"Them's second floor front," said the latter, anticipating my curiosity. "Yes," she went on, "that poor dear she's tried every mortal thing almost, and it strikes me that they've been pretty near starving; I know it, but they're close. They're punctual with the rent too, but they don't deceive me. You see when ladies comes down in the world, they can't get a living where a poor body can; they're not used to things, and they don't know their way about. Jemima, she got her the finger gimps, but deary me she couldn't earn five shillings when another would earn ten. They're particular, and it don't do. And then they've no spirit-they take things hard-and people must have a spirit." "You see," she ran on, "folks must have victuals, and if they can't get bread at one thing they must turn to another. It don't do to stand on niceties;

you must work along with all sorts often. There's some girls in the Buildings, they get a pretty good living, but then they go to the lucifer matches, or percussion caps, or aught, when their own work's scarce. They're at the pickles in Soho yonder, and a good place too it is if you can get in; it's good pay and short hours, they'll earn fifteen shillings a week easy; but then there's all sorts there, same as in other places."

When any interesting subject inspired Mrs. Joslyn, she would talk as long as you liked, perhaps a little longer; her husband never waited till she brought her remarks to a close, and at this point he interrupted energetically.

"Yees," said he, as though the question might very easily be settled; "but ladies can't do as poor folks does; they may be willin', but they can't, they'll die. Ye see there's nothing suitable for 'em to do. Scholarship's no use to them as it is to a man."

Having thus expressed his views on the subject, Mr. Joslyn cast his eyes towards the ceiling, as if he wanted an opinion from that quarter, or as if pondering those lines of Tennyson's,

"There's something in this world amiss,
Shall be unriddled by and by."

He seemed about to continue his observations, but Mrs. J. put in so determinately, that he was compelled to pause. I had no objection to listen to general details relative to the second floor front, but the loquacious woman was something of a busybody in other people's matters, and had, it would seem, by perseverance acquired information on affairs of a private nature, and this I declined to share. My errand, which merely had reference to asparagus, being accomplished, I withdrew.

It is said, that "where there is a will there is a way,' "I have nothing to remark on this adage, except that I don't believe it.

There are inaccessible "ways," and interdicted ways, and ways too

difficult for unaided effort; however, I had a "will" to find an introduction to Miss Keyworth, second floor front, No. 4, Salter's Buildings, and in this instance, certainly, my inventive powers did indicate a way.

"The mind is its own place." When I entered the room, and stood by the cheerful invalid as she reclined on her bed, I no longer remembered I was in Salter's Buildings. The very atmosphere seemed changed. From the window I could see where the smoke rose sullenly from the chimneys of Farnell's Rents, but at what a distance from all that is low and degrading did the occupants of that room appear; how effectual and almost mysterious its exclusion. From accounts of the suffering and privation she had undergone, I had anticipated a painful and careworn expression, but it was wholly otherwise; there was a cheerfulness and fortitude, softened by an indescribable repose, the expression of one who has come through strange temptation and vicissitude, and now at the close of the burning conflict exclaims, "My righteousness have I held fast, and will not let it go."

It was a decent apartment, containing no furniture but such as was absolutely necessary, except a few pictures, among which was some framed needlework that had been executed more than half a century previously by one who had never had to wrestle with adversity, nor dreamed that the volume of Fate contained any such lesson for her descendants. You did not require to be told that it was the portrait of a relative which looked placidly and half sorrowfully down upon the patient invalid. Nor that its companion, with the inconveniently high coat-collar and frilled shirt bosom, was near of kin to the younger sister. It is scarcely necessary to say that Miss Keyworth was fatherless. Yet not to any want of paternal prudence or forethought were her present circumstances owing. Mr. Keyworth had left ample provision for his family, which consisted of one son and the two daughters to whom we have been introduced.

It

There is nothing very strange in the story of their reverses. is indeed a too common one. The affairs of their brother had, owing to his extravagance and improvidence, become entangled. As is too often the case under such circumstances, he speculated rashly, and so involved his sisters in his own utter ruin. At this crisis many of Miss Keyworth's friends belonging to that class of persons who are shocked at the wickedness of mankind in general, took refuge in their virtuous principles from any appeal which might be made to their sympathies. Had not her brother acted in the basest manner to his creditors, and most unhandsomely to themselves? It was not the province of mortals to interfere with the retributions of Providence; it was ordained that the sins of the brothers should be visited on the sisters; at least, this was implied in the ordination respecting the "fathers" and the children. Others were liberal enough as regards advice; they were unanimous too-Miss Keyworth must procure an engagement as governess; it was the only thing she could do; all agreed in this view. Being the only thing, it seemed superfluous to add so emphatically that it was the best.

It was rather hard for a girl over whose head twenty summers had scarcely flown, to have the charge of the maintenance of a child

of six; but care, oh yes, care and economy would enable her to do it, and Providence would reward the undertaking.

And so the child was placed in an establishment of very humble note, and Miss Keyworth entered on her new career. But the child was sickly, and pined among strangers; so changed was she, indeed, when in the vacation she joined her sister, that the latter formed the project of residing in London, where she hoped by her talents to procure a livelihood without the necessity of separation. This seemed the more feasible as the demands on her purse were unexpectedly numerous and large; such, in fact, as she would be really unable to meet when her small capital should fail. But unfortunately she found herself one of a very numerous class, and the chances of success were proportionably diminished. Although she displayed an energy and perseverance which, had she been unincumbered, might have insured a degree of success, yet, under the circumstances, she failed. Foiled in her various efforts, she attempted what implied no vanity on her part, for there were those of her acquaintance who, though immeasurably inferior to herself, had to some extent succeeded. With scrupulous care she prepared some papers, which she contributed to the periodical press. But Genius answers not the invocation of Poverty. True, the poor and the rich are favored impartially, but the endowment is from nature, and is bestowed with life. Though unusually gifted, Miss Keyworth lacked this peculiar faculty; at any rate, her efforts proved a failure. Step by step she approached the humiliating position in which we have discovered her. Then sickness came, induced no doubt by privation and mental suffering, and as her "obstinacy" formed an excellent pretext for the withdrawal of her friends, they withdrew.

There was one lady, however, a distant connexion, who made a point of visiting the sisters occasionally. Mrs. Norton was a tall gaunt lady of about fifty. If "the milk of human kindness" had ever been infused into her nature, it must have turned sour. She was a human icicle. One might almost have imagined that the hand of death had swept over her, straightening and stiffening her, and then left her with just so much of life as enabled her to move along in a monotonous circle with a precision impossible to any one who has more than one set of ideas. These ideas related chiefly to her own superiority and the duty of others. She held herself to be

a most charitable lady, and as this belief required something to sustain it, she occasionally visited the poor with the generous view of advising and reproving them, and this she did gratuitously. Miss Keyworth had been favored with a little advice; but Mrs. Norton's object in visiting her seemed rather to show her how many things she had "left undone that she ought to have done,” and how many she had done which she ought not to have done.

But conscience repudiated these representations, and testified to higher and purer motives than were attributed to her. With such a consoler she could endure reproach. She was drawing nigh to the

end, and seemed to have attained an altitude so serene, that her haughty visitor gradually softened a little, or at least ceased to speak of the sufferer's past misdoings, and vouchsafed an occasional smile. Smile! Mrs. Norton smile? Well, I do not know how otherwise to designate it. It was a motion of the features without the motion of the heart. The smile was dictated by the will in accordance with the judgment. The frown was the dictate of nature in accordance with the heart, and so the frown was generally present. Nature will mould the features. Some for certain reasons may try, and perhaps succeed in deceiving superficial observers, but if the counterfeit be examined, its baseness will be apparent.

It was an awful night. lapsing into a dismal wail, nature were in affright.

The roar of the wind swept along, now and now rising to a fearful shriek, as if The streets were deserted. Now and then a cab might be heard struggling along, or a policeman might be discerned by his shining cape, pacing slowly and laboriously onward. Chimneys were being dislodged, the débris rattling along the roofs and then falling on the pavement with a startling crash.

On this memorable night-memorable not to myself only, but to many a widow, and many a bereaved mother, whose treasures had been engulphed in the deep-I was surprised by the appearance of good Mr. Joslyn. Miss Keyworth was dying. She had a commission with which, owing to the presence of her not over welcome visitor on the preceding day, she had not had an opportunity to charge me. Scarcely were we in time. The messenger would not stay. She had just power to utter two or three short sentences, then there was a long inspiration, a few labored breathings, and then they became shorter, fainter; the features relaxed into an expression of perfect repose-Miss Keyworth was no more.

There is more meaning in the ashes of some than in the living presence of others. There was a beautiful peace inscribed on the still features, as though the spirit leaves a message with the clay. It was pitiful to witness the unrestrained grief of the bereaved child. It was 66 a time to weep." Mr. Joslyn, too, and his wife were extravagant in their demonstrations. And indeed they had contributed not a little to the comfort and sustenance of the deceased. Never even had her room lacked flowers; they had also observed with an intuitive perception her peculiar tastes, and found a pleasure in gratifying them.

And in the midst of the scene of tears, poor Jemima appeared. She had just returned from a ball, and wore a tinsel-spangled muslin, and a profusion of other finery, which, though of an inferior description, must have been expensive. She looked appalled. It was indeed a change from the low revelry she had been sharing. Poor thing! there was something in her aspect which betokened the presence of an insidious disease. The change of scene overpowered her, she sank into a chair and fainted.

It was a dreary night within and without, but the storm seemed abating; the wind had sunk, only now and then giving out a shivering gust, like a child that is sobbing in its sleep.

And the morn arose bright and bold as if it had had nothing to do with the wrecks of the night before. London awoke, and the strife for wealth and the struggle for bread were renewed. What a transition from the silence and gloom of the closely curtained room where the dead lay, to the public street. There vehicles were rattling hither and thither, and there was the eddying crowd of pedestrians, and there was Punch and Judy, and there was the policeman with a culprit by the collar, and a troop of tatterdemalions at his heels; one would hardly imagine that "the living know that they must die."

It is due to Mrs. Norton to say, that she took the desolate child to her own home; but it would be much more than due not to explain that the brother—who had been some time abroad, and who seemed to have profited by his misfortunes-had remitted to his sisters a considerable sum, a favor they were bidden thenceforward to expect at regular intervals. And farther, some benevolent persons who had become interested in the delicate orphan, were concerting arrangements for her future provision. 'Tis best to have the whole truth as far as we know it. Another part of the truth is, that Mrs. Norton did thus bring herself into contact with her betters in the character of a most charitable lady. That might not influence her much—and it might.

We are tempted, but we may not judge one another, "there is One that judgeth." It is ours to do good as we have opportunity. Assuredly each will be rewarded according as his work shall be. Conscience will not slumber always. The time will come when we may be summoned to a review of the past; and it is in life's gloomiest hours that memory commences her incantations: happy they, who, fearless of her sorcery, may pass into the gloom of affliction, the gloom of old age, and the gloom of the shadow of death. M. N.

VI. THE DEAKIN INSTITUTION.

AMID the din of war, the strife of parties, the bustle of everincreasing commerce, the excitement of rapid locomotion, the enlargement of views, and the superabundant energy displayed in all directions, and in every sphere of action in this sign-full and wondrous nineteenth century, it is pleasing to hear now and then amid the clamor a whisper in aid of woman. Not, woman as the spiritual element, the home-refiner of man's life (in which sphere of true happiness she needs neither help nor sympathy from the outer world), but woman toiling, struggling, even as man has to struggle, "in the world's