was fearfully harassed about the welfare of his young family, which soon must be both widowed and orphaned. But, thank Heaven! his fears for its welfare were soon quieted, and his mind was set at ease. The lord of the manor, who had, when in the country, sat beneath his ministry, and to whom the church belonged, had long been an admirer of his exemplary conduct and excellent qualities. He had been informed of his illness, of his late indefatigable zeal, and visited him frequently, presenting, at one of his friendly calls, the cottage to his family, and settling upon the heart-broken wife an annuity of a hundred pounds a year. The cup of poor Morton's earthly happiness was, by that generous gift, o'erflown, and he lingered but a short time longer. The vanities of the world never fettered him; his future mansion was already prepared in "that house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." What had he to live for? His wife and children were provided for-his earthly race run-the prize in view-the bitter cup that may not pass from any of us already at his lips-and the sure and certain hope before him.

At sunset, upon his last Sabbath evening on earth, he lay, as was usual, in his bed, the latter being placed beside the window which looked towards the west. He was very low, but calm. His little ones were very standing at his feet, whilst his sister and wife knelt, weeping, by his bed. He had been dozing; upon opening his eyes he made an uneasy movement. The jealous eye of his wife at once detected it.

"What can I do for you, my poor suffering Thomas ?" she whispered, amid her sobs.

"Dry thy tears, my well-beloved, and let not our short parting grieve thee. Has the sun set?"

"Not yet," replied his weeping sister.

"Turn my head, my love," he said, faintly, to his wife, "and let me look for the last time upon the eternal seal of my Creator as it stamps 、 the western horizon with a symbol of that glory of which the prophet at Patmos wrote."

They propped him up with pillows, his face towards the sun, who was swiftly sinking in the sky.

"Do you feel easy, dear Thomas ?"

"Happy! happy! happy!" he said, audibly. "Sophy, dear, turn to the first epistle of Paul to Timothy, the first chapter, and the fifteenth verse. Read slowly-slowly."

And his sister read in a broken voice:

"This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief." "

"Of whom I am chief-of whom I am chief," repeated the dying man; then slowly, but with great precision: "Fight the good fight of faithlay hold of eternal life, whereunto thou art also called, and hast professed a good profession before many witnesses." After a slight pause: "Liddy, my love, let me feel your pure breath again upon my cheek. Kiss me, my beloved. Place my hand upon your forehead. Be ye also faithful; establish your hearts, for the coming of the Lord draweth nigh.''

His breathing became painfully oppressive, and his voice less distinct. Yet calm as a placid lake, upon which the glories of noontide are cast, was his worn countenance.

"Where are our children ?"

They were crying around his bed; at his call they surrounded him more closely. He kissed them one by one, and said:

save.

"To the Father of the fatherless I bequeath them-one mighty to God bless you, my children. Remember, that of such is the kingdom of my Father. Liddy, where are you?" "Here, dear Thomas." She could scarcely speak, but his hand was spangled with her tears.

"The chamber is dark. Thy sweet face is hidden from me, but I feel thee. Thank God for that blessing. I know thy works-and charity -and service and faith-and thy patience-and thy works-and the last to be more than the first.'"

A violent fit of coughing ensued. Still flickered the lamp of waning life -flickered on the verge of eternity.

He had previously kept time to the words with his attenuated hand whilst he spoke. It now sank, nerveless, on the counterpane. "Liddy!-Liddy! Have you left me?"

"No, dear-no, dear. I am still beside you."

46

Where, my true one?"

"My arm is beneath your head, my husband."

"I do not feel it. Place your hand in mine, sweet wife-and yours, my sister. God bless you both! He will be a husband to the widow, and a father to the orphan. Do you weep, my love ?"

"Oh, Thomas-beloved Thomas-I cannot help it," sobbed the agonised wife.

"Not for me-not for me, my love. I go where there shall be no night, and they need no candles, neither light of the sun. For the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign for ever and ever." "Are you in pain, my dear husband ?"

"No, no-all peace-all peace." Then, at intervals, and clearer than before, "And the spirit and the bride say, Come! and let him that heareth, say Come, and let him that is athirst come; and whosoever will, let him take of the water of life freely.''

Poor Tom Morton obeyed the summons. As he finished, the veil of futurity was lifted to his spiritual gaze-the last links that fettered his noble soul to perishable earth were dissevered the flame flickered no longer-the silver chord was loosed-the golden bowl was broken, and his spirit ascended to the God who gave it.

When the story of the poor curate was ended, each man continued silently absorbed in his own reflections. Our president was the first to break it :

"There is a lesson in the life and death of your friend, Mr. Cripps, for the dignitaries of our much-abused Church. I fear that his is not an isolated case of neglected merit."

"True, true," answered Cripps, dejectedly. "Would to God it were an exception; but, alas! it is not. Many a holy man carries to the pulpit, beneath his sacerdotal robes, a heart brimful of woe-many a poor curate sits down amid his family to a meal that a peasant would almost scorn to share, whilst his bishop and rector loll lazily over their wines and rich confections. Lazarus and Dives! Lazarus and Dives! But Lazarus went to Abraham's bosom."

And thus passed our Sabbath evening away. I found it a profitable one, and retired early, to give an hour to solitude and my diary. The last items subjoined, after it had been closed for the day, I shall copy verbatim:

"Felt much delighted with the society of Mr. Cripps. Had the gratification of hearing him express a similar opinion concerning myself, accompanied by a wish that our newly-formed friendship might ever be on the advance. It shall be no fault of mine if it be not so. "N.B. Crayford improves rapidly in my opinion-seems a sensible fellow-a little vain, but his heart is a trump.

"P.S.-11 P.M.-Has considerably risen in my estimation within the last ten minutes. Really, to deal justly by him, and 'nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice,' he is a very worthy soul. Has just knocked at my door in his dishabille, to shake hands with me again, and tell me that he wished he was as manly-looking and sedate as I am. What an absurdity!-(Mem.) Sitting too long in the society of the decanters has evidently opened his heart.

"Nonsense, Crayford!' said I, as in duty bound (for the reader is doubtless aware that vanity is not my besetting sin).

"No, Bobbin, it's not nonsense. Fanny Cooke said that, were I like you, notwithstanding all your modesty, she'd ask me to marry her at once.'

I

"It was very stupid of him to talk such idle stuff. But men will open their minds and confess truths when they have indulged rather freely in wine. I felt annoyed, of course-what modest man would not?—but gave him the warmest shake of the hand he had ever received from me as I bade him go to his bedroom and catch no cold. In fact, I went as far as his door with him, and then he said that she was an angel. I desired him not to be so monstrously absurd! but he averred that he could not help it-that he felt perfectly jealous of me when he heard her speaking of nothing but sea-voyages, and telescopes, and bashful, sensible youths and mountain scenery, and Benjamin Bobbins, and so forth. I shook hands with him again, and have this moment returned from his room. I do not feel at all sleepy. . . . . . Well! well! how strange !-how perfectly preposterous! Here have I been spoiling a whole page of my diary by drawing female profiles upon it, and endeavouring to write the initials F. B. in an angular hand, without at all separating the letters or taking the pen from the paper. Fanny Bobbin! What an idea! what a name! Heigh ho! I'm off by express to the land of Nod."

HOW I GREW INTO AN OLD MAID.

I.

We were three of us at home-I, Lucy, and little Mary. Mary was, by many years, the younger, for three, two brothers and a sister, had died between her and Lucy. Only one brother was left to us, and he was the eldest, two years older than I. My mother's income was sufficient for comfort, though we had to practise much economy while Alfred was at college.

He came home to us to pass the last vacation before taking orders, but not alone. We had walked into the village to meet the stage-coach, and when it came and he jumped down, a gentleman about his own age followed him. "My friend, George Archer," he said; "you have heard me speak of him. And you, George," he added, "have heard of my sisters. These are two of them, Hester aud Lucy."

What a handsome man he was, this stranger! Tall, fair, gentlemanly; with a low, sweet voice, and a winning manner. He is often in my mind's eye even now as he looked that day, though so many, many years have gone by.

We must all of us, I believe, have our romance in life, and mine had come for me before those holidays were over. A woman, to love entirely, must be able to look up to the object of her affections, and none can know with what reverence I regarded him. Had one demanded of me, Did perfection lie in mortal man? I should have pointed to George Archer. The tricks that our fond imaginations play us! But do not think I loved him unsought. No, no. He asked for me of my mother, and we began to talk about our plans.

She had no objection to give me to him. He had won all our hearts, and hers amongst the rest. He was indeed one of the most attractive of men. I thought so then, and now that I can judge dispassionately, I think so still. But she said we might have long to wait. I had my five hundred pounds, but he had nothing save a prospect of a curacy, and he was not yet in orders.

Our good old rector, Mr. Coomes, had promised to take my brother as curate. He was getting feeble and required one, and we were delighted at the prospect of having Alfred near us. I don't know who first hinted that this plan might be changed-I did not: but it came to be whispered that instead of Alfred Halliwell's becoming curate of Seaford it would be George Archer. My mother spoke to me. She did not like it: she had set her heart on having Alfred settled with us. My brother, light-hearted, good-natured, was ready to sacrifice anything for his friend and favourite sister. My mother said very little: I believe she thought she could not, consistently with the courtesy and good manners due to a guest. I might, but I would not! Selfish! selfish!

The time came, and they were ordained together. The Reverend

Alfred Halliwell was appointed to a curacy in a remote district of North Wales, and the Reverend George Archer to Seaford.

He came. He read himself in on the last Sunday in Lent, the Sunday preceding Passion week. Seaford church, standing midway between the village and the gates of Seaford Park, was a small, unpretending edifice, with only one monument inside it, and one handsome pew, and they pertained to the Earls of Seaford. As we walked into church that morning I could not look up, but I saw, by intuition, that he was in the reading-desk, and the rector in his pew. Mr. Coomes, that day, was but one of the congregation.

It is one of the few remem

He began the service, and we stood up. bered moments of agitation in my life: my breath came fast, I saw nothing, and my face was white as the snow outside-for it was a very early Easter that year, and snow lay on the ground. In my foolish fancy, I thought every one must be looking at me as if the congregation, in their curiosity to listen to him, could think of me ! It was a persuasive voice, low and silvery, and though it did not tremble, I saw, in the first glance I stole at him, that he was nervous in his new position, for his bright colour went and came.

When I gathered courage to look around, I, for the moment, forgot him, and everything else, in astonishment. Against the wall, under the one monument, facing the side of the pulpit, was the pew of the Earls of Seaford, with its brass rods and crimson curtains. During the time we had lived at Seaford (four years it was, then, ever since my father's death) that pew had always been empty, and now it was occupied ! Standing at the top was a young lady, just budding into womanhood, very beautiful; at the end, next us, was a man of fifty, short, but of noble presence, with a wrinkled brow and grey hair; and, standing between these two, were four lads, of various ages, from ten to sixteen or seventeen. Her eyes were fixed on his face, George Archer's, and I could not take mine from hers. It was the sweetest face I had ever seen, with its exquisite features, its delicate bloom, and its dark, spirituallooking eyes: it is the sweetest face that ever rises to my memory. I glanced round at the large pew at the back, near the door; it was filled with male and female servants, some of them in the Seaford livery, and I knew then that that was the Earl of Seaford, his sons, and his daughter, the Lady Georgina.

The prayers and communion were over, the clerk gave out the psalm, and Mr. Archer went into the vestry. He came out in his new black gown, his sermon in his hand. Tall and noble he looked; but he was certainly nervous, else what made him tread upon his gown, and stumble, as he went up the pulpit steps? I was not superstitious then, in my careless inexperience, else I might have looked upon that stumble as a bad omen. After he had knelt down and risen up again, he moved the cushion before him, a little to the right, towards the earl's pew; not so as to turn even his side to the congregation, but that all present might, so far as possible, be brought face to face with him. "Come unto me, ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." That text, his, that first day, stands out, on my memory, distinct and alone; not, I greatly fear, so much from its divine words of inexpressible conso

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