from him. Nothing was left for the senses to fasten fondly on, and time had not yet taught him to think of her only as a spirit. But time and holy endeavours brought this consolation; and the little of life that a wasting disease left him, was passed by him when alone in thoughtful tranquillity: and amongst his friends he appeared with that gentle cheer fulness which, before his mother's death, had been a part of his nature.

THE STORY OF A COUNTRY GIRL.

CONCLUDED.

THE summer passed away, and the glorious autumn, with its rich, sad livery, had deepened into winter. Jane thought time had never passed so slowly, but she soon discovered, that to be happy was to be employed, and she busied herself about the affairs of the little household with great diligence; and redoubled her attentions to her sickly, fretful relative, whose demands seemed always to grow with indulgence. Jane never complained-never moved as if weary, and the neighbours wondered at the patience and vigilance of the good girl.

At length, as the spring with its buds and blossoms appeared, the labours of Jane for her grandparent closed. She was laid to rest in the little grave-yard close to the door of the church, where reposed the companions of her earlier days, each with a stone of slate, ornamented with a death's head and other devices, and bearing the name and age.

She had been the only friend of the orphan-girl, and now she felt utterly desolate and alone. Time hung heavy upon her, and the little low house was now closed and abandoned. The grounds were appropriated by an uncle of Jane's, who took her into his house for a few days with a cold ungracious air, and then told her roughly she must go out to service. Jane might have taken a school, but this same uncle was one of the committee, and careful to secure the situation for his own daughter.

Jane knew it would be impossible to procure a situation as domestic in a place where every family did its own work, and so one morning, when neighbour was ready to go to Portland with a load of marketing, she appeared with a small bundle of clothes, her little all in this world, and begged a ride down in his waggon. The good-natured farmer not only carried her free of all expense, but furnished her a lunch from his own box of dough-nuts and cheese, and even purchased her a tumbler of cider at one of the little taverns at which he stopped to water his

horses.

Portland was much larger than Jane had expected to find it; she had read it contained fifteen thousand inhabitants, but she had formed no very definite idea as to how many houses it would take to hold so many people,

She was bewildered, too, at the noise and tumult in the streets, and wondered how they could ever sell so many goods as she saw piled in the long ranges of shops.

She inquired of a great many, who seemed never to have heard of such a woman as her cousin, Mrs. Liscom. She at length succeeded in finding her, but she certainly did not live in one of the finest houses, as she had expected; for her impressions of Mrs. Liscom were those she had formed of her when quite a child, upon a visit of her cousin's in the country. She recollected her as very independent and important in her manners, and had therefore concluded she must be a lady of some consequence in Portland. She was dressed at that time, in a lilac-coloured Canton crape dress, which was then considered a great piece of elegance, a large white cape, and a great many bows of light ribbon upon her head.

Her cousin looked a great deal older than she had expected, and not half as genteel. She was brown and large, and had a whole house full of noisy, quarrelsome children, which she ruled with the opposite of the law of love. Her husband, Captain Liscom, part owner and commander of the schooner Nancy, appeared much more submissive than any of the children.

"So you've came a cous'ning," said Mrs. Liscom," and want to stay till you can get a place to hire out. Now, my house is just as full as it can stick; the children sleep four in a bed; you might have to stay here a month, and then not get a place, girls is so plenty and wages so low." Jane's lip quivered, but she dared not trust herself to speak.

"I'll tell you what it is," said the Captain, coming in to the relief of both parties: "gals is very scarce in New York. I'll tell you what, you'd better go there, Jane. I'll give you your passage for nothing, for't'll come upon the owners" (tipping a wink to his wife,)" and you can stay on board till you get a place."

"That's the best thing you ever said, John; you'd better go, Jane; the schooner'll sail to-morrow; you'd better go; 'twill be the making of you."

She

Jane's face brightened with one of its former smiles, and she assented at once. knew nothing of the world, and fancy had presented a beautiful, but shadowy picture, in which George Lewis, her adopted brother, certainly stood in bold relief upon the foreground. We will say nothing of the selfish indifference of those who thus launched an orphan child upon the great world to encounter its perils and temptations alone.

The passage was short and pleasant, and Jane, with youthful spirits and fine health, enjoyed every moment of it. Captain Liscom, away from his better half, was really a good

and kind-hearted man, and proved himself attentive to the comfort of his young passenger. When she left the schooner in search of a place, he actually put a fifty-cent piece into her hand, that she might purchase a "mouthful" in case she grew faint. He went as far as Broadway with her, and Jane thought she could remember the streets, and find her way back to the vessel.

Until she reached Broadway, Jane had not realized that New York was any larger than Portland; but this broad, interminable street, with its jostling population-its Babel of sounds, its omnibuses, and vehicles of every description, superadded to the cries of cartmen and all kinds of venders, produced a confusion of sights and sounds that struck a dread almost amounting to terror into the heart of the lone girl. She felt doubly desolate amidst this wilderness of human beings, all strange and unsympathizing with herself, and jostling rudely by her or staring familiarly into her anxious face.

It was long before she could summon resolution to ascend the steps of one of the fine-looking houses to tell her errand. There was no knocker, and she nearly bruised the skin from her fingers in trying to make them hear from the inside. "Pull the bell, gall," said a rough voice, but Jane didn't know he spoke to her. "Why don't you pull the bell?" said another passer by. A new thought struck our heroine; she stepped back and looked all about the house, but no bell was visible. She was about to give up in despair, when a quiet-looking lad, with books under his arm, observing her dilemma, ran up the steps and gave a small knob a short pull, saying, "That is the way, Miss." A slatternly Irish girl soon made her appearance, and to Jane's inquiring, answered, "No, indade," and instantly closed the door.

Jane recollected next time to pull the bell instead of using her knuckles, and also to inquire for the lady of the house, as she had been directed by Captain Liscom, "or," as he said, "the servants would send her away without informing their mistress, lest they should lose their own places." She was ushered into a large, elegantly-furnished room, so entirely different from any she had ever seen before, that she was quite bewildered. To add to her embarrassment, the lady in whose presence she stood was certainly handsome, but tall and stern. A fashionably-dressed young lady sat with un suppressed tittering upon the sofa.

"What do you want, child," asked the stern-looking lady. Jane's mouth was so dry, that she tried two or three times before she could bring out a word, and then she could scarce speak above a whisper.

"You are too mealy-mouthed by a great deal."

Jane felt as if she should suffocate, and

dropped unbidden upon a chair. At this moment she heard a voice in the hall giving some trifling orders, and as the poor girl recognized its familiar tones, she started from her chair and looked towards the door.

The lady rang the bell violently. "I see how it is, I see how it is; a pretty piece of impudence, really;" and before Jane could understand what it all meant, a pert-looking serving-man was leading her to the door, and turned her into the street. Jane was faint and tired, and too much stupified to feel the indignity; she was growing weary of life, for all the bright visions of other times were fading from her fancy, and existence began to look like a dull, dreary blank. So strongly did the sense of her friendlessness and poverty press upon her and contrast with the affluence of George Lewis, that a strange bitterness of feeling came to her heart as she remembered the earnest appeal of George that, when she should know more of the world, she would forgive him-that she would think of him as a brother. Then she remembered how happy she had been until she saw him-how beautiful the whole world had looked to her, and thought of her present misery, and the tear came to her eyes, and brought back again the gentleness of her heart and a full forgiveness for George Lewis.

While these feelings passed over her, she had sauntered along, unknowing which way she went, when she felt a hand laid lightly upon her shoulder. "What is the matter, dear," asked a fat, coarse woman. Jane's heart was touched by the unwonted tone of kindness, and her tears flowed faster than ever.

"I was thinking how lonely I am here in this great place without a single friend." "Poor child, you look ill and sad enough; go with me, and I will be your friend till you find a better."

The old woman began to look quite agree able to the friendless girl, and she followed her into a large, fine-looking house, with her heart brimful of gratitude. She partook of some refreshments, the old lady being all the time profuse in her expressions of attachment, and praises of her beauty, &c. Then Jane was shown into a handsome room where a girl arranged her hair, and presented her an elegantly-wrought pocket-handkerchief, with lace quilled upon the edge, and looking as Jane thought, altogether too fine for use; indeed, she thought it designed for her neck till informed to the contrary; and the girl laughed and clapped her hands with merriment, the mistake was so odd and unaccountable. She might have exclaimed, in the words of the Dodger, in Oliver Twist, My eyes, how green."

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She was left alone when all was arranged, to rest awhile upon the sofa; and this sudden turn of good fortune, this unexpected kind

ness from a stranger, brought tears to her eyes, and called forth a low, fervent prayer for blessings upon the household. Her thoughts grew indistinct, and the fatigued girl forgot all anxieties in a sound sleep.

When she awoke, the room was lighted for the evening, and she found some kind hand had placed the cushions beneath her head, and spread a rich shawl over her feet. She started at observing a gentleman reading by the table. He approached her, and made some inquiries as to her health, at the same time he parted the curls familiarly from her forehead. Jane was a little startled, and yet, there was an appearance of honest frankness about him, that won upon her confidence. She supposed, too, that he might be the son of her benefactress, and wished to treat her as a sister.

"Have you slept well, my pretty girl?" and he seated himself beside her, and laid his hand upon her shoulder, Jane shrank from him with real apprehension, and her fine brow contracted with anxiety. "Don't call me so, sir; don't say any thing to turn the head of a poor girl, any more than you would have it said to a sister."

The stranger eyed her a moment with surprise, but Jane's innocent face could not well be misconstrued. No, hang me if I will," he replied, at the same time rising, and turn ing the key of the door. Then observing that Jane turned pale and trembled, he continued "Now don't be scared, child, I wouldn't harm a hair of your head. I only want to keep all out. Do you know where you are ?"

Oh, no; they have been very kind to me, and have promised to befriend me." "Yes, as the wolf befriends the lamb, or the cat the trembling mouse." He whispered something which Jane certainly did not understand, but which convinced her she must not stay where she was.

"What shall I do? Where shall I go?" "You must go with me," said the stranger, after making some inquiries as to her history.

Jane looked up through her tears, and read his face for an instant. It certainly was one to be trusted. She then laid her hand in his, saying, "I will go with you, for I know you haven't the heart to wrong a desolate girl." "No, hang me if I have. You'll make a better man of me; your innocent ways will go farther to reform me than a hundred sermons."

He took up the rich shawl, and was about to throw it over the shoulders of Jane. "No," she replied, "that is not mine, or this handkerchief, either." "Never mind, it's only spoiling the Egyptians." "It wouldn't be right," said Jane, firmly, and she put on her little shawl and bonnet, and gave her hand to her protector. He opened the

doors gently, and they were soon under the glare of the street lamps.

"John Liscom-schooner Nancy-Fulton wharf," said the stranger to himself. "I know him for an hen-pecked land-lubber, as he is, to send you out alone in a place like this. I'll blow him up for it ;" and with this amiable resolution he took a carriage with orders to drive to the wharf.

Captain Liscom had begun to marvel what had become of Jane, but his benevolent sympathies were far from being energetic, and perhaps he might have had a presentiment that she would find a place without farther trouble to himself; if so, he was doomed to disappointment.

The stranger looked sternly at the captain as he composedly smoked his cigar in the little dingy-looking cabin. "A precious rascal you are, to send a child like this, backing and filling in this great city, in search of a place! I'ft hadn't been for me, you'd never laid hand on her again." Liscom tried to explain, and so did Jane, but he would not listen to a word of apology. He used a reasonable number of nautical anathemas, of which the reader will doubtless spare the repetition, and wound up by telling him he was "worse than a heathen or an infidel."

He took a bill from his pocket-book, and presenting it to Jane, said, "Now, will you not give me one kiss to pay for what I have done for you?"-Jane laid her hand and the bill upon the broad palm of the sailor, while her look spoke volumes of gratitude and maidenly dignity.

"You are right, girl, right. I would have my sister do just so ;" and he drew his rough hand across his eyes; but you must take the bill-you-”

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"No, no, I shall not need it. I shall be grateful to you, sir, as long as I live, and every day, and twice a day, I shall pray for the blessing of God upon you; and if we never meet again in this world, we shall meet in Heaven." Jane said all this with real pathos of manner, the tears springing to her fine eyes.

"If I ever get there, it will be through your prayers then, for I have been wicked enough. Hang me, you make me cry just as my poor mother used to, when she told me all about Heaven and the judgment, and such things. She died a long time ago, and I've had nobody to pray for me since." "I will always," said Jane, earnestly.

The stranger took a small pin in the form of an anchor from his bosom, and presented it to Jane, saying, "You must take this, my lass, and keep it for my sake; and now give me one curl from your head, and when I look upon it, I shall think of you, and think I have done one good thing in my life, and that you may be praying for me, and it may be, girl, I shall pray for myself." Jane did

as she was desired, hardly able to see through her tears, and as the kind sailor departed, he muttered something about his eyes and the fog. After this, Liscom went out with Jane two or three times, but they had no references, and the girl was altogether too pretty to escape suspicion. He was ready for his return voyage, and yet Jane was unprovided with a place. What could he do? He knew better than to carry her home again to his wife; besides, he could not think of giving her another passage; he had done all that duty could require, and really wished the girl off his hands one way or another; his sympathies, too, had greatly declined from the time that she refused to take the money proffered by the stranger. He could conceive of no reason why she should decline it. The schooner was now entirely ready for sea, and he told Jane she had better try once more, and if she didn't get a place "the deuce must be in it."'

Jane had made applications for the situation of teacher, seamstress, or domestic, but without success. The weather was growing warm, and she went from street to street making applications and roceiving rebuffs, till nearly exhausted and feeling all the time like a guilty thing, so many significant glances had been exchanged, and so many cruel observations made in the presence of the poor girl. She wandered on till the buildings grew thin and scattered, and the bright Hudson might be seen sparkling in the sun-light. Then came the thoughts of home, and the beautiful Sebago. She wondered at her own wild project in seeking a home in the midst of strangers, but tears were useless now, and she summoned all her energy to bear the load of misery that began to press upon her heart.

She ascended the steps of a stern-looking brick house in Greenwich-street. The door was opened by a vulgar-looking man, with a blear eye, a red face, and very narrow forehead. She was certain he must be a servant, and a drinking one, too. To her request that she might see the lady of the house, he answered "Yes," gruffly, but without stirring to let her pass.

Jane glanced into the hall, and saw a stout, red-faced woman peering out, curious to know who was at the door. "Come in," said the man, stepping back a bit, and the woman retreated into a room at the end of the hall. Jane took the same directinn, and told her errand to the stout woman, looking into her face, that she might escape the stare of the man, who had followed her in.

"Where are your references?" "I haven't any. I didn't know it would be necessary till I came to this place."

"No references! where can you have lived, then?" "Nowhere in New York. I came from Maine."

"What is your name?"

Jane, timid and child as she was, felt they had no right to question her in this cold, heartless manner, and summoning all her resolution, she said-" You haven't said, as yet, ma'am, that you wish to hire a girl."

"We don't want one without name or reference," said the man, who seemed to enjoy the scene vastly. Jane spoke with real dignity; "I am a stranger in your city, with no one to explain your customs. I am sorry I have troubled you." She was moving to the door, when the man planted himself before her.

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So, then, you're ashamed to tell your name, miss?" Jane's cheek glowed with indignation. "No, sir, I amnot ashamed to tell my name, but if you don't wish to employ me, I don't know what is your right to ask it."

"I'll tell you what it is, miss, this coming for a place without references and without name, is very suspicious-looking business. I'll tell you what, we might take a common girl of the town into our house in that way.” Jane coloured deeper than ever, and moved to the door. There, miss, I've told you what-you see how it is." He laughed derisively, and left the room.

Jane glanced at the wife of such a brute, and thought she could detect a shade of compassion even upon her senseless face. "Oh, ma'am, you will think better than that of one of your own sex, I know you will. I ought not to have come here without friends to advise me, but it is too late to repent now. My name is Jane Bryant; I should have told it, only I thought you had no right to question me, unless you wished to employ me." "No, I am in no want of a servant, and you will hardly procure a situation here, unless you have references.

It was now nearly night; the street lamps were being lighted, and the girl felt doubly desolate, as she met group after group of young girls with gay faces and merry tones, returning to cheerful homes and loving friends. She longed for a companion even in misery. She saw a child of perhaps ten years, weeping upon the steps of a house in a miserable-looking neighbourhood. Jane instinctively drew towards her. The child wiped its eyes with a ragged apron, and glanced with a shy look at the young stranger; but it read sympathy and kindness in the sweet face, and a warrant for more tears; so the two girls wept together, companions in sorrow, though ignorant of the grief of each other.

"What is the matter, that you weep?" asked Jane. 'My mother beat me, and put me out doors."

Perhaps you have been a naughty child? But then you have a mother and a homehow happy you might be! Never cry when

you have a home to go to. You have enough to thank God for, every day that you live. A home and a mother! Go in, child, and love and obey her, and you can't be unhappy." The child stared at her with open mouth. "Have you been naughty, too, and saucy; and has your mother put you out?" "Oh, no, no, child, I have no mother, no home. I couldn't weep if I had."

The child put her head in her lap, and now wept for the poor forlorn stranger. "My mother beats me every day, but I won't be saucy any more. I will do what she bids me, and try to be a better girl. Do you think I should be happy then?" "I know you will; and when you feel angry and disobedient, think of me, with no home and no mother."

on;

Jane had walked some distance down the street, when she felt some one pull her dress from behind. She turned, and the little girl, all out of breath, was close to her. "If you will go home with me, you shall have part of my supper, and half the straw that I sleep 'tis nice and clean, and my mother shall be your mother. She wouldn't beat you, I'm sure she wouldn't." Jane couldn't speak for weeping, and she thought, "It is the poor only, that know how to feel for each other." She promised the child she would come back if she didn't find a place, and parted from her with real sorrow.

The night grew dark and windy-the shops blazed with light, and the lamps in long vistas made the streets look like fairy land. Poor Jane had no eye for either beauty or splendour. She felt chilled to the heart, and wondered if the wide world contained one other being as desolate as herself. She had gone from street to street, till quite bewildered, and she knew not which way to turn.

She was near the Washington Paradeground, and heard the creak and slam of the gates, as people went in and out with busy feet, and the sound of the watchman's staff upon the pavé. The great multitude about her had a community of interest; they were appendages to the great city in which she was friendless and alone. She wished she had gone home with the kind-hearted child, who so generously proffered her little

all; for she knew Captain Liscom would leave her with little scruple, and she shuddered as the thought of beggary and deathdeath in the midst of strangers, passed like some grim spectre before her. Her limbs trembled, and she sat down upon the steps of one of the houses in Washington Place to rest just for a moment. She grew frightened at the vague indistinctness of her own thoughts and perceptions. The lights upon the Parade-ground looked more magical than ever, and flashed and commingled in a thousand fantastic forms. She had fallen asleep.

George Lewis and a friend were returning from a fashionable party in earnest conversation.

"I see how it is, Lewis, you are fairly in love; and such a love! a brown-skinned country girl, with a foot like a shovel-who tells about our 'haouse,' and eats pudding and milk with a big spoon! Faugh!" Lewis crimsoned. "How you will rattle,

Frank; I have said nothing of the kind. Í am going upon an angling excursion, but I do most certainly hope to see the pretty girl into the bargain."

"No doubt, no doubt; I understand it all. This Amaryllis has become the exquisite Dulcinea of your imagination; but spare your friends, George; their eyes are not adapted to your glasses. A barefooted country girl; your taste is unquestionable."

"Have done your bantering, Frank; I feel really guilty while discussing the poor girl in this way."

"Exquisite, Lewis! I have mistook; she is some renowned princess in disguise. I long for the denouement; pardon me, I mistook the elegant princess for a country girl paddling in a mud-puddle."

George's eye kindled, and his cheek flushed. He certainly looked a little angry. His giddy companion laughed immoderately. Why, you mean to fling down the gauntlet in be half of this immaculate Rusticiana; but pardon me, I can't fight; no, excuse me."

"Frank," said Lewis, "be serious one moment, if the nature is in you. Now, I hold, that the name of a delicate woman is not to be lightly bandyed in senseless jesting. No matter what may be her condition, her virtues may ennoble it. Refinement is not inherent in any one class; it may be found with the humblest maiden, with nature alone for her tutor. Truth and affection are worth more than all the blandishments of fashion."

"Quite a homily, upon my word. Your case is desperate, Lewis. But, seriously, this business is like to affect you more than you are aware. You respect the girl-love her even, but you cannot have thought of making her your wife-you can't be so mad. A girl with no connections to sit side by side with with your proud mother, George. She would disown you, and all the exclusives in Broadway and elsewhere would turn up the nose at the poor girl, and, depend upon it, you'd find it a bad job every way. I shudder to think of the thing.".

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It was

now George's turn to laugh. Really, Frank, you have drawn a most dolorous picture. But, no fears; I am not yet prepared to make so desperate a plunge, though I confess to have thought of the thing. But on one point I am decided, that is, never to marry one of these automatons of fashion. My wife must have a soul;