CHAPTER IV.

Many years after the commencement of this story, I visited London, on a European tour. While there, I spent the evening at a friend's house. A large party was assembled, almost all of them unknown to me. One face there was that seemed strangely familiar to me, but the name of the gentleman, and where we had last met, had both escaped my memory.

Our eyes

I was not long left in perplexity. met, and we recognized each other. It was Captain Manners-the Dick of former days. We were mutually delighted by the rencontre, and talked over old times with much eagerness. He spoke of Mrs. Olver with a smile,-a half sad one, indeed, but still a smile; so much will time do in healing wounds, however deep.

"It was years, Mrs. Kirkross, before I could get over that sad passage in my life," said he. "Even now, I came to England, believing that the world did not contain a woman who could interest me beyond a week, at most. But do you see that little lady opposite-there, the one with the large, soft eyes? Well, she has taught me differently, and she has promised to be my wife. I shall retire from the service at once, and get a snug little berth somewhere or other."

"Why, Captain Manners, that is Miss Ryder, Mrs. Perry's governess," I exclaimed!

An amused expression flitted across his honest face, as he replied, "The very same, my friend. Poor little woman, she is an orphan; so am I, with no resting-place save among strangers Do you know that was the first thing that attracted me towards her. Then her father and her brother were sailors, another bond of union between us; and again, she has a will-a mind of her own."

I was quickly introduced to Miss Ryder, and found her a sensible, quiet person, with a face redeemed from plainness by a magnificent pair of eyes, full of depth and expression.

I learnt from Mrs. Perry, that from childhood Miss Ryder's life had been one of anxiety and care for others; that she was indeed a lonely orphan. The dress she now wore was one of the deepest mourning, having but a few months since buried her mother, whom she had supported by her exertions. Mrs. Perry assured me that she had never met with a more beautiful character, so full of depth and selfdenial. She was anxious to hear what I knew of Captain Manners, and I am sure I need not tell all I said of my dear old friend.

"Well," remarked Mrs. Perry, when I finished my panegyric, "he is not a whit too good for Mary Ryder."

It was not many months before I received an invitation to the wedding, which took place from the Perrys' house Mr. Perry took a father's place, and gave away the bride. I did

not go to the bridal party, but a few months after I spent a week with the happy couple in their new home. It was the first of many happy visits, and I now class Mrs. Manners among my dearest friends. Everything that wealth can purchase surrounds them; but very often Captain Manners says to me, "Of what value would all this be to me but for that warm heart that beats responsive to my own, and those bright eyes that seek out, and those ready hands that minister to my every want."

May health and happiness attend the two, who, alone in the world, have thrown their lots together.

From this cheerful picture I went at once to a far different one. An imploring letter reached me from Mabel Olver. She was in sorrow,

and I bastened to her side.

Young in years, she was old in sorrow. Into the ten years since her marriage was concentrated the misery of a life-time. She was like the tendril of an ivy-plant; she had so long clung to some stronger arm for support and succor, that, when made to depend on herself all her clinging tenderness rejected with coldness and disdain-the sweetness and amiability of her character shrivelled and died away. Mr. Olver had lately begun to neglect her society entirely, and became as much noted as a roue, as he formerly had been for steadiness and decorum.

Mabel fretted and sorrowed until her health, never robust, gave way, and it was to her death-bed that I was summoned; and here, in

her darkened chamber, left alone to the care of hirelings, (with the exception of an occasional visit from the one who, for the love of selfgratification, had stolen her affections from him to whom they were pledged, and had promised to love and cherish her in sickness and in health), a lesson might have been learnt that would save hundreds of women from misery, hopelessness and degradation. Yes, it might teach many young people who are so eager to be married, that there is much beside wealth or position to be regarded in the choice of a companion for life ;-that there must be a suitability of age and temper, and a similarity of tastes and feelings; without which, the life before them will be but an irksome bondage.

Poor Mabel! I remained with her until death had forever stilled the heart that had once beat so joyously, and hushed the voice that had brought gladness to Everleigh Manor in the long days past. It is frequently the lot of the aged to see the young and the loved ones fall around them to brave the Autumn, and await the Winter; but beyond is the gladdening prospect of the long, bright and everlasting Spring.

BURNS.

HIS LOVE-TRYSTS.

Robert Burns, the plowman-bard of Scotland was born in an humble cottage on the banks of the Doon, in the county of Ayr, on the 25th day of January, 1759.

For

He was born a very poor man's son. the first six or seven years of his life, his father was gardner to a worthy gentleman of small estate, in the neighborhood of Ayr, when he rented a small farm on his estate. When Burns was about thirteen years of age this gentleman died, the farm proved a ruinous bargain, and, to clench the misfortune, the elder Burns and his family fell into the hands of a scoundrel factor, whose insolent threatening letters used to set them all in tears. The cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing toil of a gally slave, brought him to his sixteenth year. "You know," he says in a letter to Dr. Moore, "our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labors of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself; she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass; and altogether unwittingly to herself she initiated me in that delicious passion which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin