her eldest boy was in service at the rector's; but he had been seized with the sickness and was sent home to die, and the widow's school had died also, nor was there much chance of its being restored, for the mother's spirit seemed broken.

"And the Earl of Errington," asked Mr. Edwards; "does he not interest himself about these poor people in their affliction, nor the Lady Elizabeth?"

Oh! no, sir, not much; they did send some trifle by the rector to the schoolmaster's widow when her son died, but I question whether either of them would drive through the village at this time. The fact is, the earl is very poor, and that is the reason why he remains so long amongst us, not any attachment to the place or the people."

Miss Clayton was gratified by the interest evinced by her lodger in the accounts she had given him of her poor neighbours, though she secretly wondered for what purpose he so frequently recurred to his pocket-book, in which he seemed to be taking notes; and Edith, sympathising in the benevolent expression of the feelings to which he gave utterance, ventured now and then to lift her eyes to his face, a procedure which her aunt marked with a quick glance of triumph.

Altogether the evening passed pleasantly and with satisfaction to all, for each had received a favourable impression of the other; and if Mr. Edwards slept little that night, his waking dreams were certainly far more agreeable than those of a few hours previous had been.

(To be continued.)

A HEART'S HISTORY.

BY MRS. CHARLES TINSLEY.

THERE liv'd a child, a fair young child, the light of whose sweet eyes
Reveal'd the treasures of the heart beneath without disguise,
There love and joy, hope scarce defin'd, yet eloquent, were shown,
Above, below, one heritage of sunshine was his own.

All bright and beauteous things were formed for that pure heart to store,
The tints of heaven, the flowers of earth, the glad waves on the shore,
The ties at home, the pomps abroad, all seem'd of that to breathe,
Wherewith a free soul might be proud its inmost thoughts to wreathe.

There came a change, a sudden change, even on his childhood's race, Friends died, and fortune's withering frown fell o'er home's sacred place, Strange looks and cold, strange words and harsh, assail'd him day by day, As with a wondering, wilder'd look he pass'd along his way.

Dec. 1845.-VOL. XLIV.-NO. CLXXVI.

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No feeling of resistance came upon the boy's young soul,
One wildly-timid sense of fear, of pain, there held control,
A tender mingling of the past with all the present ill

Yet kept his glowing sympathies from every threat'ning chill.

The child was gentle, loving thoughts around each sense had grown, Pride, hate, revenge, those human guests, to him were all unknown; In sad surprise he wander'd on as life more sterile grew,

Till from his face had pass'd the light, and from his heart the dew.

And then a change, a darker change than all the changes past
Brought for his soul the bondage strong that chains us all at last;
Childhood in youth and manhood merg'd forgot the claims of old,
Till he who only liv'd to love was coldest of the cold.

And sterner grown from sense of wrong throughout the dark past borne,
He proudly yielded hate for hate, and hurl'd back scorn for scorn;
The deep'ning shadows of the earth across his heart were spread,
Shutting out all the lights of old, the influence of the dead.

Vain, sterile, brief, is the career of men who walk in strife;
The mortal struggle is not strength, its passions are not life;
And when the snows of winter fell upon that once bright head,
A low, deep voice came back to him, and thus it sternly said :—

"One other change, one other change, the hardest and the best,
Must pass o'er thee, tired spirit, yet, ere thou canst hope for rest:
Amid the grovelling dust of earth what didst thou deem to find?
Plume thy soil'd wings yet once again, and cast it all behind.

By Him that died its hope to save, by Him whose name is Love,
Hurl the dark bondage from thy soul, and lift its trust above;
Far hast thou wander'd from the home that waited thy return,
How far the conscious thoughts may tell that yet within thee burn.

Where is God's fairest gift and first, the heart for love design'd?
Thou hast it not, thy breast is arm'd with wrath against thy kind;
Where is the meek unshaken faith in truth and beauty's reign
That once was thine; where is it now? seek, grasp that faith again.

Go 'mid the homes of living men, let love disarm thy pride,
Search the throng'd graves, and yield thy hate-there all are close allied;
But dare not ask for self alone the treasures of the just,

Stand with thy brethren and be strong, heirs of one hope and trust."

And harder was the struggle now than it had been before,
Hard to regain the gentle rule his spirit own'd of yore;

Yet back it came-the dark strife ceas'd-one holy dream of heaven
Had fitted for its purer realm the guilty but forgiven.

THE ORPHAN GIRLS.

A SKETCH-BY A SURGEON.

STEPHEN BEVERLY was the only son of a wealthy country gentleman, handsome, intelligent, and heir to three thousand a year. With such recommendations he, at twenty-four, easily obtained the hand of Mary Willmott, a lovely girl in her eighteenth year. Upon the death of his father, which occurred a few years after his marriage, he took up his abode at Beverly Park. It was at this period I was called in to attend Mrs. Beverly, who was suffering from a low nervous fever.

When I entered the room she was engaged nursing a lovely little girl, about three years and a half old, another, apparently about six, was playing at her feet. Mrs. Beverly was still a beautiful woman, but, accustomed to observe, I could not help noticing her very unhappy expression of countenance; she was evidently striving to be cheerful, and appeared to me rather to need medicine for the mind than the body. While I was conversing with my patient Mr. Beverly entered.

"Well, doctor, and how do you find Mary? she's only a little hipped now, is it not so? It's this dull place that's enough to mope any one; I'm sure I'm tired to death," drawled he, stretching, and then walking to the window. "I wonder Gilbert is not here; he's sadly behind time."

"Papa, papa," cried little Mary, clasping her hands round his knees, "I do no like Mr. Gilbert."

up.

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And why do you not like Mr. Gilbert ?" said he, lifting her

Because, papa, mamma does so cry when he is here."

He hastily placed her on the floor. I could catch but a slight glimpse of his countenance, but I perceived him change colour.

After having prescribed some slight alterative I took my departure, musing on what had passed. That sorrow was destroying Mrs. Beverly's health, I had little doubt; and if men like Mr. Gilbert were the chosen associates of her husband, could I be surprised?

Mrs. Beverly's health continued to decline; I felt fearful that symptoms of consumption were showing themselves. About this time the family removed to London, and I lost sight of them; but shortly after my fears with respect to Mrs. Beverly were confirmed, and her illness terminated fatally in the spring following. The family were now rarely down in the country. Mr.

Beverly preferred town, and consequently took but little interest in his country residence; for ten years it was rarely visited by any of them for more than a few days at a time.

One evening taking a walk through the grounds, I was roused by the sound of voices, and, on looking up, perceived two girls, their arms encircling each other, whom I instantly recognised as the little girls I had formerly nursed. I was standing so that a tree completely sheltered me from observation. Mary was neither pretty nor beautiful, but possessed of a highly intellectual countenance, combined with great sweetness of expression. She was looking tenderly into her sister's face, whose sweet, clear laugh rang merrily through the woods. Emily was a lovely little creature, her black eyes sparkling with merriment, her regular features and black hair contrasted well with a skin of dazzling fairness; she appeared scarcely to have reached her fifteenth year. “How lovely!" I mentally exclaimed, "and yet how soon to fade!"

"And now, Emily, we must go in," said her elder sister; "it is getting late, and you know what a little thing gives you cold." "Oh! let us go once more along this walk, Mary, it is so delightful; and see, there is not much damp yet."

Mary hesitated, looked as if she could not shorten her pleasure, and, turning round, their voices were soon lost in the distance.

I retraced my steps and returned homewards. The last accounts I had heard of Mr. Beverly were, that after having injured his health by indulging in every vice, he had engaged in mercantile speculations, and was travelling in Italy for his health. He had disposed of his house in town, and I was informed that his daughters had taken up their residence at Beverly Park until his

return.

I must now pass over two years of my life, during which I had obtained an appointment in India; but in consequence of loss of health I was obliged to resign and return to England. I departed from the shores of India poorer than I left my native land.

One fine afternoon I was lounging on deck; for lack of something better to do I took up an old newspaper, and, looking over the list of bankrupts, I read therein the name of Stephen Beverly, of Beverly Park, in the county of S---c. I sat musing for some time. What had been the fate of those girls? What home now sheltered them? Were they separated? were questions I in vain tried to answer. I read and re-read the paper, and in a restless mood threw it upon a heap of luggage. It was immediately taken up by two of my fellow passengers who were seated on the opposite side of it; they also read the bankrupt list; there were several in it with whom they had been acquainted.

"Ah! Stephen Beverly," said one; 66 poor devil! he made a short business of it. A fellow must feel queer when he puts the muzzle of a pistol down here," pointing to his throat.

I shuddered and walked to the side of the vessel. This, then, was the end. I felt squeamish and unsettled, but fresh things called my attention, and in a short time I had forgotten the

matter.

I determined upon settling in London, and took my place in the Plymouth mail. I selected such lodgings as I thought best suited my scanty finances, and, after paying my quarter's rent, I found I had only a few shillings remaining.

I was returning from a walk in a very disconsolate mood, when, just as I was opening my door, I was accosted by a poor old Irish

woman:

"And is it yourself, dear, that's the good doctor," said she; "and is it yourself that'll do the good action?"

"And what is it I can do for you, my good woman?" I replied.

"And bless you for saying the kind word to a poor cratur in distress; isn't it myself, that's got three childers ill of the faver, and no money to pay the doctor with ?" here sobs choked her

utterance.

I immediately told her to lead the way and I would follow. We passed through numerous alleys until we came to a street more wretched than anything I could have pictured.

I asked where we were?

She replied, "Well, dear, and isn't it St. Giles' they call the grand street."

I now understood we were in those streets inhabited by the lowest and poorest class of Irish, which I had often heard described but never before visited. I found the poor woman's children suffering from a very malignant fever which was then raging in the back streets and alleys of the Metropolis.

One evening I had been prevented from visiting these poor people until much later than usual, and, taking a wrong turn, I found myself quite bewildered. It was quite dark; the atmosphere felt so thick I mechanically unbuttoned my coat to allow of freer respiration; a dense fog surrounded every object, and now and then fell in a heavy drop. I stood still to see if I could meet with any one from whom I could ask my way, but there was no one visible. Rather higher up I perceived a faint light streaming through a window; I walked on, and looking through I perceived a girl, she was in the attitude of prayer, her face buried in her hands. I gently pushed open the door, but she did not move. "O God! spare her, spare her!" escaped from her lips in broken accents.

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I looked round, a farthing dip, a cup with some milk, and a small piece of brown bread on a wooden stool were all the apartment contained. I moved to attract her attention, she raised her head, and, looking at me, exclaimed,