"A formal-looking, highly respectable family mansion, buried from public gaze."

LABOUR AND WAIT; or, EVELYN'S STORY.

BY EMMA JANE WORBOISE.

AUTHOR OF "PHILIP AND EDITH," "MILLICENT KENDRICK," "THORNYCROFT HALL," &c., &c.

"Look not mournfully into the past: it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present: it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future, without fear, and with a manly heart."-LONGFELLOW. "So He bringeth them unto their desired haven."-PSALM cvii. 30.

I HAVE lately been asked by several people to write the story of my own life; the true and entire history of its errors, its wrongs, its cares,

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and its sorrows, and also of its blessings, its shadows, its brightnesses, and its great joys! Whether it be worth writing, or, being written, worth reading, I cannot tell; nevertheless I yield to the wishes of timetried friends. The faithful record of my experience from childhood to middle age may be useful. I think the relation of almost any life given unreservedly, and in the integrity of one's heart, must serve some good purposes; we all leave "footprints on the sands of time." May I leave here in these pages—

"Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again!"

There are shoals and quicksands to be avoided, weaknesses to be overcome, days of darkness and of trial, which show how much man may bear with heart unbroken, and how, by the mercy of God, he may emerge in the end, chastened and purified, but uncrushed, from such a weight of woe and care, and pain, as might in perspective appal the stoutest heart! Experience tells us what stars in the night-time are love, and faith, and hope, and patience! In their pure radiance, one may bear on without sinking, though wild the storm, and sable black the cloud.

However, I did not pledge myself to write a sermon, but a tale.

I was the eldest and for some years the only child of my parents. My father was a prosperous merchant, and a gentleman by descent; my mother was an orphan, the lovely dowerless daughter of a military officer, who was the uncared-for cadet of a noble house! My mother's guardians had expected her to make a brilliant marriage, and they were deeply and irremediably offended, when from among many suitors, some of them men of rank and position, she chose the humblest, if not the poorest-my father, Antony Charteris, Esq., of Winteringham, in the county of Warwick.

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My mother was delicately nurtured, proud, and reserved; and I never remember the time when my conduct towards her was not prompted by fear rather than by love-that love which is so sweet a bond between mother and child. She never lavished upon me those caresses and those tender epithets, that in after life are so inexpressibly sweet and sacred to the memory in her presence, I was always timid, restrained, and awkward; to her I was simply "Evelyn," never "Evy," as I was to my father; and never as I grew older, and better appreciated the real excellence of her character, could I force myself to repose in her any confidence, either great or small. And yet, I was by nature open and ingenuous, frank, and unreserved to a fault; my organs of caution and secretiveness certainly required development; but that taciturnity and reserve should be forced upon me from such a quarter, where

the fullest and most entire sympathy ought to have existed, did me infinite harm: it tinctured my whole character; it coloured all my life; it drew me into positions that were sometimes equivocal, if not altogether blameworthy.

But I am not going to moralise, as I well might, over the sad consequences of early confidence and childish trust repressed and repelled: I want my story to speak for itself.

My first recollections are of the house where I was born, a formallooking, highly-respectable family mansion, buried from public gaze in one of the largest, wildest, and loveliest gardens you can imagine. That garden in the fine weather, and the empty attics when it rained, were the delight and consolation of my life. I used to ramble along the grassy terraces, and wander about "the wilderness," with my doll in my arms, telling it the absurdest of juvenile stories, and constructing many a baby-romance wherein Dolly and I were generally co-heroines. Ah! that dear Dolly! what a blessed invention were dolls to girls in general, and to solitary little girls in particular! I cannot remember learning to read; on looking back, I seem always to have been able to read "Cobwebs to Catch Little Flies," and Draper's delightful "Little Stories for Children from the Old and New Testament."

One picture in the last volume particularly struck my fancy; it was at the head of the closing chapter of the book, and it was called "The End of Time." There was a wide expanse of country, apparently uninhabited; the trees were old, gnarled, and leafless; the sun was sinking on the horizon, shedding around it countless rays of unimaginable glory. I believe the contemplation of that picture first awakened in my childish heart the instinct of poetry, which in after years changed and intensified my whole being!

I have said little of my father: he was so good! so mild, so unselfish; but too easy, too content to be put aside by a stronger will and a firmer mind. My dear father! his very virtues, his very singleness of heart, and his simple trust in all around him, were the sources of many of his sorrows, and of all his defeats in the battle of life.

The first change that awaited me came when I was about seven years old. A little brother was born, and great was my delight, and excessive my pride in all his infantine perfections! He was a beautiful child, inheriting all his mother's graces and aristocratic loveliness; while I, pale, dark, and dull-looking, as I was often told, strongly resembled my father, whom I have often heard my mother call, "the plainest of men!" We were all proud of the son and heir, but I especially; till one unlucky day, when my feelings underwent a melancholy change.

We were in the nursery-nurse and baby, and I! The two former were enthroned by the fire in the state rocking-chair; I sat in the deep window-seat, presiding at an entertainment given to sundry diminutive Dutch dolls, which were supposed to represent young princesses, indulging

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in all kinds of delicacies that are good for grown-up people, but very indeed for little boys and girls. My mother came in presently, and went straight up to the rocking-chair, where little Eustace, in delicate lace and elaborately-worked muslin, reposed, like a little prince, in nurse's ample lap. I believe she did not see me, for the recess in which I and my playthings were ensconced was of singular depth; and, according to my usual habit or instinct, I had subsided into perfect stillness when I heard my mother's voice on the landing without.

"And how is my boy to-day ?" she asked, kneeling down on the hearthrug, and covering the small, beautiful head with her long, bright, silken curls, while she nearly devoured the little thing with her kisses! She had never kissed me, after that fashion! Beyond the orthodox morning and evening salute, an occasional kiss, given with little warmth or alacrity, more as a compromise than as a demonstration of affection, was all that I had ever known. My heart swelled within me as I gazed and listened to the "baby-worship" that was going on at the other end of the room.

"He grows more and more like you, ma'am, every day of his ducky little life!" said nurse, presently; "it's a pity his sister hadn't the beauty though, if only one of them was to have it; it doesn't matter about a young gentleman's looks so much." Nurse knew I was in the room; but I suppose she imagined, like many other well-meaning but ignorant or deluded people, that children do not hear, or heed, or understand what is said about them, or on subjects that ought never to have been introduced in their presence. There is no greater mistake than to carry on a conversation before children, which may be injurious to their future happiness, and hurtful to their present tendencies; it may be urged that they do not understand the full drift of what their elders say-so much the worse. It is in many cases, the imperfect comprehension, the singling out of one little remark or allusion which in the abstract they do comprehend, that generally causes the mischief.

In the present case, while seemingly engrossed with the picture of a bison, I listened intently, and I heeded and understood quite as well as if I had been twenty years older. I held my breath to hear my mother's answer. I thought she ought to check her servant's impertinent freedom. The answer came-" Well, I don't know, nurse; I like to see handsome boys. I love a beautiful child! Still, it would have been a mercy if Evelyn had not been so unfortunately plain; I can scarcely imagine her to be my daughter.-Ah! you little darling! you bonnie little, beautiful prince! Mamma's own precious, precious, precious boy!" And again the sunny ringlets swept over the baby's white robe, and kisses many and tender fell from those rose-bud lips on neck and cheek, and brow, and tiny dimpled hand. It was a lovely picture, that beautiful mother caressing her beautiful child.

But I could bear no more. I slid from my seat, crossed the room with

noiseless step, and escaped by an inner door that led to the night nursery. I felt that if I remained a minute longer, I should say or do something dreadful. I reached my own room, and having shut the door, I climbed on a chair, resolved to take a good, impartial survey of myself in. the looking-glass. Yes! it was undeniably true-I had no beauty whatever! there were roses already blushing on my little brother's rounded velvet cheeks: mine were thin and colourless; my eyebrows were thick, and rather straight; my eyes, well! they were of no particular colour, they were strange-looking, that was all I could make out; while the baby's were blue as the summer sky. My hair was rebellious, and would curl and wave in every direction save the right, and I would have given worlds to have it smooth, sleek and satiny, lying straight on my forehead, and keeping tidy when not neglected, or purposely rumpled! Then I was just beginning to lose my front teeth. I had two new ones in front of undue proportions, unshapely and uneven, and that did not mend matters. Yes! I was undeniably plain! an unpalatable truth to penetrate even the childish mind, especially the mind of so sensitive a child as I was. And that was not all; I had long known that my mother did not love me: that is, she did not love me passionately and absorbingly, as mothers are commonly supposed to love their children, and, above all, their first-born! I think, up to that hour I had cared very little about it: but now, a vehement desire for love took possession of my heart; my mother's indifference became to me a misery and a secret source of humiliation; for I felt sure she would have regarded me with the same partiality and tenderness as littl Eustace, if only I had been handsome like herself-not so "unfor tunately plain," or as my distempered imagination translated it-so excessively ugly!

The contemplation of my small, unsatisfactory physiognomy ended in a true, childish passion of weeping, and in half an hour's time I was ugly indeed, if I had not been so before; for I was, and still am, one of those unfortunate persons who cannot indulge in a good cry, without making themselves hideous, and suffering excruciating pains, equal to any neuralgia. Some happy mortals, and of course all heroines, are able to weep through a whole night, and yet rise in the morning with countenance serene, revealing no trace, except it be an interesting pallor or pensiveness, of the tears, and sobs, and agonies of the hours of solitude. Clearly, I was never designed for a heroine. I went down stairs at last, feeling unwell and ill-tempered; and I am ashamed to say it, only I must tell all the truth, even about these childish days-with anything but affectionate feelings towards my unoffending little brother. I ceased to admire him, his crying annoyed me, and the fuss made about him by visitors and servants fairly exasperated me: I felt quite sick with jealousy. I soon made myself so unamiable in the nursery, that complaints were speedily carried to head-quarters, and after some