ciety.

Edgar returned home in the‘evening from an
agreeable drivowith his friend through the bright.
glittering starlight night. It was slightly frosty.
and he came into the drawing-room rubbing his
hands, with his cheeks freshened by the air, look-
ing as if he'was prepared very much to enjoy the
fire.

He found the whole party sitting up, and very
amicably discussing the new acquaintance who had
pleased them all so much. So Edgar sat down be-
tween his wife and her mother, and readily joined
in the conversation.

The general, who really was much altered for the
better under the good influences of Lettice, had been
speaking in high terms of their late‘ guest. And
when Edgar came in and‘sat'down in the circle,
spreading his hands to the fire, and looking very
comfortable, the general, in an amicable tone, be-

“Really, Edgar, we have f been saying we are
quite obliged to you for introducing to us so agree.
able 9. man as this Mr. St. Leger, of yours. He is
quite a find in such a'stupid neigborhood as ours,
where, during the ten years I have lived in it, I
have never met one resident ”——-with an emphasis
upon the word, that it might not be supposed to
include Edgar himself—“ one resident whose com-
pany I thought worth a brass farthing.”

“I am very glad my friend gives satisfaction,
sir,” said Edgar, cheerfully; “ for I believe, poor
fellow, he has much more to seek than even your-
self, general, in the article of companionship. One
cannot think that the society of the worthy M?-
Thomas can afford much of interest to a man like
St. Leger. ' But whatever pleasure 3’9“ may mutu‘
ally afford each other will soon be at an end I fear;
and I have been beating my brains all the way com-
ing home, tothink what must be done.” '

“ Why must the pleasure'come so soon to an end,
Edgar ?” asked Mrs. Melwyn.

“Why, if something can’t be done, the poor lad
is in a fairway to be starved to death,” was the
answer.

“Starved to death! How shockingly you do talk,
Edgar,” cried Mrs. Melwyn. “I wish you would

not; suchgthings;’,you make. one, quite start.
 show-anus

W-it‘csumn‘bbtruen

', G , n.

   

 

 .‘

not in a sort of case like that.”

“I don’t know, such thingsdo sound as if they
couldn’t be true,‘and yet,” said Catherine, “they
do come very nearly to the truth at times.”

“Indeed, «do they,” said Lettice.

“ Starved to death,” observed the general, “I
take to be merely a poetic exaggeration of )ours,
captain. But do you mean to say that-young man
is literally in distressed circumstances ‘1”

“The most urgently distressing circumstances,
sir. The fact is, that he inherited nothing from
his father but a most' scandalous list of debts,
which he most honorably sold every fathing of his
own little property to pay—relying for his subsist-
ence upon the small stipend he was to receive from
Mr. Thomas. You don’t like Mr. Thomas, sir.”

“Who would like such a stupid old drone 1’”

“He’s a worthy old fellow, nevertheless. Though
his living is a very poor one, he has acted with
great liberality to James St. Leger. The poor fel-
low has lost his voice; you would perceive in con-
versation how very feeble and uncertain it was. It
is utterly powerless in the readingdesk; and yet
Mr. Thomas has insisted upon retaining him, pav~
ing his salary, and doing all the duty himself. As
long as there was any hope of recovery, to this
St. Leger most unwillingly submitted; but, now he
despairs of ever again being useful, it is plain it
can no longer be done.”

“And what is to become of him ?” exclaimed
Lettice.

She knew what it was to be utterly without re-
source—she knew how possible it was for such
things to happen in this world—she knew what it
was to be hungry and to want bread, and be with-
out the means of assistance—to be friendless,.help~
less, and abandoned by all. '

“ What is to be done ?” she cried.

“What is to be done ?” said the general, rather
testily. “Why, tlievyoun fellow must turn his
hand to something else. ~ one but a fool starves.”

“Ay, but,” said Edgar, shaking his head, “but ,

what is that something’i’g I see no prospect for
one incapacitated by his cloth for enlisting as a
soldier or standing behind a counter, and by l.2:
illness for doing anything consistent with his pro-
fession.” '

“ I should think hemight write a canting book,”
said the general, with a sneer; “ that would be
sure to sell.” - .

“Whatever book St. Leger wrote,” Edgar an-
swered coldly, “would be a good one, canting or
not. But he cannot write a book. The fatigue,
the steeping, would be intolerable to his chest in
its present irritable states Besides, if he did write
a book, it’s a hundred ‘to one whether he got any
thing for it, and, moreover, the book is not written ;
and there is an old, proverb which says, while the
grass grows the horse starves. He literally will
starve, if some expedient cannot be hit upon.”

“And that is too, too dreadful to think of,”oried
Mrs. Melwyn, piteou’sl y. “ 011, general 1”

“ 0h, papal oh, Edgar! . Can; you think 01‘ noth-
ing ?” added Catherine, in the camp tone.

“It would be a pity he should starve, for he is a
remarkably gentleman-like, agreeable fellow,” ob»
served the general. “ Edgar, do you know what
was meant by the term one meets with in old books
about manners, of ‘led captain?’ I wish to heave
I could have 3. led captain like the .” ’

“Oh, there was the chaplain as well as the led
captain in those days, papa,” said Catherine, read-
ily. “ Dearest papa, if one could but percuade you
you wanted a domestic chaplain.’\ r

“Well, and what did the chaplain do in those
days, Mrs. Port ‘2"

“Why, he sat at the bottom of the table, and
carved the sirloin.”

“ And he read, and played at back earthen-.-
when he was wanted, I believe," put in gar.

“ And he did a great deal more,” added-Cathe-
rine in a graver tone. “ He kept the accounts, and
looked after important business for his patron.”

“ And visited the poor and was the almoner and
their friend," said Lettice, in a low tone.

“ And played at bowls, and drank”-—._.

Catherine put her hand playfully over the gong.
al’s mouth. ' .

“ Don’t, dear papa-v-yon must Itch-you must not,
indeed. Do you:,knoyl‘this irreverence in .«ycak-

.,  dsgtewdamdusupg is not

 

 

 

flu...“ :; .

 

LETTIC’E ARNOLD.

25

 

 

at all what ought to be done. Don’t, Edgar. Dear
papa, I may be foolish, but I do so dislike it.”

“ Well, well, well—anything for a quiet life."

“But to resume the subject,” locking her arm
in his, and smiling with a sweetness which no
one, far least he, could resist. “Really and seri-
ously I do think it would be an excellent thing if
you would ask Mr. St. Leger to be your domestic
chaplain.”

“ Stuff and nonsense.”

1“ Not such stuff and nonsense as you think.
Here's our darling Lettice—think what a comfort
she has been to momma, and think whata pleasant
thing it would be for you to have a confidential
and an agreeable friend at‘your elbow—just as
momma has in Lettice. Hide your face, Lettice,
if you can’t bear to be praised a little before it;
but I will have it done, for I see you don’t like it.
But, papa, you see things are getting a good deal
into disorder, they sav, upon your property out of
doors, Just for want of some one to look after them.
I verily believe, that if we could persuade this
young gentleman to come and do this for you, he
w0uld save you a vast deal of money.”

The general made no answer. He sank back in
his chair, and seemed to meditate. At last, turn-
ing to Edgar, he said: ‘ .

“That little wife of yours is really not such a
fool as some might suppose her to be, captain.”

“Really ”

“What say yen, Mrs. Melwyn? Is there any
sense in the young lady’s suggestion, or is there
not? What says Miss Arnold? Come, let us put
it to the vote.”

Mrs.- Melwyn smiled. Catherine applauded and
laughed, and kissed her father, and declared he
was the dearest piece of reasonableness in the
world. And, in short, the project was discussed,
and one said this, and the , ther said that, and after
it had been talked over an commented upon, with
a hint from one quarter, and a suggestion from an.
other, and so on, it began to take a very feasible
and inviting shape.

Nothing could be more true than a person of this
description in the family was terribly wanted. The
general was becoming every day less able and less
inclined to look after his own affairs. Things were
mismanaged, and he was robbed in the most noto-
rious and unblushing manner. This must be seen
to.’ Of this Edgar and Catherine had been upon
their return speedily aware. The difficulty was
how to get it done; and whom to trust in their ab-
sence; which would soon, owing to the-calls of the
service, take place again, and for an indefinite pe-

, riod of time.

Mr. St. Leger seemed the very person for such
an office, could he be persuaded to undertake it;
and his extremity was such, that, however little
agreeable to such a man the proposal might be, it
appeared not impossible that he might entertain it.
Then he had made himself so much favor with the
general, that one difficulty, and the greatest, was
already overcome.

Mrs. Melwyn seconded their designs with her
most fervent wishes. She could not venture to do
much more. 7

To have expressed her sentiments upon the sub-
ject—to have said how much she felt the necessity
of some such plan, and how ardently she desired
that it might becarried into execution, would have
been one very likely reason for setting her way-
ward old partner against it. '

‘She had found so much happiness in the posses—
sion of Lattice as a friend, that she anticipated
every possible advantage from a similar arrange-
ment for thegcneral. ' .

You may remark as you go along, that it was be-
cause Lettice had so admirably performed her own
part, that“ the whole family were so desirous of re-
peating it under other circumstances. Such are
among the incidental—4f I may call them so-——
fruits of good conduct. . , .

If the vices spread wide their devastating influ—
encesu-the virtues extend their blessmgs a thou.

sand fold. ‘

. The general did not want for observation. He
had estimated the good which had arisen from the
admission of Lettiee Arnold into his family, and
he felt well inclined to the scheme of havmg a

 

WmPanion of his own. He could even tolerate the r

Olden of a species of domestic chaplain; prpyided
K M ‘

.—-aw—

this

 

the personage so designated would look to his home
farm and keep his accounts.

The proposal was made to Mr. St. Leger.

He hesitated. Edgar expected that he would.

“I do not know,” he said, “ I feel as if I were,
in some measure, running the risk of degrading
my holy office, by accepting, merely for my per-
sonal convenience, a dependent position, where cer-
tain compliances, as a necessary condition, might
be expected, which are contrary to my views of
things."

“ Why so ? I assure you, upon my honor, noth-
ing of that sort is to be apprehended. These are
really very well meaning people, and you may serve
them more than you seem aware. The part of do-
mestic chaplain is not held beneath the members
of your church. I own this is not a noble family,
and doubt whether you can legitimately claim the
title. * Yet the office is the same.”

“Yes, if I may perform the duties of that office.
On that condition alone,will Ientertain the thought
of it for a moment. And I must add, that as soon
as ever I .am in a condition, if that time ever arrives,

to resume my public duties, I am to be allowed to .

do so.”

“ Unquestionably.”

“ And, that while I reside under the general’s
roof, I may carry out certain reforms which I be-
lieve to be greatly wanted.”

“No doubt.”

“ And that I shall be enabled to assist Mr.
Thomas in the care of this extremity of his
large parish, which so deplorably requires looking
after.” ‘

The general grumbled a little at some of these
conditions, but finally consented to all.

He was getting an old man. Perhaps he was
not sorry, though he thought it due to those an-
cient prejudices of his profession, I am happy to
say now fast growing obsolete to appear so, per-
haps he was not really sorry, now the wheel was
beginning to pause at the cistern, and the dark-
ness of age was closing around him, to have some
one in his household to call his attention to
things which he began to feel had been neglected
too long.

Perhaps he was not sorry to allow family prayer
in a mansion, where the voice of united famil y
prayer had, till then, never been heard. To anti~
cipate a little, I may add, as certain, that he, who
began with never attending at all, was known to
drop in once or twice; and ended by scolding Let-
tice heartily in a morning if there was any danger
of her not having bound up his arm in time for
him to be present.

His gray venerable head, his broken, but still
manly figure, his wrinkled face, his still keen blue
eye, might be seen at last amid his household. The
eye fixed in a sort of determined attention, the lips
muttering the prayer, 9. sort of child in religion
still, yet far to seek in many things ; but accepted,
we will hope, as as child.

He could ,share, too, as afterward appeared, in
the interest which. Mrs. MeIWyn and Lettice, after
Mr. St. Leger’s arrival, ventured openly to take in
the concerns of the poor; and even in the estab.
lishment of a school, against which, with an obsti-
nate prejudice against the education of the lower
classes, the general had so long decidedly set his
face.

In short, having accepted all the conditions upon
which alone St. Leger, even in the extremity of his
need, could be persuaded to accept a place in his
family, the old, soldier ended by taking great com-
fort, great interest, great pleasure, in all the im-
provements that were effected.

One difficulty presented itself in making the
arrangement; and this came from a quarter
quite unexpected by Catherine, from poor Mrs. Mel-
w n.

y“ Ah, Catherine,” said she, coming into her room,
and looking most nervous and distressed, “ take care
what you and Edgar are about, in bringing this
Mr. St. Leger into the family. Suppose he should
fall in love with Leltice ‘2".

“ Well, mamma, suppose he should, where would
be the dreadful harm of that ‘3” said Catherine,
laughing. ,

“Ah, my dear! . Pray, don’t laugh, Catherine.
What would become of us all ?"~_

“ Why, what would become ofyou all 2” ,.

“ I’m sure i don’t wish to be “selfish. I should

 

hate myself if I were. But what could We do with-
out Lettice? Dear Catherine! only. think of it.
And that would not be the worst. They could not
marry, for they would have nothing to live upon if ,
they left us, so they would both be miserable.
For they could neither go nor stay. It would be
impossible for them to go on living together here,
if they were attached to each other, and could
never be married. And so miserable as they
would be, Catherine, it makes me wretched to think
of it.”

“ Ah! dear, sweet mother, don’t take up wretch-
edness at interest, that’s my own mother. They’re
not going to fall in love. Mr. St. Leger looks not,
the least inclined that way.” . ,

“ Ah, that’s easily said, but suppose they, did 2'"

“Well, suppose they did. I see no great harm
in it; may I confess to you, mother, for my part, I
should be secretly quite glad of it.” i

“ Oh, Catherine ! how can you talk so? What
would be done ?"

“Done! Why, let them marry to be sure, and
live on here.

“ Live on here! Who on earth ever heard of such
a scheme! Dearest child, you are too romantic.
You are almost absurd, my sweet Catherine, for-
give your poor mother for saying so.”

“ No, that I won’t,” kissing her with that play-
ful tenderness which so well became her, “that I
won't, naughty momma. Because, do you know,
you say the most unjust thing in the world when
you call me romantic. Why, only ask papa, ask
Edgar, ask Mrs. Danvers, ask anybody, if ,I am not
common-sense personified.” ‘ ,

“If I asked your papa, my dear girl, he wéuld 
only say you had a way of persuading one into any-
thing,'even into believing you had more head than
heart, my ewn darling,” said the fond mother, her
pale cheek glowing. and those soft eyes swimming
in delight, as she looked upon her daughter.

“ That's right; and now you have acknowledged
so much, my blessed mother, I am going to sit down
by you, and seriously to give you my well-weighed
opinions upon this most weighty matter.” 80
Catherine drew a low stool, and sat, too, down by
her mother’s knee, and threw her arm over her lap,
and looked up in her face and began her discourse.

“First of all, then, dearest momma, I think ydu
a little take up anxiety at interest in this case. ,I
really never did see a man that seemed to me less
likely to fall in love imprudently than this Mr. St.
Leger. He is so extremely grave and sedate, so
serious, and so melancholy, and he seems so com-_
pletely to have done with this world—it has, in~
deed, proved a bitter world to him—4nd tohave so
entirely placed his thoughts'upon another, that ,I,
think the probability very remote indeed, if to the,
shadow of anything above a possibility it amounts,
of his ever taking sufficient interest in present
things to turn his thoughts upon his own happi.
ness. He seems absorbed in the performance of
the duties to which he has devoted himself. Secs
ondly, this being my idea of the state of the case,
I have not the slightest apprehension in the world
for dear Lettice’a happiness ; because I know what
a. sensible, kind, and what a well-regulated heart
hers is, and that she is far too good and right.»
minded to attach herself in any way beyond more
benevolence, and friendship, and so forth, where
there was not a prospect of an adequate return.”

“ 0h,~yesl my love, very true; yet, Catherine,
you admit the possibility, however remote, of what.
I fear. And then what would become of us all?
Surely, it is not right to shut our eyes to this pos-
sibility.”

“ Why, mamma, I don’t deny the possibility you
speak of, and I quite see how wrong it would be to
shut our eyes to it; but just listen to me, dearest
mother, and don't call me wild and romantic my
you have heard me out.”

“ Well, my love, go on; I am all attentidn."

“I should think it really the most ridiculed:
thing in the world,” and she laughed a little to
herself, “ to enter so seriously into this matter, if
Edgar and I, alas! were not ordered .away in so
short a time, and I fear my dearest mamma will be
anxious and pncomfortable after I am gOne-r—nbout
this possibility, if we do not settle plans a little,
and agree what ought, and whatcould be done,
supposmg this horrible contingency to arise." _ ,

“How well you understand your, pool-mother,
love! Yes, that is just it. . only tot me have the

 

at?

LETTIC’E ARNOLD.

 

worst placed steadily before my eyes, and the reme-
dies, if any, proposed, or if none, the state of the
case acknowledged, and I can bear the contempla-
tion of almost anything. I think it is not patience,
but courage, that your poor mother wants, my
child. Uncertainty, anything that is vague, the
evils of which are undefined, seems to swell into
such terrific magnitude. I am like a poor fright-
ened child, Catherine; the glimmering twilight is
full of monstrous spectres to me.”

“ Yes, mamma, I believe that is a good deal the
case with most of us; but more especially with
those who have so much: sensibility and such
delicate nerves as you have. How I adore you,
dear mother, for the patient Sweetness with which
you bear that trying sort of constitution.”

“Dear child!" '

“Well, then, mother, to look this‘ evil steadily
in the face, as you say.
Mr. St. Leger were to form an attachment for
each other, what should hinder them from mar-
rying?” .

“Ah, my dear, that was what I said before, what
would become of them? They must starve.”

“ Why so? why not live on here?”

“Nay, Catherine, you made me romise not to
call you romantic, but who ever card of such
an out-of.the.way scheme :. a young married couple,
living in the condition of domestic companions to
peeple, and in another man’s house? Utterly im-
possible; what nobody ever attempted to do; ut-
terly out of the question.”

“Well, momma, I, for one, think theta great
many rather out-of-the-way plans, which, neverthe-
less, might make people very happy, are often re-
jected, merely because ‘ nobody ever heard of such
a thing,’ or ‘ nobody ever thought of~doing so, and
therefore it is utterly impossible.’ But I think I
have observed that those who, in their own private
arrangements, have had the courage, upon well-
considered grounds—mind, I say upon well-consid-
ered unds—-—to overlook the consideration of
nobody ever having thought of doing such a thing
before—~have found their account in it, and a vast
deal of happiness has been secured which would
otherwise have been quite lost.”

“As how, Catherine? Give me instances, I
don’t quite follow you.”

“Why, in marriages, for instance, then, such
. cases arise very ,often. Late marriages, for one,
between people quite advanced in years, which the
world often laughs and sneers at—most wrongly,
in my opinion; for,“ through them, how often
do we see what would otherwise have been a
solitary old age, rendered cheerful and comfort-

able; and sometimes a weary, disappointed life,-

consoled by a sweet friendship and affection at
its close. Then there are marriages founded upon
reason and arrangement; such as when an ugly
man-with an ungraceful manner, yet perhaps a good
heart and head, and with it plenty of money, marries
one rather‘his inferior in social rank, whom his
circumstances enable him to indulge with many new

sources of enjoyment, and who in return is grateful

for the elevation, and proud of a husband young
ladies of his owo class might have looked down
upon. Then there might be another arrangement,
which is, indeed, at present, I own, almost s. ro-
mance, it is so rarely entered into. I mean, sup
posing single women from different families, some-
what advanced in life, were to put their little for-
tunes together, and‘ form a household, wherein, by
their united means, they might live easily—instead
of almost in penury alone. In short, the instances
are innumerable, in which, I think, the path a lit-
tle out of the ordinary course, is the wisest a per-
son can pursue.” .

' “Go on, my love, you talk so ‘prettily, I like to
hear you.”

The, dam hter kissed the soft white hand she held
in hersww‘ghite'it was as the fairest wax, and still
most beautiful. The signs of age were only dis-
cernible in the wasting blue veins having become
a little too obvious.

“Well, then, mamma, to draw my inference, I
think, under the peculiar circumstances of our fam-
ily, you, who are in want of children and compan-
ions, could not do better, than if these two valua-
ble creatures did,attaoh themselves to one another,
to let them marry‘and retain them as» long uthey
were so minded under your root.”

‘ “ My goodness, ohlld'i ” .

V

 

. it.

Suppose Lettice and

 

I
I

“ I have planned it all. This house is so big, I v

should allot them an apartment at the east end of
Quite away from the drawing-room and yours
and my father’s rooms—where they might feel as
much at home as it is possible for people to feel
in another man’s house. I should increase their
salary—by opening a policy upon their lives;
as a provision for their children if they had any. A
large provision of this sort would not be needed.
It is not to be supposed their children would not
have to earn their own living as their parents
had done before them. Why should they not?
Nata bath—Edgar and I hold that the old rage for
making children independent, as it is called—that is,
enabling them just to exist, doing nothing, so as
just to keep them from starving upOn a minimum
income, is a very foolish thing among those whose
habits of life render no such indopendcnce,necessa-
ry, and who have never thought of enjoying this
exemption from labor» in their own case."

“But, your father! And then, suppose they got
tired of the plan, and. longed for a house of their
own ? "

“ My father is much more easily persuaded to what
is good for him, than we used to think, dear moth-
er. See how nice he has been about Lettice and
this Mr. St. Leger. As to their wishing at last for
a home of their own, that is possible I allow; but
think, sweetest mother, of the pleasure of reward—
ing this clear, good girl, by making her happy.
As for the rest, fear not, mamma. God will pro-
vide.”

Mrs. Melwyn made no answer. But she listened
more comfortably. The nervous, anxious, harrassed
expression of the face, which Catherine knew
but too well, began to compose, and her counte-
nance to resume its sweet and tranquil smile.

“ Mind, dear mamma, after all I am only speak-
ing-of the'remote possibility, and what might be
done. You would have such pleasure in carrying
out the scheme. Ohl I do wish there was but a
chance of it, really I can’t help it, mamma, it would
be so nice; ” said the sanguine, kind-hearted Cath-
erme.

 

CHAPTER X.

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff, remained to pray.
-—GOLDsmTH.

ACCORDINGLY, Mr. St. Leger, his objections hav-
ing been overruled by Edgar, accepted the plaée
offered him in General Melwyn’s family.

In old times it would probably have been called,
what it literally was, that of domestic chaplain, and
the dignity of the name, the defined office, and the
authority in the household which it implies, would
not have been without their use, but, in spite of
the want of these advantages, Mr. St. Leger man-
aged to perform the duties, which, in his opinion,
attached to theyoflice, to the satisfaction of every-
one.

It had not been without considerable difficulty
and hesitation that he had persuaded himself to
enter into the plan. He had scruples, as we have
seen; and he had, moreover, an almost invinci-
ble dislike to anything approaching to family de-
pendence.

The extremity of his circumstances, however,
made him, upon a little consideration, feel that the
indulgence of these latter-mentioned feelings of
pride and delicacy, was not only unreasonable but
almost positively wrong. And, as for the scruplcs
connected with his profession, Edgar did not find it
difficult to dissipate them.

He set forth, what Was in truth the present state
of the familyiat the Hazels, and enlarged upon the
very great need there was for the introduction of
more reli ious views than now prevailed. Accor-
ding to a ashion almost universally prevalent when
General Melwyn was young, except those of pro-
fessed religious habits, and who were universally
stigmatized as Methodists, family prayer had been
utterly neglected in his family. And, notwith-
standing the better discipline maintained since the
evil star of Randall had sunk beneath the horizon,
not the slightest approach to regularity, in this re.
spect, had been as yet made. Mrs. Melwyn was
personally pious, though in a timid and unconfiding

' way.her religion doing little to support and strength-

enher mind; but the general, though he did not
live, as many of hisgeneration were doing, in the
open profession of skepticism, and that contempt

 

for the Bible, which people broughtup when Tom
Paine passed for a great genius, used to reckonso
clever, yet it was but too probable that he never
approached his Creator, in the course of the twen—
ty-l'our hours in any way ; nor had he done so,
since he was a child at his mother’s knee. “‘

The young captain and his lady were blast with
loving, pious, simple dispositions. They loved one '
another; they delighted in the dear, happy world
in which they lived, and in the sweet little creature,
their own darling and most precious possession, and
they both loved and most gratefully served their
God, who had given them all these good things,
and loved him with the full warmth of their feel-
ing hearts. They showed their reverence for di-
vine things by every means in‘ their power; and
though they were not of those who go about‘hurl-
ing the awful vengeance of God upon all they'may
think less pious than themselves, they were'natur-
ally anxious, and as advancing years brought in‘
crease of serious thought, they became more and
more anxious that their parents should share the
consolations, and their household the mordl guid-
ance to be derived from a better system.

Then, as I hinted to you before, in anticipation
of this change, there had been ‘a very serious neg-
lect upon the part of this family of all those duties
connected 'with the poor and ignorant. None of“
those efforts were here made to assist in softening
the evils of destitution, or in forwarding the hi-
struction of the young, which almost everybody,
nowadays, considers such obvious duties. ‘

Such were some of the considerations urged by‘
Edgar, and to such Mr. St. Leger yielded.

The general was profuse in his offers as’regatd.
ed salary, and gave Edgar a carte blanche upon the A
matter; but Mr. St. Leger would only acce t of"
one hundred a year, and this, with the stipu ation‘
that so soon as the state of his health would enable
him, he should be at liberty to undertake the duties
belonging to a curate for Mr. Thomas, without
diminishing that gentleman’s slender stipend: by
receiving any remuneration from his hands. '

This last part of the arrangement was particu»
larly acceptable to Mr. St. Leger, as he thought
with the highest satisfaction upon the probability
now opening of resuming his clerical duties, and
of thus being able to repay the debt of gratitude
he felt to be owingto the good vicar. '

And now behold Mr. St. Leger introduced as a
member of the family at the Hazels, and shedding,
on his part, as Lettice had before him done, upon
hers, a new set of benign influences upon this '-
household.

He was ins'alled the first day by the general,
with much po. teness and some little formality, in
Edgar’s place, at the bottom of the table; that
young gentleman having made it his particular
request that he might see his friend sitting there.
before his departure.- With due gravity was all
this done; while Edgar, chuckling withrdelight,
came and popped down in his place by the side of .
his wife.

The young stranger lookingcxtremely quiet and
composed, without fuss, ceremony or hurry, took
the place appointed to’ him; but, before seating
himself, with a serious air, he opened his minis-
terial functions by saying grace.

Not as the general was wont to say io—for say I:
it he did, more as if making a‘g'rimace than even
as going through a form—but so impressively and’
reverently, though very briefly, that the hearts of
those about to sit down, were touched, and they
were reminded in Spite of themselves, as they
ought to be reminded, that there is One above all.
who is the Giver of these good things.

The scene was striking. The very footmen~
the oilicer’sfootmen——padsed, napkin in hand,»
astOnished, awestruck by the service. They stood
and stared with vacant eyes, but remained stocks
still.

That over, the dinner went on as usual. People
ate and drank with cheerful enjoyment. They
all, indeed, felt particularly warm-hearted and com;
fortable that day. A sort of genial glow seemed
to pervade the little party. The footmen rushed
about more lightfooted and assiduous than ever;
and, be it observed to their Credit, they were all,
without exception, most particularly attentive to
the newcomer. . v

v

In the,evening,at ten o’clock, the bell rang for
prayers. ' ' » -

Mr. St. Leger, be it understood, had‘ not stipu-
lated for obligatory attendance upon this service,
only for the right to have candles in the library,
and of reading prayers to such as might choose to
come; but Mrs. Melwyn had ordered the servants
to attend; and she, and Edgar, and Catherine,
were also there, leaving poor Lettice to take charge
of the general.

The service was short, but impressive, as the
grace had been before. It was necessarily very
brief, for the v‘oice of the fair and delicate young
man, looking, indeed, as we might imagine one of
the angels of the churches, figured in Scripture.
was so extremely feeble that more he could not do.

But even if he had possessed the power, I ques~

tion whether much more he would have done, he
looked upon impressive brevity as the very soul of
such exercises in a family like the present.
. Poor Letticci how hard she found it that even~
mg to remain playing backgammon with the gen-
eral, when the rest went out of‘ the room. Going
to attend those services to which she had been ac-
customed in the house of her father; and after
which, during her stay here, her heart had sooften
yearned; but it could not be. ' .

She was, however, consoled by a whisper from
Catherine, as she came back, passing her upon her
way to take her place by the tire.

“ To-morrow you go and I stay. We will take it
in turns.” \

The new plans were of'course—as what taking
place in a family is not——discusscd in full conclave
that evening over the kitchen fire. ‘

The servants all came back and assembled round

it preparatory to washing up and going to bed; for

though it was summer and .warm' weather, what
servant in the world does not enjoy the kitchen in
the evening, he the weather what it may? And,
to tell the truth, there are not a few in the parlor,
who usually would‘be glad to share the privilege;
but to proceed.

“ Well, Thomas, how do you like these new
ways of going 6n ?” asked Mary, the serious, stiff,
time-dried, and smoke-dried head-laundress——a per-
sonage of unknown antiquity, and who had been in
the family ever since it was a family—addressing
the fine powdered" gentleman in silk stockings, and
pink, white, and silver livery, who leaned negli-
gently against the chimney-piece.

“For my part, I’m glad, indeed, to see serious ways
taken up in this house; but how will it suit the
rest of you?‘ And‘especially you, my fine young
gentleman ?"

“ Why," answered Thomas, assuming a grave
and thoughful aspect,” “I’m going. to confess
something which will, perhapshastonish you, Mis-
tress Mary—and thus it is—if I’d been told twelve
months ago that such new regulations were to be
‘ introduced into this household, I have very great
doubts whether I could have made" up my mind to
have submitted to them; but within these few
hours, dy'e see, there’s been a change." ’

“Bravo, Thomas 1” said the butler; ‘fa conver-
iii‘t; ’l’ike—I have heard of such things» in my

_ ‘5 Call it what you will, Mr. Buckminstcr, I call it
a change—for a change there has been.”

“ What i well! what!” from different voices
round. Do tell us all about it."

“ Why, Charley)!“ were, there; and, Mr.» Buck~
minster, you were there too. '-- But Charles is young
and giddy; and Mr. Buckmi-nster being always
rather of the serious order, very probably the eflect
you see was not produced so strongly upon either
of them as upon me.”

“ What effect? Well”-‘————

“ Why of the grace, as Was said before they sat
down to dinner.” '

“ The grace! Was it the first time you ever
heard grace said. you booby f”

“ Yes, I’d heard grace said, I should suppose as
often as any as may be here. though, Perhaps; 110‘
so sensible to its importance and value as some
- present, meaning you, Mistress Mary. The general,
for one, never used to omit it; but, save us! in
what a scufflimr, careless manner it was said. I
gmtést to you, fthought n: more of it than of Mr.

uckminster taking off the covers and handing
them to me. Just as a necessary preliminary; “5

 

 

a

LETTIOE ARNOLD. .

l

they. say, to the dinner, and. nothing. on earth
more.”

“ Well, do go. on, Thomas. It» is very interest;
ing,” said Mistress Mary, and the rest gathered
closer, all attention.

“Well, I was a going to go scuttling about just
as usual, thinking only of not making any noise
lest I should see the general-lieeding no more of
the grace than of what cook wall doing at her fire——
when that young gentleman, as is come newly
among us, bent forward and began to speak it. The
effect upon me was wonderful-4t was electic~Mn
Buckminster, you know what I mean; I stood as
one arrested-I Couldn’t have moved or not cared
if it had been never so—I really couldn’t. It
seemed to me as if he truly was thanking God for
the good things that were set before them. Their
plenty, and their comfort, and their abundance; it
seemed to me as if things were opened to my mind
———what I had never thought of before—who it
was, who did give them, and us after them, all sorts
of delicacies, and food, and drink, when others
might be wantinga morsel of bread; andI seemed
to be standing before Him—I felt need to thank
Him with the rest. All this flashed through me
like lightning; but he had done'in a moment, and
they all sat down.”

“ How beautiful Thomas does talk when he has
a mind,” whispered the under-housemaid to the
under-laundrymaid. “ What a fine tall young man
he is, andwhat a gift of the gab.”

“ Well,” said the rest, “ go on—is there any
more ?”

“ Yes, there is more. Some way I could not get
it outof my head—J kept thinking of it all dinner.
It was as much as I could do to mind what I was
about; and onceI made such a clatter in putting a
knife and fork upon arplate, that if it hadn’t been
for the greatest good luck in the world, I should
have got it. But the general was talking quite
complacent like with the two young gentlemen, and
by huge good fortune neverheeded.”

“ Well l"

“ Well, when I got into the pantry and began
washing up, I had more time for quiet reflection.
And this is what I thought. What a lot of lub-
berly, inanimated, ungrateful, stupid slaves we all
must be. Here, serving an earthly master, to
the best of our abilities, for a few beggarly pounds,
and for his meat and drink and fine clothing; and
very well contented, moreover, when there’s roast
beef of a Sunday, or plum-pudding, and a glass of
wine besides on a wedding-day or a birth-day;
and thank him, and feel pleased with him,
and anxious next day to do better than
ordinary, mayhap. And there’s the Great
Master, the Lord and Giver of all, who made us by
his hand, and created us by his power, and feeds
us by his bounty, and shelters us by his care; and
all for no good of his, but ours—simply ours. For
what’s he to get of it, but the satisfaction of his mer-
ciful and generous spirit, when he sees his poor crew
tures happy? And we are such dolts! such asses!
sucb'brute beasts! such stocks ! such stones ! that
here we go on from day to day, enjoying the life
he givesrus, eating the bread and meat he gives us,
drinking his good refreshments, resting upon his
warm beds, and so on. Every day, andevery day,
and every day—41nd who among us, I most espe-
cially for one, ever thinks, except may be by scut-
tling through a few rigmarolewords—ever thinks,
I say, of, thanking Him for it—of lifting up a warm,
honest heart, of true, real thanking, I mean ? Of
loving ' Him the better, and trying. to serve and
please. Him the better, when He, great and power.
ful as He is, Lord of all the lords, emperors, and
hi that ever were crowns and coronets in this
wor d, condescends to let us thank Him, to like us
to thank Him, and to take pleasure in our humble
love and service 1”

He paused—every eye was fixed upon the speaker.-

“And, therefore,” continued Thomas, turningto
the laundrymaid, who stood there with a tear in
her eye; “ therefore, Mistress Mary, I am pleased
with, and I do likethese new ways of going on, as
you say; and I bless God, and hope to do it well
in my prayers this night, for having at last made
of us what I calla regularChristian family.”

I have told you, a little in the way of anticipa-
tion, that the. popularity of Mr. St. r’s new
insurance. was. not canfined to the kitchen ; but that

 

2’1;

W

.. -h E, ..

the general, by ,slow steps, gradually conformed
to the new usages established at the Hazels.

Lettice and Catherine had not long to take it in
turns to stay out with him, playing backgammon,
at the time of evening prayers.

At first it was a polite “ 0h, pray don’t think of
staying in the drawing-room upon my account; I
can do very well by myself. Next, it was, “ Nay,
rather than that, I will go into the library, too;
why should I not?” He began to feel, at first,
probably, from a vague sense of propriety only,
but before long from better reasons—that it was
not very seemly for the master of the house alone
to be absent, when the worship of God was going,
on in his family. ,

So there-he might, as I told you, ere long be‘
seen, regularly at night, in .the morning more and
more regularly, muttering the responses between
his teeth at first; at length, saying them aloud,
and with greater emphasis than any of the rest of
the little congregation. His once majestic figure,
now bent with age, towering, above the rest; and
his eagle eye of authority, still astonishingly

»piercing, rolling round from time to time, upon the

watch to detect and rebuke by a glance the slight.
est sign of inattention upon the part of any of
those assembled. ‘

It was a beautiful picture that evening meeting»
for prayer, for the library was a very ancient room,
it having retained the old fittings put in at the
time the Hazels was built, some three half can»
turies ago. The massive and handsome book~ .
cases of dark oak; thefamily pictures, grim with '
age, which hung above them ; the urns and heads
of old philosophers and poets adorning the cornice;
the lofty chimney-piece, with the family arms:
carved and emblazoned over it; the massive oaken
chairs, with their darksgreen morocco cushions;
the'readingdesk; the large library table, covered
with portfolios of rare prints; and large books,
containing fine illustrated editions of the standard -
authors of England; gave a somewhat serious, al-
most religious aspect to the apartment.

Mrs. Melwyn, in her soft gray silks-and fine
laces; her fair, colorless cheek; her tender eyes
bent downward; her devout, gentle, meek, hum-
ble attitude and expression; Catherine by'her side, ,
in all the full bloom of health'and happiness; that
charming-looking, handsome Edgar; and Lattice,
with so much character in her countenance, seated
upon one side of the room, formed a charming new |.
of listening faces, with this rugged,magnificcnt.
looking old general at their head. ,

On the opposite side were the grave, stern, old“?
housekeeper, so fat, so grave, and soimposinggn
Mrs. Melwyn’s new maid, a prettyyeung,woman;,
in the lightest possible apology for a cap, trimmed”
with pink ribbons; the laundrymaid, so serious,-,
and sitting stiff and starched asone of her own.
clear muslins; the cook and housemaid looking
as attentive as they could ; and meander-servants
staring with vacant eyes—eyes that looked as if"
they were ready. to drop out of their heads; Mn.
Buckminster, as the charming Dickens has it, so
“ respectable ;” Thomas, all spirit and enthusiasm; ', '
and Charles'doing all in his power not to fall,
asleep. _

At the table the young minister, with-that inter.

esting and most delicate face of his; his tam-j '
wasted figure bending forward, his fair, emaciated.
hands resting upon the book, from which-inn
voice low and feeble, but most penetrating and
sweet, he read. ‘

They would comebackto the drawing—room in
suchacomposed, happy, cheerful framerof mind.
The general more remarkably so. He felt more
self-satisfaction than the others, because the course
of proceeding was so newto him that he imagined.
it to be very particularly meritorious.‘ A. bit of a.
pharisee you will think, but not the least of that, 
assure‘you. Only people, at their first, tryin of
such paths, do often find them most peculiarly; ‘
paths of pleasantness and ways of peace; and, this
sort of peace, this being at ease, with the con.
spience, is, to be sure, very soothing and comfort».
b c. , .

In short, nothing could proceed better than
things did; and every one was quitew-oontent but
the charming match-maker, Catherine;

She watched, and watched with the greatest in.
terest; but watch nacho might, she could detect

 

 

LETTIOE ARNOLD.

 

 

no symptoms of falling in love upon the part of
Mr. St. Leger. _

He spent, indeed, the whole of his mornings either
in his room or in the library, absorbed in the books
of divinity, of which there happened to be a very
valuable collection, a collection which had slept
undisturbed upon the shelves for many and many
a long year. These afforded to him a source of in-
terest and improvement which he had never enjoyed
since he had left the too often neglected library
of the small college where he had been educated.
He was ready to devour them. Every moment of
time he considered his own—and the whole of the
morning was chiefly at his disposal—was devoted
to them; with the exception, be it mentioned, of a
large portion, which, when the weather would al-
low, was spent in visiting among the poor at that
end of the parish. '

At dinner Mr. St. Leger for the first time joined
the family party. When he did, however, it must
be confessed, he made ample amends for his ab-
sence, and was excessively agreeable. lie had great
powers of conversation, and evidently considered
it his duty to exert himself to raise the tone of
conversation at the general’s table, so as to make
the time pass pleasantly with the old man. In this
Edgar and Catherine Seconded him to the best of
their power. ~

Letticc said little. She sat at the bottom of the
table, by Mr. St. Leger; but though he often ad-
dressed her—taking care that she should not feel
left out-ans did Catherine also, she was very silent.
She had not, indeed, much that she could venture
to say. When conversation took this higher tone,
she felt afraid of her own ignorance; and then
she first knew what it was to lament not having a
better education.

'As they grew more intimate—for people who sit
side by side at dinner every day cannot help grow-
ing intimateer. St. Leger would gently remark
upon this reserve; and one day he began to speak
openly upon the subject. He had attriouted her
silence, I believe, toa bashful feeling at inferiority
in rank; for her face was so intelligent and full of
meaning,that he did not divine its real cause, so he
said, with a certain gentle abruptness which be-
came him much: .

“I have discovered a fault in you, Miss Arnold,
at last; though everybody here seems to think it
impossible you should have one. May I tell you of
it i”.

“ Oh! if you once begin with my faults, I am afraid
you will never have done. I know the length of
the score that might be summed up against me,
thOugh others are so good-natured as to forget it.
Yes, indeed, I shall be much obliged toyou.”

‘ “Don’t you think it is the duty of all to exert
themselves in a family partv, to make conversation
circulate in an agreeable manner l”

- “To be sure,.I do—and how well you perform
that duty,” she was prompted to say, bpt she did
not. She hesitated a little, and then added:
“And, perhaps, you think I do not do that so much

as I ought to do.”
.. “ Precisely. You will not be angry. N 0, you

cannot be angry. You never are. The most try-
ing and provoking things, I observe, cannot ruffle
you. So I will venture to say, that I don’t think you
play fair by me. We are both here chiefly to make
ourselves agreeable, I believe; and I sometimes
wish I had a little more assistance in that duty
from one who, I am sure, could perform it admira-
bly, if she so pleased.” ‘

« Lettleo shook her head. , Then she said, with her

usual simplicity, “I used to talk more before you
come."
i “Did you? But that’s not quite generous, is it,
to throw the whole burden upon me new I am
come, instead of sharing it ?, Why Will you not
talk now i” _ ,

“Simply, because I can’t. ,Oh, Mr. St. Leger!
talk is so difie‘rent since you came here, and I feel
my own incapacit so sadlya-my own ignorance so
forcibly—4 shou d say so painfully; but that, in-
deed, is not myowu fault, and that takes the worst
pain, you know, out of things.”~

\ “ignorant i” he said: " of what ‘1’”

“(If all these things you talk about. I used to

ink up slittle from the newspapers, but new!

re done reading, them I seem literally to know '

nothing.” ~ _ i ,  ,
"‘ wining! Nothing about books! suppose you

 

mean: for you seem to me to understand men and

things better than most people I have met with.”

“I have experienced more, perhaps, than most
girls of my age have done, through my poverty
and misfortunes; but what is that ?”

“Ah, Miss Arnold! what is it but the best part
of all knowledge; to understand one’s self and
others; the best of all posessions; to posess one’s
own spirit. But I beg your pardon, I will only
add, that I do not, by what I say, intend at all to
undervalue the advantages of reading, or the hap-
piness of having a love of reading. Do you love

reading 27”
“Why, I don’t quite know. I find the books I

read aloud to Mrs. Melwyn often very tiresome, I

must confess.

“And what sort of books do you read to Mrs.
Melwyn ?”

“ Why, only two sorts—novels and essays.”

He laughed a little in his quiet way, and then
said: “I wonder at any young lady disliking nov-
els; I thought it was the very reading they liked
best; but as for essays, with very few exceptions, I
must own I share in your distaste for them.”

“ I can’t understand them very often. I am
ashamed to say it; but the writers use such fine
language and such strange new words, and then
they go over and over again upon the some thought,
and illustrate it twenty different ways, when one
happy illustration, I think, would be so much
better; I like a writer who marches promptly
through a subject; those essayists seem as if they
never could have done.”

“ \Vhat you say is just, in many instances, I think.
It is a pity to have not tried other reading." History,
travels, poetry ; you cannot think how pleasantly
such subjects seem to fill and enlarge the mind.
And if you have alittle time of your own, you can-
not easily believe, perhaps, how much may be done.
Even with an hour each day, of steady reading, a
vast deal.” '

“Ah! but where shall I begin? Everybody
reads Hume’s History of England first, and I have
never even done that; and if I were to begin I
should never get to the end of it.”

“Oh, yes, but you would, and be surprised to
find how soon that end had arrived, and what a
pleasant journey you had made. But if you are
frightened at Hume, and I own he looks formida-
ble, let me select you something in the library, to
commence operations with, which will not be quite
so ’alarming.”

“ Oh! if you would ”

“ With the greatest pleasure in the world. If
you will allow me to assist you a little in the choice
of your books, I think, with the virtue of persever-
ance, and I know you have all the virtues, you
would get through a great deal in a comparatively
short space of time; and when I reflect how much
it would add to your happiness, as it does to every
one’s happiness, I confess I cannot feel easy till I
have set you going.”

This conversation had been carried on in a low
voice, while the rest had been talking over some
family matters together. The speakers at the head
of the table stopped, and the silence aroused the
two. Catherine glanced at them suddenly; she
saw Lettice color a little, but Mr. St. Leger pre-
served the'most provoking composure.

The evenings Mr. St. Leger devoted exclusively
to the good pleasure of the general. He read the
newspapers, making them the vehicle of the most
intelligent and agreeable comments; he looked out
the places mentioned in the maps, and had some»
thing perpetually .to say that was interesting of
this or that. He answered every question the gen-
eral wanted solved in the elevcrest manner; and,
in short, he so won upon the old man’s heart, that
he became quite attached to him. The evenings,
once so heavy, and spent in a sort of irritable fretful-
ness, became quite delightful to him; nor were they
less delightful to others. At last, things came to that
pass that the wearisome backgammon was given
up, and reading aloud took its place. _ The ladies
worked and read in turns, Edgar taking double
tides, and Mr. St. Leger doing a little, which he in-
sisted upon, assuring them that it did not hurt his
chest at all. He was, indeed, getting stronger and
better every day; he was a beautiful reader.

Lattice sat plyin her {busy needle, but with a
countenance so fiile with intelligent pleasure, that
it is not to be wondered at if Mr. St. Leger, when

 

   

 

his reading was over, and he had nothing else to
do, and, the books being usually such as he was
well acquainted with, not much at the moment to
think of, took pleasure in observing her.

He had not forgotten his promise of selecting
authors for her own private studies ; he seemed to
take much benevolent pleasure in endeavoring to
compensate to this generous and excellent crea-
ture, for the intellectual disadvantages of a life
devoted to others as hers had been. He usually,
also, found or made an opportunity for talking
over with her what she had been reading; and, he
believed, in all sincerity, and so did she, that he
was actuated in these proceedings merely, as I
said, by the disinterested desire of offering com-
pensation for past sacrifices; stimulated by the
very high value he himself attached to mental cul~
tivation, regarding it as the best source of inde-
pendent happiness both for men and women.

But whatever were the motives with which he
began his labor of kindness, it is certain as he
proceeded therein a vast deal more interest and
pleasure were mingled up with this little task than
had been the case at first.

Her simple, unaffected purity of heart ; her sin~
gle-mindedness, unstained by selfish thought, pride,
or vanity, or folly, its simplicity and singleness
of purpose, were displayed before him. The gen-
erous benevolence of purpose; the warm and
grateful piety; the peculiar right-mindedness; the
unaffected love for all that was excellent, true,
good, or beautiful, and the happy facility of de-
tecting all that was good or beneficial wherever it
was to be found, and wherever observed; the sweet
cheerfulness and repose of the character; that re« ,
semblance to a green field, which I have heard a
husband of only too sensitive a nature gratefully
attribute to his partner; all this worked strongly,
though unmarked. ,

Mr. St. Leger began to experience a sense of
sweetness, solace, and enjoyment, in the presence
of Lattice Arnold, that he had not found upon this
earth for years, and which he never hoped to find
again.

But all this time he never dreamed of falling in
love. Ilis imagination never traveled so far as to
think of such a thing as appropriating this rare
blessing to himself, To live with her was his des-
tiny at present, and that Seemed happiness enough;
and, indeed he scarcely had got so far as to ac-
knowledge to his own heart, how much happiness
that privilege conferred.

She, on her side, was equally tranquil, undis-
turbed by the slightest participation in the romance
Catherine would so gladly have commenced. She
went on contentedly, profiting by his instructions,
delighting in his company, and adoring his good—
ness; but wOuld as soon have thonght of appro-
priating some “bright particular star ” to herself
as this gifted man. '

She deemed him too infinitely her superior.

Well, it is no use keeping the matter in suspense
any longer. You all see how it must end.

You do not fret and worry yourselves as Catho-
rine did, and abuse Mr. St. Leger for his indifier-
once. You see plainly enough that two such very
nice people, and so excellently suited to each
other, must, thrown together as they were every
day, end by liking each other; which, but for the
previous arrangements of the excellent Catherine,
would have been a very perplexing business to all
parties. , ‘ '

When at last—just before Edgar and his wife
were going to sail for Canada, and he and she
were making their farewell visit at the Hazel!—
when at last Mr. St. Leger, after having looked for
two. or three days very miserable, and having
avoxded every one, and particularly poor Lattices-4
to whom he had not spoken a word all that time,
and who was miserable at the idea that she must
have offended him—when I at last, he took Ed
out walking, and then confessed that he thought
it no longer ri ht, safe, or honorable, for him. to
remain at the azels, finding, as he did, that one
creature was becoming too dear to him; and he
trembled every moment, lost by betraying his so.
cret he might disturb her serenity. When at last
the confession was made, and Edger reported it to
his wife-then Catherine was ready to jump for
joy. In vain Edgar strove to look wise-mend
tell her to be reasonable. In~ vain he represented

 

 

Q .

e...‘

all the objections that must be urged Iguinst her
out-of-theway scheme, as he was ianatured enough
to call it. She would hear of none. ‘

No, nothing. She was perfectly unreasonable——
her husband told her so—but it was all in vain.
Men are more easily discouraged at the idea of
any proceeding out of the usual course than women
are. They do not, I think, set so much value
upon abstract happiness, if I may use the term;
they think more of the attending circumstances,
and less of that one ingredient—genuine happiness
——-than women do. -

Catherine could and would think of nothing
else, but how perfectly these two were suited to
each other, and how excessively happy they would
be. ’

Deal“, good thing! how she labored in the cause,
and what a world of contradiction and trouble
she had to go throngh. First, there was Mr. St.

Leger himself, to be persuaded to be happy upon

her plan, the only possible plan under the circum-

stances; then there was Lettice to persuade that

Mr. St. Leger’s happiness and dignity would not be

'hazarded; then there was Edgar to reason out of
calling her romantic; and last of all there was the
general, for Mrs. Melwyn, I consider, as Catherine

did, already persuaded.

This last task did appear formidable. She put
it off as long as she could ; she got everybody
else in the right frame of mind before she ventured
upon it; she had persuaded both Edgar and Mrs.
Melwyn to second her, if need were, and at. length,
with a dreadful feeling of trepidation, she broached
the subject to the old veteran. With all the cool-
nem she could muster she began her speech, and
laid the whole matter before him. ' He did not in.
,terrupt her while she spoke by one single word,
or remark, good, bad, or indifferent. It was
awful—her poor little heart fluttered, as if it were
going to stop; she expected the storm every in.
stunt to burst forth in some terrible outbreak.
She sat there shuddering at her own rashness.
If even Edgar had called her absurd, what would
her father do! If St. Leger himself had been
so difficult to manage, what would the old
general say! He said nothing. She would not be

,, discouraged; she began to speak again, to recapi-
tulate every argument; she warmed ,with the sub-
ject; she was earnest, eloquent, pathetic—tears
were in the good creature’s eyes; still he was si?
lent. At last, wearied out with useless exertion, she
ceased to urge the matter any further; and endea-
voring to conquer her feelings of deep disappoint-
meat, looked up in his face to see whether the
slightest relenting expression was visible in it.
No; his eyes were fixed upon the floor; he seemed
lost in deep thought.

“Papa,” she ventured to say, “have you heard
all I have been saying Y”

“Yes, child.”

Silence again for a few minutes, then:

“ Catherine, did you ever know me do a good ac.
tion in your life ?”

. “ Dear papa, what a question i” ,

“Bid on ever know me, I say, to do one
thorough y generous, benevolent action without
re rd to sel in the slightest degree-euch as I

«fit—such as alone merits the name of a really

good action? If you ever did, I can’t easily for-

give ‘11.” r

“ , papa! what have I done? Did I ever
say? Did I ever hint? Dear papa l" and she
looked ready to cry. -

“Did you ever thine—I know you never
did.”

“Don’t say ire—«don't think so badly of me,
a a.”

“ I’m not thinking badly of you, childm-God for-
bid; for well he knows if I ever did one really
generous, benevolent action—one Without refer-
ence to self. Heaven bless thee, thou dearest
thing, thy life seems only'made up of such ac-
tions; but I say again, did you ever? ho; I
know you never did—and I’ll tell you why I know
it.” ,
“ Ah, papal What can you mean?” .

“Because,” he went on without seeming to
mind her emotion, “because, I Observe, that
whenever you want to persuade other people—-
your mother, or Edgar, or Lattice, for instance

-tcr do somethi  ‘v set at heart upon,- 7 , , ,
’ ' ng m a ’0 ‘  happiness e an admirable and a. hips-tor 

N  ampr that:

 

IETTIC’E" ARNOLD.

it will give mother people ;' but when yo’u’m try-
ing to come round me, you only talk of how com-
fortable it will make myself.”

She could only utter a faint exclamation. The
accusation, if accusation it may be called, was not
to be denied. ,

“Now, Catherine, since this. young man came
into the house, what with his conversation, he’s a
most gentlemanlike, agreeable converser as ever' I.
met with, and the prayers, and the chapters, and
such like; and," in short, a certain new tone of
thought altogether; there has been graduallly
something new growing up in me. I have at times
begun to think back upon my life, and to recollect
whatan‘asty, mean, greedy, calculating, selfish fel-
low I’ve been throughout, never troubling myself
about other people’s cemforts, or so on, but going
on as if every body was only created to promOte
mine; and I’d have been glad, Catherine, before I
went into my grave, which won’t be long too-——I
own to you I would have been glad, for once in my
life, to have done a purely good, unselfish thing—

made a sacrifice, as you pious folk call it; and,,

therefore, to own the truth, I have been very sor-
ry, and could not help feeling disappointed, as here
you’ve sat prosing this half hour and more, show-
ing me what a great deal I was to get by this no-
table arrangement of yours.”

“Papa! dearest, dear papa l” .

“ Be quiet—I have indeed—I’d have liked to
have had something to give up, instead of its be-
ing, as I verily believe it is, the most charmingly
delightful scheme for your mother and me that
ever was hit upon, for that man is the happiness
of my life, my body’s comfort and my soul’s
health, andLettice is more like a dear child than
anything else to that poor mother of yours, whom
I have not, perhaps, been so considerate of as I
ought; and to have them thus fixed together in
this house, is better luck than could be conceived,
such ,as scarcely ever happens in this world to any-
body; and far better than I—almost better than
your poor mother deserves. So you're a darling
little, courageous creature for planning it, when I’ll
be bound they all thought you a fool, so have it
all your own way, and give your old father a kiss,”
which she joyfully did. “And now you go to Mr.
St. Leger, and tell him from me, that if he .con-
seats to this scheme I shall esteem it the greatest
favor and satisfaction that was ever conferred upon
me in my life. ' I know what it is to be thus trust.
ed by such a man—I know the confidence on his
part which such an arrangement implies—and you
may add, that if he will only extend to me his us-
ual indulgence for human folly and frailty, I will
do everything that is in the power of an ill-tem-
pered, good-for-nothing, selfishpld fellow, to pre-
vent him repenting his bargain. - And tell Lattice
she’s a darling, excellent creature; and I have
thought so long, though Ihave said little about it,
and she has been like an angel of love and peace
in our family; and if she will only go on as she
has done, she will make us all as happy as the day
is long; and tell your mother I wish I did not en—
joy the thoughts of this so much myself, that I
might have the pleasure of making an offering of
my satisfaction to her."

“ Dear !--—dear beloved papa 1”

“Stop a little, child; Edgar and you will have
to pay the piper, you know.”

“ 0h, gladly!" thankfully l"

“ Because, you see, my dear, if these two people
marry andlive with us, and become as children,
I must treat them, in a manner, as children, and
make a little codicil to my will; and you and Edgar
will be something the worse for it. But, bless
you, child, there’s enough for all.”

“And bless you, my honored generous father,
for thinking so; that there is. Edgar and I only
earnestly desired this; thank you, thank you, ten
thousand times”. A

I will only detain you for a few moments longer,
to tell you that the scheme was carried into execut
'tion, and fully answered the hopes of the generous
contrivcr. v , ' ,

Mr. St. Leger found, in the attachment of Let.
tice, a compensation for the cruel suil‘erings of his
past life; and, under her tender and 'assidious care,

he speedily recovered his health and his powers of ’

usefulness. She, while performing a woman’s
best and he pleat part, that 'af‘proving the‘ztrue

contrived likewise to fulfill all her other duties in
the most complete and exemplary manner.

It would be difficult to say, whether the happi-
ness she felt or conferred was the greater.

Exceptional people may venture upon exception-
al measures. These who are a great deal more
sweet tempered, and loving, and good, and reason-
able than others, may venture to seek happiness in
ways that the generality would be road to at-
tempt.

And sensible, well-principled, right-tempered hu-
man beings, one may take into close family intim-
acy, anl :discard that reserve, and those arm’s-
length proceedings, which people’s faults, in too
many cases, render prudent and necessary.

It was because the subjects of Catherine’s (scheme
were so excellent, that the object of them “was to
was. r

I have now told you how perfectly they answered
upon trial ; and I am only sorry that the world con-
tains so Very few with whom one could venture to
make the same experiment.

For a very large portion of possible happiness
is thrown away, because people are not fit to take
part in plans of this nature-plans wherein one
shall give what he has, to receive back what he
wants; and thus the true social communism be es-
tablished. ‘

[ran use.)

 

A BOLD RAID: ,

IN the summer of 1809, when Napoleon overrun
Austria. for the third time and heel , Vienna, a
lpart of hisarmy was-in Italy, under ugene Beam,

arnais, the French emperor's stepson, slowly fol-
lowing the Austrians, who Were retiring to the
north under the Archduke Charles. They were in
Lombardy,” the northern part of Italy was then
called, and General Colbert commanded a brigade ,
of cavalry in the advance of the French army

It was a clear, still morning, just before sun.
rise, and thousands of little twinkling points, scat-
tered over the landscape, revealed themselves as
the camp-fires of the French army. A map of
white tents, the only ones in sight, were t e head.
quarters of the advance. cavalry, for the French
only allowed tents to those superior-officers who
were obliged to consult maps which required shelu
ter.

The sleepers round the fires were beginning to
stir about, and the low hum of conmrsation wits
increasing every moment, while the, long lines of
cavalry horses were pawing the ground impatiently
at the picket-ropes, and, whinnying for their
morning feed. ’

Around the headquarters all was still silent; a
dismounted sentry was pacing slowly up and down
in front of the general’s tent, when the regular
muffled beats of a horse at a gallop were suddenly
heard, and a mounted orderly dashed up to head-
quarters, and pulled up in front of thegeneralifi
tent. , . , .

“ General Colbert’s quarters i" he asked.-

“ Ay, ay,” said the sentry, a little grufiiy, forhe
felt chilly. “Any orders?” ' r * r r ‘

“ Yes, from the Viceroy,“ said the orderly, swing- '
ing himself from the saddle. “Rouse him up, clus-
seur. They are marked immediate.”

The sentry knocked at the tent door, and before
he had time to speak, out stopped a tall, slender
young officer, with very sharp black? eyes, and a
long, heavy black moustache. '

Early salt was, his uniform was asueat, his hair
as well brushed, as if he had been up some time. md
his dark picturesque chasseur, dolman and pelisse.
his closely-fitting buckskin breeches and polished
Hessians, were fresh and unwrinkled.

“I am General Colbert’s aide-de~eamp. . Give
meithe orders,” he said, curtly; smiths orderly
obeyed, saluting.  '

J The young aide disappeared into the tent, where
a stern, gray-headed old oiliccr was sitting up in
his‘camobed, listening. v - . '

“Orders from the viceroy, general.

The general opened the big envelope, within! '
red seal, and ran it over hastily

 

 

“Hanan—wen  .‘ . lily,” heartened.
were, Gnarly, all   Hit

 

 

(“1,80
,9

hing ordersme to. send a trustworthy officer,

with a hundred memto reconnoitre the Austrian
march, and find whether they are retiring on Ven-
ice or into the Tyrol. Take Guerinls squadron and
be ofl. Report to me tomorrow morning. Good-
b e.”

yAnd the old general threw him the order, turned
over, and «went to sleep again; for it was .one of
his fixed principles never to get up till his column
was ready to move.

Curely never smiled. ' He merely saluted, turned
on his heel, and left the tent. He knew he was
going on a diflicult and dangerous duty, but the
general trusted him so implicitly that he felt the
,very oing to sleep ass compliment. -

H an hour later the early rays of the sun
' shone on long lines of stamping horses, eating
their corn and switching away the flies, while the
’ cavalry soldiers were brushing and scraping with
great diligence, and the clicking-of curry-combs

and brushes was incessant. Through the midst of
the lines a small compact column of horsemen,
r thmevabreast, was trotting gently out towards the
dim veil of smoke .in the distance, that told of the
Austrian outposts.

“Billion, Curely, whither bound ?” asked the
captain-of a horse hattery,‘as the column passed
him, headed by the lithe, nervous-looking young
aide.

Ourely smiled. ,

“ Who knows l” he answered. “Perhaps to
Vienna, perhaps to Naples. Au revoir.”

“ Youwon’t get much out of Curely when he’s
under orders,” remarked another oflicer, as the
column trotted by. “He keeps a close mouth, but

V be thinks-nwrbleu, how he thinks! ' You’ll hear
of him before very long.” I

Meantime Curely, at the head of his little
column of horse, had passed the furthest camp,
and come out behind the line of outposts which
stretched far out in front of the cavalry‘towards
the Austrians. The country was flat and mono-
tonous, full of rich fields, winding roads, little vil-
lages scattered around, while patches of wood here
and there prevented anything like an extensive
view.

The faint line of blue smoke in the distance
told of the Austrian army, but not a soulwas to
be seen on their outposts. Curely’s task was to
find out where they were going, and it was by no
means easy. '

As soon who found "himself behind the French
line of outposts, the young captain turned sharp to
thepright, and rode straight away behind the line
at a quick trot, fellowed by the troopers.

' His men were all picked chasseurs, wearing the

seine rich dress as himself. A black fur busby,
L dark green jacket and pelisse barred with black,
tight breaches and Hessian boots, sabre, carbine,
and pistols to each man, low, sturdy horses, with a
single day’s forage slung at the IaddlMuoh was
the appearance of (knife little troop seventy

the right,and struck out into the solitary'fields,
which looked as silent, once the army was passed,
as it the country had been stricken with the

1 .
9 got at least half an heur after leaving the army
Gurcly kept his fret, till he had crossed a number
of fields and entered a quiet, shady road, sheltered
with trees on both sides, and marked with :old,
faint rats that told of infrequent travel.

' ‘ As seen as he reached this road hetumed into
5;» it, and followed it at an easy walk, in silence, for
some time. , -' _ .
Ordinarily he was quite a fluent talker, but this
‘ dayihe Was unusually silent, and the ofiieer of the
, squadron found it impossible to extract a word
from him. He was constantly glancing nervously
into the openings: between the trees far ahead, as
if” watching for something.

There was very little conversation in the column
behind; moreover, the men knew they woreaway
from their own army, and soldiers are much like
sheep, timid in a strange sepia-es.

At last Gurely mcld his head sharply as
something caught his eye. Gem ing his lips,

- be ordained : “ ‘I thoughtsol”an' ' his fececloared

Wm H I ' ' ' ’
,  E erinlaughsd' ,alittlssulhi .‘ r
   use   W

 

3'9"! ‘80. ~ ' '
Pretty soon they had passed the last outpost on-

‘ ‘  £30122) 

say. Not a. word to be Cgotout of you for the last
hour. Whereare we going, :if the question is ad’-
missible ‘2” .

Curer turned to = him.

“ I. can tell you now. Wears going to visit the
Archduke Charles at his quarters.”

Guerin stared. ' Then he burst out laughing.

“ Well, they call you a daredevil, Curely, but
Izthink that will puzzle even you. How do you
propose to get there?”

“Listen,” said Crucly, in I. low tone. “Look
over to our left front. ' Do you see those white
specks ?”

Guerin peered under his hand in the direc-
tion indicated, and exhibited traces of excite-
ment.

' “By heavens! it is the enemy’s wagon train I
But you can’t surely intend to attack it with [this
handful.” .

“ Not a bit of it. My orders are to find where
the Austrians are going, and no one can tell-us that
but their general. You see their patrolling is slack.
We arequite outside all their flankers, and they
have not seen us. I intend to go into camp with
them tonight. Headquarters are sure to be near
thewagon train. Let us trot.”

tle Column trotted on for another half-hour, till they
had placed at least a. dozen miles between them-
selves and their morning bivouac. The road they
followed diverged from the line of march pursued
by the distant wagon train, and led them at last
to a small Italian village, where their arrival pro.
duced a great panic.

Curer rode into the place full gallop before any-
one could escape, and had it surrounded with his
men while the inhabitants were still huddled on
the village green. There he saw in front of the
village inn two cavalry horses with the Austrian
eagle on their trappings.

comers were French they laid aside their fears, for
they had always favored their allies as much as
they hated the Germans. A few words from
Curely, followed by the clink of gold, and the two
Austrian riders were pulled out of the inn, prov.
ing to be Hungarian hussars, who had wandered
off, intending to plunder and desert, coding by
xtalhn into the enemyls hands.

a cooked pistol, and the prisoners told where they
had heard the Austrian headquarters were to be

from where they then were.

Curer engaged one of the principal villagers as
a guide, and startedofi, at the same rapid pace,
,taking the prisoners with him. In less than two
hours he was in full sight of the promised village,
where not an Austrian had yet arrived

The village was very mall, containing not more
than twenty houses, surrounded by vineyards, and
a wide, bare-looking, sandy plain, thinly covered
with coarse grass, made an undiscovered approach
quite impracticable.

This plain was about threcnquarters of a. mile
wide, and Gurely halted in a. thick wood at its edge,
in the middle of the afternoon. Then he hid away
all his men in the thickets, auctioning them to si-
lence, and the most difficult part of his task was
over.

He was all alone, undiscovered, full in the rear
of the Austrian army, having circled round them
successfully.

No sooner were his men settled comfortably
feeding their horses than the dust of the Austrian

at the edge of the wood, coolly watched wagon
after wagon go into park on the other side of the
village, while the retreating army slowly followed
its train.“ ,

The sun went down, and still they kept coming,

' and sure enough, Ourely sawthe headquaer flag",

follWed byvthe glittering staff of the archduke,
enter the village, while the tents sprang up on the
other side. He was just congratulating himself on
the success of his plans when he received a sudden
check. , ‘

A trampling and bellowing was heard in the
underbrush behind him, as a‘ great herd of cattle
came through, and the voices of the ,herdsmen,

 

. driving their charges home, warneduliim that his

Will be mm in another moment. ,

 

- mirable.

As he spoke he quickened hispace, and the lit-'

As Soon as the villagers found that the new. "

 A cw close questions, enforced by the sight of,

fixed that night-a small village about twelve miles

trains began to become visible, and Gurely, hiding,

 

, Hereflurely’s decision and :promptness were ad-
He ran back to his men with drawn
sabre, and before the astonished hex-demon knew
what had happened they found themselves pris-
oners and tied to trees. Then, giving the word
all the chasseurs led out their horses, mixed up
with the cattle, and walked boldy towards the
village in the gloom. V

The ruse was perfectly successful. Without ex-
citing a breath of distrust they entered the village,
and Curer advanced right up to the little inn
where the archduke vvas quartered, as if he be-
longed there, and peered into the ground-floor win-
dow. Three generals werevat a table covered with
papers. Then a rough hand seized Curely, as the
archduke’s sentry spluttered out:

“Gott in himmel! what are you doing here l”

Curely, like a flash. shot the man dead, and at
the, signal his chasseurs leaped on their horses,
and began to shoot in all directions. ’Curely
dashed into the general’s room, firing a. second
pistol into the midst of the group, smashing the
window as he went, and followed by‘Guerin, also
firin . '

With singular haste and unanimity the Austrian
generals tumbled out of the door, simuling for help
as Curely swept every paper from the table in a
bunch, and escaped, as he had entered, unharmed.

In another minute he and his men were gallop-
ing down the street and back to their own army,
amid a perfect Babel of confusion, quite unmo-
lasted... In five minutes they were back in the wood,
amid perfect quiet, for the Austrian cavalry was
all unsaddled, and so .demoralized as to be unable
to organize a successful pursuit.

Curely, without having lost man or horse, trot~
ted off up to the road he had come, and was re~
worded, in an hour more, by the sight of the
Féench watchfires, glittering to the right ‘not a mile
0 . .

Before midnight he and his general were laugh-
ing over his successful scout, and inspecting the
written orders of the archduke, which Curely had
snatched so cleverly. He had found Where the
Austrians were going, and had settled the whole
plan of a campaign by his daring and subtlety.

 

rmmv " 

 

f‘ ’Twss but adream,” exclaimed young Blanch,
starting from sleep upon the cold ground, where
we bivouacked on the night before the storming of
Badajos. And can man sleep sound, methinks I
hear the reader I ask, in such circumstances as
these? Yes, if mind and body he as they ought,
the soldier on his clay couch on the battle eve, and
the sailor cradled on the surge, and rocked by the
storm, enjoy a repose which luxury never knew,
and which monarchs sigh for in vain. ,

I was then lying cloac beside Blanch, but had
been awake some time beforeflhim; and, by the
light of a fire which we had kindled previous to
repose, I had been watching the face of the fair
boy as it expressed the passing emotions of, his
mind, when l‘apsing through the mysterious
changes of his dream. ‘

At first his still, pale features exhibited the
blessed calm of a pure and peaceful sleep.

Anon they became gently moved, like thei’moon-
lit lake by the passing breath of night, and at
length were gradually lighted up with a. smile so
celestial that I could fancy his spirit wasbasking
in the beams of Heaven. ' ‘ ’ r
, The night-flame played with its wavering glare
upon his face, whose beauty thus broke forth in
fitful gleams, even as the faces of departed friends
comeback upon our slumbers in glimpses from
the rave. I ‘ h] ' '

“ app boy,” thought ; ‘w is thy con
frame is lying: on the cold clay, thy spirit girth g
sweet reprieve from the horrors of war, and is even

new, pet-chance, far away in thy own land, where >

the smiles of friends. and the caresses of thy little
sister, receive thee back to thy father’s halls, Where
there is joy for thy return, and where thy mother
is weeping thy welcome home-V

My soliloquy was suddenly broken, for Blanch
awakened with a start, and, looking round him
with a wild and forlorn  subbed mt: '.

“ ’3th bill swam? it t . ' ' ‘”

,;,,l'*

l

l

 

 

 

 

#—
. K

“It seems to have been a pleasant one, however,

if I may judge from shearegretful tone of your
words on awakening," said I, not without a feel-
ing of curiosity to know in what its happiness had
consisted. ‘

“ It was indeed,”“rejoined my friend,“ but brief
as it was blest—so it is soon told. I am now about
that age when it is supposed we are most sucepti~
bio of the tender passion; yet have I never felt
love for woman till this night, when such a being
as seemed wanting to me in the waking world was
given to me in sleep. 0h! she was so passing
fair, and so seraph-likei Nay, smile not, because
it was a dream. I, too, can smile at dreams, but,
in this instance, the form and features of the un-
known were so distinctly delineated, and shadowed
forth with such arbitrary truth, as never belonged
to the formations of mere fancy, and can never be
effaced from my brain.

“ I do believe—nay, I feel certain, that such a
being somewhere exists ; and, to see her with wak—
ing eyes, and find favor in her sight, I would wil-
r liugly lay down my life.” '

I could not help smiling at this burst of boyish
enthusiasm, and at what appeared to me the very
mockery of imagination—by which the bewitched
Blanch had become enamoured of the phantom of
his own brain, and was incurably in love with the
lady of a dream; but, had I been the most incred-
ulous and cruel interpreter of midnight mysteries,
I could not have found in my heart to apply the
rule of explaining by contraries these dark hints of
the future, and boding ill to poor Blanch, because
the vision of a beautiful girl had soothed his slum-
bers on the eve of storming a city—an event which
tack place on the following night.

Talk of war, that is, war in the open field, where
man meets man on an equality, where the chances
of death are much alike, where valor may avail,
and where there is something like fair play—~but
the storming of strongholds is unmasked murder,

. and thesack of cities the revelry of the furies.

The assault on the town of Badajos was a festi-
val for fiends.

The eternal foe himself, the immortal enemy of
man, might have gloated over it, and smiled at his
own foul work; and, if ever laughter was heard in

I hades, it was surely on that night of horror.

‘ Bastions and parapets bristled with chevaux-de—
frise of sharp-pointed irons, bayonets, sword-
blades, and every kind of deadly obstruction, which
met our troops, as one by one they scaled walls of
more than thirty feet high, and in succession were
shot, bayoneted, and hurled back into the ditches
below.

I have heard it said that Wellington himself ap~
neared much agitated, as, by the death-flames

.a

 

THE DREAM

which illumined ,the' horrors of the night, he saw

his troops foiled in their desperate and successive
efforts against almost superhuman obstacles—but
that a lightning gleam of triumph flushed over his
farm, and an exclamation of “Thank God!”
escaped him, when an aide-descamp galloped up
with this brief announcement:

“ My lord, General Picton is in the castle with a
thousand men.”

'I said he was enabled to see how matters went
on by the death-lights which illumined the dark-
ness; fer, from breach and bastion, hand-grenades,
blazing bombs, and all manner of combustibles
rolled down like a volcano torrent; while a tem-
pest of shot and shell rang through the air, like
the rushing of a mighty whirlwind; and, when at
length, an entrance into the town was forced by
our troops, over steel-hedged walls, and breaches
vomiting floods of fire—mines ready to be sprung
yawned beneath their trembling path, and they
swept along through the gloom, amid roaring of
cannon, shouts of victory and vengeance, blasts of
bugles sounding the charge, and shrieks of the.
sacked city, all rending the midnight sky, like a
chorus from the bottomless pit.

The work of destruction was nearly over, when
I found myself with a party of our men in one of
the more retired streets. in passing along which we
suddenly encounter“ mm: French soldiers in the
act of quitting a large and noble-looking mansion,
where the love of plunder had induced them to
linger somewhatltoo long, for in an instant they
were bayoneted by our troops against the wall.

It was then that, thinking I heard the voice of
moaning within, I entered the house; a large but

dimly-lighted apartment lay before me, into which'

I advanced, and by the flame of the glimmering
lamp, beheld the body of a young lady stretched
upon the floor, and that of a British officer ex-
tended by her side.

Approaching and holding the lamp to the face
of the former, I looked upon a creature lovely in
death, although her featuresbore the expression
of recent agony; and her hair, all clotted. with
gore, streamed down over her bosom, from which
the warm current of her heart had gushed through
a ghastly wound.

I then turned the lamp to the face of the oflicer,
in whom, with a start of horror, I recognized my
poor friend Blanch, steeped in blood ; and, though

he still breathed, it was evident his wounds were

mortal, and that his end was near.

In a short time, however, he opened his eyes,
and, gazing on my face, held out his hand in token
of recognition. I

The only restorative which I had about me was
a little brandy in a flask, which I applied to his

 

u

 

(I

lips, and, inn; few minutes, he rallied so much as

 

to be able to Speak, and thank me; and with his

dying breath to explain the circumstances in'which
I had found him.
They were tothe following effect :

After an entrance into the town had been efi’ect-
ed, in rushing along-the streets with a party of his
regiment, during the confusion of the scene and
darkness of the night, Blanch was separated from
them, and after a long and fruitless search, found
himself at the door of the house in which we then
were.

Hearing 3. noise within, be suspected that some
of our soldiers might be plundering; with the view
of preventing which, he entered, at the hazard of
his life, and had just reached the room where he
then lay, when a door at the opposite ; end of it
flew open, and, in breathless terror, as if flying
from pursuit, a young Spanish lady rushed into
the room.

Upon Seeing the stranger she made a sudden
pause, during which, «with mute amazement, he
recognized in the fair girl before him the living
form of her whose shadowy similitude had ap-
peared in his slumbers onlthe preceding night;
but tenfold was that amazement increased, when.
ere he could speak, she exclaimed, withuwiid en'-
ergy: '

“Mysterious Heaven! It is he—‘tis he himself I
—the very being of my dream, who appeared to
me last night, and is now come to take me away
from the horrors of this dreadful place Wt

At that moment, and before he oculd reply, 3.
party of the enemy who had been searching the
house in quest of pillage, burst into the room, and
the sight of a British ofiicer on such an cccamon
so exasperated the marauders, that, setting up a
savage yell, they flew upon him with their bayoncts,
and the poor Spanish girl, who threw herself be-
tween them and their victim, received her death-
wound at the some moment with him she tried to
save.

Blanch could say no more—his tale was told,
and his life was fast ebbing away—his speech fal~
tered—his voice sank into a whisper, and the signs
of death were upon him. '

He motioned me to raise his head, which I had
no sooner done than his eyes began to fix in the
death-glaze, and, drawing in his breath for thelast
time, with a long, deep sigh he expired. .4

He sleeps in the » same grave with his beautiful
unknown-'40:- unknoivn to each other theyhad
lived—had seen each other only in, a vision, and
had loved in a dream, and on a night of stormvand
death they met in this waking world only“) be
parted forever. ' '  / '

 

.. mm.“ ...s

..,.. infiw wet;

 

 

 

 

m

 

 

 

  

 

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90 FOR A WOMAN’S SAHE.. By Watts Phillips. 103
91 ‘IIE COHETH NOT,’ SHE SAID. By Thomas. 1%
92 THE NEW MAGDALEN. By Wilkie Collins. 

c
94 SWORD AND GOWN. y Geo. A. Lawrence. 100
95 A BEGOAR ON HORSEDACK. By James Payne. 10c

96 HER FACE WAS HER FORTUNE. By Robinson. 10c
92 JANE EYRE. By Charlotte Bronte. ...... .. 10c
98 WRECKED IN PORT. Bv Edmund Yates... 100
09 THE COLLEEN BAWN. By Gerald Griffin. .. 10c
100 AN Annmqus GIRL; or. She Would'Be an

Actress. By ACelebrated Actress . . . . . . . .. 101:

101 FOUL PLAY. By Charles Reade and Dion

Bouciceult...  ..   108

102 CAnITA. By Mrs. Oliphant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ., 100
103 A WOMAN HATER. I By Charles Reade. 100
104 AFTER. DARE. By Wilkie Collins. . . . . . . .. 100
105 HARD TIMES. By Charles Dickens ..... .. 10c
106 GRIN. By B. L. Farjcon.... . . . . .. 10c
107 FENTON’S QUEST. B 'Miss Braddon....... 10c

08 THREE FEATHERS. y W. B Do
109 JOHN HALIEAX. GENTLEIIAN. . 10c
110 MURPHY'B MASTER. ByJ Payn . . . . . . . . .. 10c
111 HEAPS or MONEY. By W. E. Norris... . 

10c

88 FLORETI'E. B

112 IN MORTAL PERIL. B Mar R. Crowcll.
113 THE DEAD SECRET. yWil (-3 Collins. ..
114 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. By Charles Reade.
115 DENIS DUVAL. By W. M. Thackera . .

116 Too SOON. By Katherine S. Mac Oid.
Readyfgctober 13th . . . . .. . . .. c

117 THE 0 DESTINIES. By Wille Collins.
Ready 0ctober20th....  ..  .. 106

A new ism every wee '
For sale by all newsdealers, or sent,

LEW

paid. on recei t of twelve cents. BEA!)
ADAMS, ' 98 William street. N. Y.

era,

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 The lilo-ken Bride; 01-,an 
mm. B. Mmiliia Reed Crowell. .
' 8  It , ovet or, ILEGIANS AND SW
8 The GI

Wm. Mason Turner M. D.
4 A Wife. Ey Eagle . Campbell.
v ’ mve cart Ara e y
5 Bangs-lo nayno'r, ytho Work

Southworth.
Girl.
B m. Mason Turner, M. D.
6 'lyho Secret Marriage. By Sara Claxton.
7 A Daughter of Eve; or, BLINDED Er
LOVE. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
8 Heart to Heart; or, FAIR PHYLLIS’ LOVE.
By Arabella Southworth.
9 Alone in the World;
MAN‘S WARD. By the author
10 A Pal
ALD NECKLACE.
11 Entangled.

12 His Lawml
or ADOPTION. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

. 13 lilach ,the Little Quakereu. By
Corinne ushman.
14: Why I Married

IN GIAY. Sara C
15 A Fair Face; or, OUT IN THE WORLD.
Battle T. Campbell.
16 or, THE TRUE KNIGHT.
17 Loan! Lover.

c er.
\ By A. Southworth.
18 His I 01; or. THE ILVSTARBED as,
Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.
19 ' he Broken Betrothai ; or. LOVE Vim-
SUS HATE. By Ma Grace Halpme.
20 Orphan Noll t 0 Orange Girl; or,
THE WITCHES or Ew YORK. 19 Penna.
. 21 Now and Forever; or III DID SHE
HARRY lint. By Henrietta Thackeray.
22 The Bride of an Actor. By the author
of “ Alone in the World,” etc., etc.
28 Long} Year; or, WHY SHE PROPOSED. By
Sara

E.

24 Her Face Wa- ller Fortune. By

or Blaine. ,

25 (ml at Schooimistreu; ORHEE UN-
TOLD  Arabella Southworth.

26 Without a cart. By I’. Inxmham.

27 Wm- She a roquette? or A STRANGE
COURT-SHIP. By Henrietta Thackeray.

28 9‘1""! ' Wm

Chase: or THE
1 Ann p us.
29 or Her boar Sake. By Sara Clinton.
30 The Bouguet Girl I or. A MILLION or
Mommy. gile Penna.
:1 A Mind

or. THE YOUNG

of “Clifton.”

r of Gray Eyes: or, THE Em-

By Rose Kennedy.

{3; Henrietta Thackera .
no; or, MYRA, THE

Him: or, THE WOMAN
laxton.

not or Not
B Margaret Lei

arri «a. By Mary A. Denison.
9 Miriuna the flmn Donna: or,
mum innu-

 

 

 

By A. Southworth.

A;

The Only Young Ladies' Library Of First-Class Copyright. Navels 13111311811963. P1100. F176 Cents»

 

33 The. Th no Sisters.’ By Alice Fleminc.

34 A Maurie c of .onwmience: or WAS »
H g gar ’ '

, , UN By a Claxton. .
35 Sinnod Againntdiy Clara A .
86 Sin-Archer’s Bride. By A. uthworth.
87 The Country Cousin; Rose Kenned .
38 His Own, Again. Arabella Southwort .
39 Flirtation. By Ralph Royal. 1
40 Pledfied to Marry. BySara. Claxton.
41 Blin Devotion. By Alice Fleming;
42 Beatrice the Bcalltiiul: or, HIS SEO-
OND LOVE. By A. Soutliworth.
43 The Buronet‘s Secret SaraClaxton.
44 The Only Ban later: or, BROTHER
AGAINST LOVER. By ce Flemin .
45 Her Hidden Foe. Arabella outhworth.
46 The Little Heiress. BilM. A. Denison.
47 Because She Loved 1m; or. How
WILL IT END. By Alice Fleming.a
48 In Spite offlerself. By S. . Sherwood.
49 His Heart’s Mistress; or, LOVE AT
FIRST SIGHT. By Arabella Southworth.
50 The Cuban Heiress; or, THE PRISONER
or LA VINTRESSE. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison.
51 Two Your: Girls; or, THE BRIDE or
a“; Emit: By a“iimm‘“gtr; o R
to nge esseng r, KISKI'NG
ALL FOR A HEART. By Mary Reed Crowen.
53 Agnes Hope, the Actresu ' or, Tm.- no.
IANCE or A Rm RING. W. M. mer. M. D.
54 One Woman’o Heart or,
FROM THE STREET. ByGeorge . Kaime.
55 She Did Not Love Him or, S'l‘OOPmG
To CONQUEE. ByAI-Ebella Sout worth.
56 Love-Mad; -Or, BETROTHED, MARRIED,
DIVORCED AND -——. By W. M. Turner, M. D.
5'1 A Brave Girl. By Alice Fleming.
58 The Eben Mask. Mary R. Croweil.
59 A Widow’u ‘Vilos. he) Bernhardt.
60 Cecil»; Deceit. By Jennie Davis Burton.
61 A Wicked Heart. By Sara Claxton.
82 The Maniac Bride. By M. Blount.
63 The Creole Sisters. By Anna E. Porter.
64 What Jealousy Bid; or THE HEIR or
WORSLEY GRANGE. By AL'OO Fleming.
65 The Wife’s Secret. Bv ( 01. Juan Lewis
66 A Brother’s Sin. .By Richer Bernhardt.
67 Forbidden Bans. Arabella: Spin} arm.
68 Weuvoro and Wort. By M. L. i 4 Under“.
69 Coming; or, THE FATE or A (mommy;

B Alex umas.
70 1:110 Two Orphans. Py .D‘Ennery.
l M You Wife. B " "(in Wife‘s
7 Hu’sfband. '3 ya” I “I
72. The Two WW Breanne them

a»

 

SAVED ’

 

 

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Tory

 

 

 

 

 

73 Rose Michel; or, THE TRIALS or A FAQ»
9 Ton! GIRL. By Maude Hilton.

74 Cecil Cnstlemaine’s Gage. By

75 The Black Lady 01' Duns.

. LeFanu.

VOIChariotte Temple. By Mrs. Bowron.

'17 Christian Oakle ’9 Mistake. By the
author of “John Hali ax, Gentleman.”

78 My Young Husband. By Myself.

79 A Queen Amongst Women. By the
yamhor of “ Dom Thorne.“ . , ‘

80 Her Lord and Master. By Florence
Marryat. '

81 Lucy Temple. '

82 A Long Time Ago. MetaOrred.

83 Playing for High Sta on. By Annie

cmas.

84 The Lam-cl Bush. By the author a
“ John Halifax, Gentle man.”

85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet.

86 Janet’s Repentance. ByGeorgc Eliot.

87 Romance of a- Poor Young Man.
By Octave Feuillet. J

88 A_ Terrible Deed; or, ALI. ma GOLD.
By Emma Garrison Jones.

89 A Gilded Sin.
90 The hAuthoru Daughter. By Mary

flown:
91 The Jilt. By Charles Reade.

92 Eileen Alanna or THE Burma '1»
DAY. By Dennis O Sullivan. ‘ o m

93 Love’s Victory. By B. L. Farjeon.

94 The Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Ollphant.

3.5 Lettico Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh.

96 Haunted Hearts or, TEE Beam 3:-
TROTHAL. By Rachel Bernhardt.

97 Hugh Melton. By Catharineflng.

98 Alice Learmont. ByMissMulock.

99 Mar orle Bruce’s Lover. 3 Mary
Patric . Ready October 4th. y
B!

100 'l‘iirouwh Fire and Water.
Frederic? Talbot. ready October 11th.
101 Hnnnah. By Miss Mulock. Octoberia.
A new issue every male.

“in WAVERLEY LIBRARY is for sale b all
Hewsdcalcrs, five cents  00 )‘Y. or mg by
mail OI. ruwipi of six cents we '

“LAD-14E   willing-Ia.
w Willim use-amen It...

Ouida.

a. '

ByJ.S. '

I
P

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