The dreadful feeling of weariness, which, as Lucy, she so well remembered-one consequence of sitting so long in an unchanged position, and at the same employment-that dreadful feeling could not be forgotten by her. Her horror at the recollection was so strong, that of this matter she thought more than even her benevolent husband.

He recollected to have heard that the Jesuits, those masters of human development, physical as well as intellectual, never suffered a pupil to be employed more than two hours upon the same thing without a change-to get up and turn round the chair-to pace five minutes up and down the room would in many cases suffice. Mr. Fisher laid down his plan.

Two hours the young ladies worked, and then for ten minutes they were allowed to lay down their needles; they might walk about the room, into the passage, up and down stairs, or sit still and lounge. That precious, useful lounge, so fatally denied to the wearied spine of many a growing girl, was here permitted. They might look about them, or close their eyes and be stupefied; in short, do just what they liked.

It was soon found by experience that the work done after this refreshing pause more than made up for the time thus expended.

Such were some of the plans of this kindhearted and highly-principled man-and the blooming looks, the gay spirits, the bright eyes, of the happy little community did credit to the scheme.

Fisher lived but a few years to carry out the rule he had instituted; but to his wife it was as a sacred legacy from his hand, and during the whole course of her subsequent life she faithfully adhered to it.

Her house was like a convent in some things, but it was a very happy convent. Everything proceeded with a clockwork order, and yet there was a liberty such as few girls thus employed, in spite of their intervals of license, could enjoy.

It was a happy party, over which this remarkably handsome, and now distinguishedly fashionable milliner, and dignified-looking lady, presided. Nothing indiscreet or unseemly was ever permitted. The rule, perhaps, might be a little too grave, and the manner of the young ladies too sedate-but they were innocent and good; and they had their recreations, for Mrs. Fisher took them out, turn and turn about, upon a Sunday in her carriage, and the others walked with the two superintendents-persons carefully selected for their good principles and good conduct.

Mrs. Fisher, too, was a little bit of a matchmaker; and if she had a weakness, it was her fondness for settling her young ladies. Nothing pleased her better than when they were soughtand they were such nice, well-behaved girls, this often happened-by worthy young men in their own rank of life. Mrs. Fisher always gave the wedding-gown and bonnet, and the wedding-dinner, and a white satin reticule or bag, drawn with rosecolored ribbons, with a pretty pink and white purse in it, with silver tassels, and rings, and containing

Myra was grievously disappointed upon her side. She was quite one to be blind to the solid advantages of her position, and to look with querulous regret upon all the flashy and brilliant part of such a business, in which she was not allowed to take the least share.

Precisely because she was so beautiful did Mrs. Fisher exclude her from the show-room--that theatre which was to have been the scene of her triumphs.

The beautiful things she was employed in manufacturing left her hands to be seen no more--and, alas! never by her to be tried on. It was tantalizing work to part with them, and forever, as soon as they left her hand.

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Then she was obliged to be punctual to a moment in her hours; a grievous yoke to her who had never been educated to submit to any. To dress with the most careful attention to neatness, though there was "nothing but a pack of women to look at her," -to listen to "a prosy book,"- -a book, 1 forgot to say, was read aloud in the work-roominstead of gossiping and having a little fun; and to walk out on Sundays under the wing of that old, hideous harridan, Mrs. Sterling, instead of going with her companions where she pleased. In short, it was worse than negro slavery;" but there was no help for it-there she was, and there she was obliged to stay.

Well, and did she improve under this good discipline? Was she any the better for it? I am sorry to say very little.

There are subjects that are almost unimprovable. She was, by nature, a poor, shallow, weedy thing; her education had been the worst possible for her. Evil habits, false views, low aims, had been imbibed, and not one fault corrected whilst young; and self-experience, which rectifies in most so much that is wrong, seemed to do nothing for her. There was no substance to work upon. Mrs. Fisher was soon heartily tired of her, and could have regretted her complaisance to Mrs. Danvers' wishes in receiving her against her judgment; but she was too good to send her away. She laughed and accepted her as a penance for her sins, she saidas a thorn in the flesh-and she let the thorn rankle there. She remembered her honored Fisher, and the scene by the bed-side of poor Saunders. She looked upon the endurance of this plague as a fresh offering to the adored memory.

She bore this affliction like a martyr for a long time; at last a smart young tailor fell in love with Myra at church-a place where he had been better employed thinking of other things. And so I believe he thought after he had married her, in spite of the white dress and silk bonnet, and the reticule with pink ribbons, and the bride's pocket-money, which Mrs. Fisher bestowed with more pleasure

CHAPTER VIII.

Yet once more, oh, ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me-

I MUST beg of you to slip over a portion of time, and to suppose about two years passed over our heads, and we return to Lettice, who has passed that period at General Melwyn's.

So useful, so cheerful, so thoroughly good, so sincerely pious, so generously disinterested she was; and the transformation she had accomplished was astonishing.

And was she as happy herself as she made others? Nobody at the Hazels thought of exactly asking that question. And yet they might have reflected a little, and inquired, whether to one, the source of so much comfort to others, the natural felicity of her age was not denied?

Could a young being like her be very happy, living with two old people, and without one single companion of her own age?-Without prospect, without interest in that coming life, which the young imagination paints in such lovely colors?

One may boldly affirm she was not so happy as she deserved to be, and that it was quite impossible, with a heart formed for every tender affection, as was hers, that she should.

She began to be visited by a troublesome guest, which in the days of hardship she had never known. The very ease which surrounded her, the exemption from all necessity for laborious industry actually increasing the evil, gradually seemed to grow upon her. There was a secret distaste for life-a void in the heart, not filled by natural affections a something which asked for tenderer relations, more earnest duties-a home-a household-a family of her own!

She blamed herself very much when first this little secret feeling of dissatisfaction and discontent began to steal over her. How could she be so ungrateful? She had every comfort in the worldmore, much more, than she had any title to expect; infinitely more than many far more deserving than herself were allowed to enjoy. Why could she not have the same light, contented spirit within her breast, that had carried her triumphantly through so many hardships, and enlivened so many clouded days?

Poor Lettice! It was vain to find fault with herself. Life would seem flat. The mere routine of duties, unsweetened by natural affection, would weary the spirit at times. There was a sweetness wanting to existence-and existence, without that invigorating sweetness, is to the best of us a tedious and an exhausting thing.

So thought Catherine, when, about eighteen months or two years after her marriage, she came for the first time with Edgar to visit her father and mother.

The regimental duties of the young officer had carried him to the Ionian Islands very shortly after his marriage; promotion had brought him home, and he and his young wife, with a sweet infant of about twelve months old, hastened down to the Hazels to visit Catherine's parents.

I pass over the joy of the meeting-I pass over

olution which had taken place-at her father's improved temper, her mother's more tranquil spirits, the absence of Randall, and the general good behavior which pervaded the household.

She looked upon every member of it with satisfaction except one; and that was the very one who ought to have been the happiest; for she was the cause and the origin of all this happiness. But Lettice did not, she thought, look as she used to do; her eyes had lost something of their vivacity; and the good heart of Catherine was grieved.

"It pains me so, Edgar-you cannot think," she said to her husband, as she walked leaning upon his arm, through the pleasant groves and gardens of the Hazels. "I can scarcely_enjoy my own happiness for thinking of her. Poor dear, she blames herself so for not being perfectly happy-as if one could have effects without causes-as if the life she leads here could make any one perfectly happy. Not one thing to enjoy-for as to her comfortable room, and the good house, and the pretty place, and all that sort of thing, a person soon gets used to it-and it shuts out uneasiness, but it does not bring delight-at least to a young thing of that age. Child of the house as I wasand early days as they were with me when you were among us, Edgar-I never knew what true happiness was till then-that is, I should very soon have felt a want of some object of interest; though it was my own father and mother"—

"So I took the liberty to lay before you, my fair haranguer, if you recollect, when you made so many difficulties about carrying my knapsack.'

"Ah! that was because it seemed so heartless, so cruel, to abandon my parents just when they wanted me so exceedingly. But what a debt of gratitude I owe to this dear Lettice for settling all these matters so admirably for me!"

"I am glad you confess to a little of that debt, which I, on my part, feel to be enormous."

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I heartily wish there were any means of paying it. I wish I could make Lettice as happy as she has made all of us."

The young officer shook his handsome head. "Mamas in our rank of life make such a point of endeavoring to settle their daughters-to start them in households of their own-where, if they are exposed to many troubles which they escape under their father's roof, they have many more interests and sources of happiness. But there is nobody to think of such matters as connected with this poor fatherless and motherless girl.'

"Mothers, even in your rank, my love, don't always succeed in accomplishing this momentous object. I don't see what possible chance there is for one in Lettice's condition-except the grand one, the effective one-in my opinion almost the only one-namely, the chapter of accidents." "Ah! that chapter of accidents! It is a poor dependence."

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Nay, Catherine, that is not said with your usual piety."

"True I am sorry-and yet, where another's happiness is concerned, one feels as if it were wrong to trust too much even to Providence ; with great reverence be it said-I mean, that in no given event can we exactly tell how much we are expected to use our own exertions-how much diligence on our part is required of us, in order to produce a happy result."

"I agree with you quite and entirely; and if there is a thing that angers me beyond measure-it

ancient Bible lay open upon the bed, and a chair a little pushed back was standing near it. It would seem that the young gentleman had risen from the chair where he to all appearance had been reading the Bible to the bed-ridden old woman. 'Pray, come in, and sit down," he repeated, holding the door to let Lettice enter. "You look exceedingly tired. The place is very humble, but perfectly clean, and poor old Betty Rigby will be very happy to give you leave to enter."

The young man who spoke was dressed in deep black; but as there was a crape band round his hat, which lay upon the table, it would seem that he was in mourning, and possibly, therefore, not a clergyman. He was something above the middle height; but his figure was spoiled by its extreme thinness, and a stoop in the shoulder, which seemed to be the effect of weakness. His face was very thin, and his cheek perfectly pale; but his features were beautifully proportioned, and his large gray eyes beamed with a subdued and melancholy splendor. There was the fire of fever, and there was that of genius.

The expression of his face was soft and sweet in the extreme, but it was rendered almost painful by its cast of deep sadness. Lettice looked at him, and was struck by his appearance in a way she had never in her life been before. He was, I believe, as much struck with hers. These unexpected meetings, in totally unexpected places, often produce such sudden and deep impressions. The happier being was moved and interested by the delicacy, the attenuation, the profound sadness of the beautiful countenance before her; the other with the bloom of health, the cheerful, wholesome expression, the character and meaning of the face presented to him, as the young girl stood there holding the sleeping infant in her arms. Certainly, though not regularly pretty, she was a very picturesque and pleasing looking object at that moment. The old woman from her bed added her invitation to that of the young man.

"Please to walk in, miss. It's a poor place. Please take a chair. Oh, my poor limbs! I've been bed-ridden these half-score years; but pray, sit down and rest yourselves, and welcome. Law! but that's a pretty bairn, ben't it?"

Lettice took the offered chair and sat down, still holding the baby; the nurse occupied the other; the young man continued standing.

"I am afraid we have interrupted you," said Lettice, glancing at the book.

"Oh, pray don't think of it! I am in no hurry to be gone. My time," with a suppressed sigh, "is all my own. I will finish my lecture by and by."

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just to potter about like, an' see his way, but he could n't read a line, and it was never so; and so that blessed young gentleman-law! where is he? Why, I declare he 's gone!"

The young gentleman had, indeed, quietly glided out of the cottage as soon as his éloge began.

"That young gentleman-I can say what I like now he is gone has been so good to us. Many 's the half-crown he 's given me, and a warm winter coat of his own to my poor rheumatized old man. Oh! he's a blessed one-and then he comes and sits and reads to me of an afternoon for an hour together, because as how one day he called he found me a crying; for why, I could no longer read the Holy Word-and he says, 'Cheer up, Betty, be of good comfort, I'll read it to you daily'

and when I said 'Daily, sir-that 'll take up too much of your time, I fear'-he sighed a little, and said he 'd nothing particular to do with his time." "Who is he? Does he belong to this neighborhood?"

"No, miss, he's only been here may be a halfyear or so. He came down on a visit to Mr. Hickman, the doctor out there, Brainwood way, and presently he went and lodged at a cottage hard by, to be near Hickman, who's a great name for such complaints as his'n-A-A-I don't know what's the name-but he's very bad, they say, and not able to do anything in the world. Well, he's the best, kindest, Christian young man, you ever see, or I ever see. The power of good he does among the poor-poor young fellow-is not to be told or counted-but he 's so melancholy like, and so gentle, and so kind, it makes one a'most cry to look at him; that's the worst of it."

"He looks like a clergyman; I could fancy he was in holy orders. Do you know whether he is so or not?"

"Yes, ma'am, I have heard say that he is a parson, but nobody in these parts has ever seen him in a pulpit; but now it strikes me I've heard that he was to be curate to Mr. Thomas, of Briarwood parish, but he was ta'en bad of his chest or his throat, and never able to speak up like, so it would not do; he cannot at present speak in a church, for his voice sounds so low, so low."

"I wonder we have never met with him, or heard of him before."

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'Oh, miss! he's not been in this country very long, and he goes out nowhere but to visit the poor; and, tired and weak as he looks, he seems. never tired of doing good."

"He looks very pale and thin."

"Ay, does n't he? I'm afraid he 's but badly; I've heard some say he was in a galloping consumption, others a decline; I don't know, but he seems mighty weak like.”

giving the poor bed-ridden patient a little money, which was received with abundance of thanks, Lettice left the house.

When she entered the little garden, she saw the young man was not gone; he was leaning pensively against the gate, watching the swinging branches of a magnificent ash tree, which grew upon a green plot by the side of the lane. Beautiful it was, as it spread its mighty, magnificent head against the deep blue summer sky, and a soft wind gently whispered among its forest of leaves.

Lettice could not help, as she observed the countenance of the young man, who seemed lost in