me, seven years ago, Look after that old man a little; he'll die some of these days?' Well, I have looked after him, and now he is dead."

Dear me!" said Burrell. "And were your pains thrown away on him, do you suppose ?"

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Who can tell? There wasn't much promise. He always evaded me so: would think of a hundred ingenious devices to get off to anything else. Sometimes I would keep away from him; then, after a while, he would send for me; but never could get beyond a mere slavish desire of escape from immediate danger; there was no soil in which the seed of life could grow. What could I do?”

'Strange!" said Burrell.

"Not at all—nothing less so," said William. "All the beauty and grandeur of Christian doctrine wont secure its practice when the doctrine itself goes beyond the stretch of the mind to which it is presented. Well, but how came you here? How long have you been in England?"

While Burrell was satisfying his inquiries, Clarinda was addressing herself to Harry.

"So you are going to school," said she, "to learn things that every boy must learn, if he wants to be a wise and clever man. You will soon learn to like it. At first, you will think there is too much work and too little play; but after a time, one gets tired of nothing but play, just as one would tire of always eating gooseberry-fool."

"What's gooseberry-fool?" said Harry, opening his eyes very wide, "I never tasted it."

"Bless the child!" cried Mrs. Clarinda in surprise. "William, only think! he never tasted gooseberry-fool!"

But William did not attend to her.

"Are we going to sleep here to-night?" said Harry, confidentially, to his new friend. 'Well," said she, "I've heard nothing about it yet. We have plenty of room for you."

little bed that has white curtains and ballfringe. Will that do?"

"Oh, yes, anywhere; so that I may stay here and be with you," said he, taking and stroking her hand.

"You think we shall be good friends, then?" "If you will be friends with me."

“I will,” said she, stooping down and kissing him.

"Clary," said William, "I am going to take Burrell round to see the improvements. You will have his room ready for him when he comes back."

6

"Not to-day;-I proposed it, and she said, somewhat impatiently, To-morrow! to-morrow!' You know her singular mind. It wont do to force even sympathy on her. Very likely she will now send for Miss Pershore."

"Well, as you think best. Only I can't bear to think of her, at a time like this, weeping all alone."

"Nor I. I named you to her, but she shrank from seeing you."

'I must leave it alone, then (sighing). We will meet you at the school-house.—Ah, Mr. Burrell! (brightening up again) how thankful William and I, and all the parish, are to you for that school-house!"

"Well, you know it was your suggestion. You saw it in the fire."

"She didn't see the organ in the fire, though," said William.

"No. Oh, how obliged to you we are! Go with us to church this evening. William always has full evening service and a lecture on Wednesdays."

"Certainly I will. I want to hear him preach."

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Something more too, I trust," said William: "preaching comes after praying, my good friend."

"Now then, Harry," said Mrs. Clarinda, "when you have finished that piece of cake, you and I will go and hunt up some green gooseberries, that we may have a gooseberryfool!"

CLARINDA AND HARRY.

SEVEN years of friendly and Christian attention had not sufficed to make the Winterfloods entirely cordial with William and Clarinda; and yet they would have been hurt and affronted had their good offices been intermitted, and in every difficulty or trouble they constantly looked to them for support. Nessy had, even in childhood, been called "a little old woman;" as she grew up, the applicability of this designation became less apparent, but still there was a formality of manner which was not compensated for by any engaging warmth of heart.

Yet she was very desirous to fulfil her duty; and she had held it a very imperative part of it to let her father know that she considered him in a dangerous state, both of body and soul. As this was very disagreeable information to Mr. Winterflood, he laid it all to the charge of Miss Pershore, the governess, whom he forbade the house, and would willingly have forbidden to correspond with Nessy, had he believed it would be of any use. Poor Nessy's life being very dull and unvaried, she threw herself into this correspondence with all the more fervour from her being in constant expectation of its being cut off. It was an outlet for egotism and pent-up feeling; and a few commonplaces on religion and morals gave it the air of being improving. So she made Miss Pershore the confidant of sundry home passages, very much in the style of some in the diary of a certain Countess of Warwick: " : "My lord very contentious and violent-I to my closet in prayer."

Nessy had a treasure within her reach without knowing it. She might have been with Clarinda half the day, without offence to Mr. Winterflood; she would have found in her a companion who would have cheered, enlightened, and strengthened her; but she perversely or blindly neglected the privilege, and restricted herself to formal calls from time to time, wondering why Mrs. Clarinda should not content herself with visit for visit.

"Harry, run forward and open that gate," said Clarinda.

"Oh, it's too heavy for me to move," said he.

"No, it is not."

So he ran on and opened it.

"Good boy! now I will give you a ride on the top of it. Six swings and no more. Count!"

"Are you going straight among those cows?" said he, rather apprehensively.

"Certainly I am. Are not you?"

"I suppose I must, if you do." "What! a boy, and afraid?"

"No, not much; though their horns are very large."

"How sweet their breath is! Did you ever hear the story of Guy of Warwick, who killed the great dun cow?

"No; will you tell it me?"

'Certainly I will." And she told the story. "Tell me some more about the Holy Land," said Harry. So they talked about the Holy Land for about half a mile. "You're a capital one for stories!" said he, looking up at her admiringly.

"Ah, you should hear me in the winter, when the village boys and girls come to me every Saturday evening at dusk, and we sit round the fire in the great kitchen, telling stories, till they are called to their tea and gingerbread."

"All who can. Some are great bouncing boys, that were as little as you when they first came; and I tell them they must soon make way for the younger ones; but they beg so hard, that I continue to let them come as long as we can find room for them."

"What sort of stories do they tell?"

"Stories about Gideon, and Joshua, and David, and Daniel. Then I tell them stories about the Holy Land, and the Crusades, and the wild Arabs in the desert, and the Old Man of the Mountain."

"What else?"

"Stories about the Romans, the Saxons, and the Danes; about King Lear and his three daughters; about the Hallelujah victory; about Hengist and Horsa, and good King Alfred, and King Canute, and King Harold." "Any more?"

Yes; those are true stories. Sometimes I tell them make-believe stories about St. George and the Dragon, and Una and the Lion. Also about Shylock and the pound of flesh; and Prospero in the desert island."

"Oh! how I should like to hear them all!" "While we tell stories, the girls knit, and plait straw for their summer bonnets, and the boys make cabbage-nets-some of them, that is; but the little ones do nothing. Any who like it, snip up old bits of rag and paper as fine as pulp, and my maids afterwards stuff nice tick pillow-cases with them, for poor sick people."

"What else do you do?"

"We sing a good many songs, and hymns, and carols. At half-past six the schoolmaster comes and takes them safe home."

"How sorry they must be when half-past six comes! I should put back the clock." "Ah, I should not let you."

"I should wish the schoolmaster had tumbled down and hurt himself."

"Poor man, that would not be a kind wish. He is a very good man, is Mr. Jones."

"But, Mrs. Clarinda, why don't you make all the children work?"

“Why, Harry, are you always at work?" "No; but I'm not a poor person."

"Are poor persons in Italy always at work?"

"No, they play morra, and castanets, and guitars, and dance under the trees; and mamma says it's very idle of them."

"But people who work hard may be a little idle sometimes, if they do not get into mischief. It does them good, just as it does cart-horses good to be turned out into a sweet meadow of grass. If you should ever be a

man-"

"I shall be a man-a rich man, some of these days."

"If you live," said Mrs. Clarinda, coolly, "and if your papa dies."

"Ah, I don't want that."

"I should think not, Harry."

Just then they reached a very neat cottage in a lane, where a woman was gardening inside a sweetbrier hedge. "Mrs. Meadows," cried Clarinda, cheerfully, "I'm come begging."

“Law, madam, is it you? I'm sure it will be an honour to give you anything you want," cried Mrs. Meadows, standing erect, and staring straight into Clarinda's face, as if it were a positive pleasure to look at her.

"Your gooseberries are forwarder than ours, or than any in the parish; and if you can gather me a quart, I shall be very much obliged to you."

"To be sure, madam, though they're quite in the wood yet. I was thinking they'd be fine by Whitsunday."

"Ah, by Whitsunday ours will be fine enough to gather, and then you shall have a quart of them and welcome; but I want these for a particular occasion."

"Then I'll gather them directly," cried Mrs. Meadows, with alacrity.

While Clarinda was speaking, the good woman's admiring eyes had roved from her face to her dress. There was a little bit of straw hanging to the black lace of her mode cloak. Mrs. Meadows disengaged it reverently, and then settled the lace with an affectionate little pat; just because it was a pleasure to touch anything belonging to Mrs. Clarinda.

"We'll help you gather them," said Clarinda. "Come, Harry!" And they made such merry work of it, that he thought there was no fun equal to gathering green gooseberries, and was quite sorry when the basket was filled. Meanwhile Mrs. Meadows had served the office of the Daily Courant or General Advertiser to Clarinda, by telling her many pieces of village news, all of which she turned to practical account in their due

season.

Then they returned homewards very merry, carrying the basket by turns; and having made it over to Mrs. Patty, were proceeding to the school-house, when a livery-servant of Mr. Winterflood's came up, and, touching his hat, said in a low voice, that Miss Nessy was in a bad way, and the housekeeper hoped Mrs. Clarinda would be so good as to step over directly.

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Certainly," said she; "I will but take this young gentleman to Mr. Burrell;" and a few minutes' fast walking brought them to the school-house, where Burrell and William were still continuing their examinations. They turned to her with smiling faces; but she briefly mentioned the summons she had received, and committing Harry to his father's charge, hastily walked off, without any apparent consciousness of fatigue, though she had been on foot all the morning.

It was so habitual to her to rejoice with those who rejoiced, and weep with those who wept, that her thoughts were readily transferred from the cheerful party she had left to the house of mourning. By the time she reached the old Hall, which, with its grey stone balustrades, terraces, and mullioned windows draperied with creeping plants, had always such an air of quiet cheerfulness, she had completely thrown herself into Nessy's place, and realized what she should have felt under a similar loss. The blinds and shutters were almost universally closed; and the gloom of the house and of the servants' faces as she entered, and silently followed the housekeeper to Nessy's room, had a solemnizing effect which harmonized with the event that had just deprived the family of its head.

Mrs. May, who seemed most thankful to see any one who would relieve her from some part of her responsibility, answered Clarinda's hushed inquiry, "How is she now?" by the ominous words, "Like a stone!"

In fact, the poor girl was found in a state resembling catalepsy, sitting bolt upright in a chair, in the middle of the room-rigid, marblecold, and unconscious. Clarinda, who had

16,

never seen a person in that state before, did not, however, lose her self-possession; but caused the shutters and windows to be thrown open, loosened her dress, sprinkled her with water and chafed her hands. Presently one of the hands suddenly moved and pressed her left side, as if it were in pain; then both hands began to toss about in wild spasmodic action, and violently to grasp her throat. Screams and wild laughter succeeded; the maids fell back aghast, and would probably have fled in their fright, but for Clarinda's composure and steadiness. In the midst of the paroxysm entered Mr. Crewe, the apothecary, who coolly put a folded handkerchief between her teeth to prevent her biting her tongue, dashed a glass of water in her face, and ordered the maids to apply hot bottles to her feet. At length, a violent burst of tears and loud sobs announced to his professional ear, though not to the alarmed women, that the fit of hysteria was passing off; they carried her to a hard sofa and laid her nearly flat, Clarinda tenderly supporting her head on her arm, and wiping away the streaming tears. These at length ceased to flow; she gave a look of recognition at those about her, and then closed her eyes, and resolutely kept them closed, yielding now and then to great fits of yawning. Mr. Crewe then gave her a little sal volatile, and Clarinda held salts to her nose. Presently Nessy opened her eyes, and fixed them on her with a frigid look. They were small and lightish grey, and never had much expression in them; and though Clarinda felt herself chilled by that cold look, she secretly chid herself for it, till Nessy, in a voice hardly above a whisper, said, "I thought I had desired you not to come till to-morrow."

The colour rose in Clarinda's check in spite of herself; especially as she felt that every syllable of that hard, deliberate, unthankful little speech had been heard by Mr. Crewe. She looked quickly at Nessy, to see if there could be any mistake; but that formal, pinched little face spoke its meaning well enough, and said, as clearly as her whisper, "Your presence is uncalled-for and obnoxious."

Despite the painful circumstances in which they were placed, Mr. Crewe could not refrain from smiling, as he said to Clarinda across Nessy," You seem no longer wanted."

To make sure however of this, she bent over her, and said in her kindest manner, "You are very lonely and very ill-shall I not stay with you?—I will be perfectly quiet and still, unless you want me."

"No!" almost inaudibly.
"Wouldn't you like me to read to you?"
"No, thank you."

"Dear Nessy, I have been with many in sickness and sorrow-"

The hand made a repellant movement this time; and Clarinda, sighing, went away.

Mr. Crewe remained behind; however, he came up to Clarinda, driving fast, before she reached home, and offered her a seat in his gig.

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Thank you, I am quite near home," she said, raising her sweet eyes, which were a little wet.

"Don't walk too fast, however; you are overtired already, I can see; and all for nothing."

"Oh no! not for nothing!"

"Well, you have the satisfaction of knowing you have tried to do good, and that God will bless you for it. Don't fret about it."

"Oh no! I was feeling sorry for her." "Poor thing! She's a singular character. She don't take to you, therefore you can do her no good. She has sent already for her favourite, Miss Pershore, who will give her all the comfort she is capable of receiving. Adieu!" And he drove off.

And now little Harry came springing towards her from the gate. "We have been waiting and watching for you so long!" cried he, clasping her hand,“ and your maids said dinner would be quite spoilt!"

"That would have been a pretty business!" cried she, immediately bracing herself up to 'rejoice with them that rejoiced.' "And now,

I suppose, you will hardly allow me time to wash my face, and comb my hair, and put on my sky-blue-scarlet gown that I keep for company."

"Oh, this gown is much prettier than that can be," said he, looking admiringly on the rose-buds and pansies of her chintz; "and your face is not dirty!"

Burrell burst out laughing. He and William were standing at the edge of the moat, looking uncommonly like two men waiting for their dinner.

"Give me but five minutes," said she gaily, as she ran past them.

"Ten," cried William. And she took ten and no more.

Harry eyed her gown as she placed herself at table it was sky-blue shot with white, not with scarlet. She smiled at Burrell.

"One should never tell untruths to children, even in sport," said she; "Harry's trust in my veracity is shaken."

Cla. Don't let us talk of it while the poor man is above ground.

Wil. You are right-we will not. Pray, Burrell, how did you get on among the continental churches? I am afraid you must have returned upon us a very sorry sort of Protestant.

Bur. I am afraid that remark of yours shows a sorry sort of charity.

Cla. (to herself). After spending the whole morning, too, in looking after your church and school! Abominable!

Bur. (continuing). Do you remember what Sir Thomas Brown said of those churches?that we have separated from them, not against them; and that at the sight of a cross or crucifix he could dispense with his hat, but scarce with the thought or memory of his Saviour.

Wil. Ah, Sir Thomas Brown has said some queer things about something or other, I very well know, though I don't remember what they are.

Bur. Then it is not fair to cite them in that vague, general way. He said a fine thing about predestination.

Wil. To what effect?

Bur. Too long to quote before ladies.

Wil. You are afraid Clarinda will walk off like Eve, and leave us to ourselves like Adam and the angel.

Bur. Milton made the fallen angels bewilder themselves about predestination and free will.

Cla. Harry, dear, you wont like artichokes; you had better have asparagus-and you may have toast and melted butter all the same.

Har. I should like them, but I don't mind. People shouldn't say what they like, but take what's given them.

Wil. That's philosophy.

Cla. Think of his coming out with a general observation!

Bur. Who taught you that, Harry?
Har. Nurse said so.

Bur. Oh!

Har. I like her very well, but she oughtn't to order me about so; for mamma says she's quite a low person.

Bur. Hallo, Harry! little boys should be seen and not heard.

Cla. (aside). Let him go on; he's very amusing.

Bur. No; it will do him harm, not good. You do a vast deal in your parish, William, by combination.

Wil. Certainly we do. Combination, under a legitimate head, is one of the finest acting principles in the world. Look at the Christian Church. Look at every constitutional government. Clarinda put me up to this with her Dorcas-meetings, and penny subscriptions, and music parties. Now we have a dozen different associations, from our Bible and Prayer-book club, down to our coal, and bread, and madrigal clubs.

Bur. That last may lead to too much conviviality.

Wil. Not while it is carried on in the parson's kitchen. Clarinda always gives them a cold-meat supper. What think you of a Don

Quixote Club?

Bur. Hum! It carries rather a harebrained sound with it.

Wil. It is not a harebrained thing, though. Don't you remember, when you were here last, seven years ago, I told you of Asahel

C