was true happiness arising from pure religious motives, and from the opportunities of doing good. Her own short life had been hitherto frittered away in foolish indulgences and thoughtless levity. She now felt the full force of the danger she had run, and from which she had been rescued by the high principles as well as the affection of him she was so proud to call her husband. She was anxious to render herself more worthy of him, and with strong natural abilities this was not difficult; and her mind improved as well as her beauty. With great buoyancy of spirits, she delighted her kind friends by her playful and affectionate manner towards them, and entered into their little plans and pursuits with a degree of hilarity and joyousness, which were equally pleasing and new to them. She was now no longer called Isidora. Perhaps the vicar thought the name savoured a little of She was therefore called Dora, as he said she was a gift sent to them for their happiness and delight; and so we shall in future call her.

romance.

It must not be supposed that the vicar's adventures in Spain were a secret in his parish. The circumstance of his having witnessed a battle, and indeed of having himself been under fire, had become known; and though some of the honest farmers might have thought he should have shown

a little more prudence, still, on the whole, his parishioners looked upon him, if possible, with more respect than before. The vicar, himself, was a little proud of his exploits, and was rather prone to exaggerate his danger before his wife, that he might witness her alarm, and hear her exclamations of wonder. The good lady would, indeed, talk with a neighbour, in confidence, of what her husband had seen and done, and always finished by remarking that he was not like other persons.

Year after year thus passed along, and the gazettes were read in which Henry was honourably mentioned, and letters were received from him, all of them speaking of the pleasure he anticipated in joining them at the vicarage. Dora, in the meanwhile, was beauty personified. The exercise she took-the air of the country-her regular and peaceful hours, which anxiety for her husband had alone disturbed, gave her a bloom, freshness, and elasticity, very different from her appearance when she first arrived at the vicarage. The poor looked upon her as a being almost too good for this world. She would sit in their cottages, and play with and sing to the children; or comfort the mourners, and relieve those in distress. She had a kind word for every one, and her kindness was amply repaid when her husband was spoken of and praised. She then

enjoyed her purest happiness, increased only when a letter arrived announcing his speedy return. And what joy was Dora's.

"And will he love me now," she thought as she looked in the glass, and fancied how much her face had been tanned by the sun. "And this plain dress, so different from those he saw me wear in Spain; and then I am so much older. But what is that" as she looked out of her window-"it is a chaise-it is Henry"and in an instant she was in his arms. And how fondly did he gaze upon her! Virtue, and truth, and goodness, all united to perfect her beauty; and he looked gratefully on the vicar and his wife, feeling how much he was indebted to them for the change he saw. It was, indeed, a change, more apparent to him who had not seen Dora for three years, than to those who had gradually witnessed its developement.

Need it be said that Dora was happy. Her husband had returned, pale indeed from recent suffering, but with brightened prospects, and with those honours which his ever straight-forward conduct and courage had procured for him. During the month he was enabled to stay at the vicarage, there never was a happier party, and when he and Dora were obliged to quit it, it was with a promise that the party should assemble soon in

London, where Henry's new duties obliged him to reside.

The story is now nearly concluded. During a protracted life, the good vicar and his wife received the reward of their disinterested kindness, by the love, affection, and constant attention, of the orphan they had once fostered. He afforded a bright example that adversity is not without its blessings; that unusual benevolence is not always to be set down as the mere exercise of enthusiastic feeling; and that sound religious principles and good conduct will generally meet with their reward.

EVERYTHING in Eton and around it, is full of interest. On approaching it, the first thing which strikes a stranger is the gothic chapel, a handsome structure, with its fine buttresses, and beautiful windows. The mind then instantly reverts to the many eminent men, who, through a succession of ages, have either sat within its walls, or been buried in its vaults. Amongst these, Sir Henry Wotton is, perhaps, the first brought to recollection, not only on account of his talents and learning, but because the good Izaac Walton was