on the other hand, many were bound to the soil, and many were slaves, bought, sold, or given away. To describe, however, the various degrees of dependence in which the lower classes lived is impossible; for their state naturally varied considerably with the characters of their masters.

The arts and sciences had not hitherto had much chance of flourishing in Hungary. Of the former, architecture is the only one which had made any progress. The churches were the finest buildings, and were built in the Gothic style; but whatever they were, the Turks destroyed nearly all. The principal church of Buda, still existing, was built in Béla's time, as was also the Chapel of St. Anna at Stuhlweissenburg. But the most important ancient building of Hungary is the Cathedral of Kassa (Kaschau) begun in the reign of István V. Education too had been hindered by the various troubles; but there were schools at the convents, and at the Bishop's Sees, as well as seminaries for the clergy at Raab and Gran. Veszprém was indeed an university in all but the right to confer academical degrees, which was claimed exclusively by Paris and Bologna. Books were very expensive luxuries, still there were libraries at the Royal Court, in the Bishops' palaces, the monasteries, and higher schools; but private persons possessed very few books, and these chiefly legends of the saints and writings of the ascetics. The most expensive book of all was the Latin translation of the Bible, partly on account of the extreme care and accuracy required in transcribing it, but also from the illuminations with which it was enriched. It is recorded that a noble who had borrowed a Bible from the Convent of Csatár, having unfortunately lost it, gave a village and a half to the convent as compensation. The title of Magister or master was much venerated, and was taken by all who could read, write, and speak the customary Latin; but of course the chief education was still to be found among the monks and clergy; and all who wished for greater learning or who aspired to the great dignities of the Church, were obliged to go to Paris or Bologna. Indeed, towards the end of the century, a society was established at Gran, for defraying the expenses of poor students who wished to go thither. There were but few authors; for all, even the clergy, were too much absorbed by politics and the management of their estates, to have leisure or inclination for quiet pursuits. Rogerius, Canon of Grosswardein, wrote the 'Carmen Miserabile,' a description of the devastation of Hungary by the Mongols; a Bishop wrote a short history of Attila; and a Dominican wrote a description of Brother Julian's expedition in search of the old home of the Magyars. The King's chaplains also wrote a few chronicles, and no doubt many other private individuals committed their thoughts as well as the events of their times to writing, but the greater part of these works have perished. All wrote in Latin, which was now used in conducting public affairs, the Magyar language being reserved for private life.

'Indeed, Ed, we must not light a candle before five o'clock.'

'Pish!'

'Oh please, Edgar, don't stir the fire. If you knew how few coals there are!'

'Stuff!'

'No, I won't have it done if Wilmet says not;' and Felix reared up in the gloom, and struggled with his brother.

'Felix-Edgar- Oh, don't.'

'Hsh-sh- Now you girls are worse than all, screaming in that way.' A few moments silence of shame. It had been a weary, long, wet day, a trial under any circumstances to eleven people under seventeen on the 4th of January, and the more oppressive in St. Oswald's Buildings, because not only had their father been in a much more suffering state for some days past, but their mother, who had hoped to keep up for some weeks longer, had for the last two days been quite unlike herself. In the sick room she was as tender and vigilant as ever in her silent way, but towards her children a strange fretful impatience had set in, almost a jealousy of their coming near their father, and an intolerance of the least interruption from them even for the most necessary cause. Moreover, the one friend and helper who had never failed them before, Mr. Audley, had not been seen since he had looked in before early service; and altogether the wretchedness and perplexity of that day had been such, that it was no wonder that even Felix and Wilmet had scarcely spirits or temper for the only task that seemed at present left them, the hindering their juniors from making themselves obnoxious.

'Wilmet, do you think we shall go to the party at Centry Park?' reiterated Fulbert.

'Do hold your tongue about that! I don't believe there's the least chance,' said Alda fretfully.

'And I don't know how you can think of such a thing,' added Cherry. 'I want to see Cousin Marilda's Christmas Tree,' whined Robina. 'Do ask Mamma again,' entreated another voice.

'I shall do no such thing,' said Wilmet, with absolute crossness in her tone.

Robina began to cry.

'Come here, Bobbie,' said Cherry's voice in the dark end of the room; 'I'll tell you a story.'

'I know all Cherry's stories, and they're rubbish,' said Fulbert. 'This is quite a new one. There was once a little match girl—' 'Bosh! I know that little brute, and I hate her,' broke in Fulbert. 'Hold your tongue,' said Clement; but

'Oh no, don't let us have the match girl,' cried several voices.

'Why can't you be good? There was once an old giant that lived in a cave-'

'I hate old giants,' said Cherry's critical public; and her voice grew melancholy.

He

'But this one had but one eye. Come, do listen; Papa told me. was in an island-' but the voice grew mournful, and was broken by a cry.

'Oh! Fulbert hurt me!'

'Fulbert, for-shame! What is it, Angel dear?'

'I only laid hold of her pudding arm,' growled Fulbert. 'Oh! I say, Felix, that's too bad!'

'Hold your row, I say,' said Felix, after his application of fist law. 'Hollo! what's that?' and he sprang to his feet with Angela in his arms, as the door was opened by a hand groping, and Mr. Audley's voice said, 'Darkness visible.'

There was a general scrambling up all over the floor, and Edgar rushed across to light a candle. Wilmet alone had not stirred, as Bernard lay asleep across her lap. The flash of the match revealed a mass of light disordered heads, and likewise a black figure in the door-way.

'Here is a kind helper for you, Wilmet,' said Mr. Audley, 'from St. Faith's, at Dearport. You must call her Sister Constance.'

Wilmet did rise now, in some consternation, lifting her little brother, whose hand was still in the locks, the tangling of which had been his solace. There was a sweet warm kiss on her brow, and her lost net was picked up, her hair coiled into it by a pair of ready tender hands, but she faltered, 'Oh, thank you. Does Mamma know?'

'She was there when I got a sort of consent from your father,' said Mr. Audley.

'She has not said a word,' said Alda, half resentfully. We have hardly been in all day except just to fetch and carry.'

'Never mind,' said the Sister, 'it is much better that she did not think about it. Now, my dear, don't! I won't have anything done for me. You don't know how we Sisters sleep on nothing when we do sleep.'

'But you'll have some tea,' said Alda, the only smooth-haired one of the party.

'When you do, perhaps, thank you. Will you come to me, my dear?' relieving Felix from Angela. 'What is your name?' and the child, though ordinarily very shy, clung to her at once; while she, moving over to Cherry, found her in tears, shook up her cushion, arranged her rug, and made her comfortable in a moment. A sense came over them all that they had among them a head on whom they might rest their cares; and as the black bonnet and veil were taken off, and they saw a sweet fair motherly face beaming on them from the white plain bordered cap, they gathered round with an outpouring of confidence, small and great, while Mr. Audley went up-stairs to announce what he had done. He presently returned, saying, 'All right! Perhaps you had better come up at once.'

There they sat, on either side of the hearth, he pillowed up, and in a dressing-gown, more entirely the sick man than he had ever before given up himself to be. Mrs. Underwood rose, and with tears in her eyes, mutely held out her hand, while her husband at once recognized Sister Constance as Lady Herbert Somerville, the wife of the late Rector of Dearport.* He had last met her, when some six or seven years before, he had been invited to preach at festivals at Dearport, and had seen her the sunbeam of her house. He knew that her husband, who was a connexion of Mr. Audley's, had since died of the same malady as his own, and had left her, a childless widow, together with all else he had to leave, to the Sisterhood they had already founded in the sea-port town. But his greeting was, 'This is very good in you; but surely it must be too painful for you.'

"The Superior saw how much I wished it,' she said.

'You are like Alexandrine de la Ferronays,' he said, remembering her love for tending a consumptive priest for her husband's sake.

'I am always wishing that I were!' she said.

So they perfectly understood each other; and poor Mrs. Underwood, who had in her new and extraordinary petulance, fiercely resisted the doctor's recommendation of a nurse, found herself implicitly relying on and trusting Sister Constance with a wonderful sense of relief—a relief perhaps still greater to the patient himself, who had silently endured more discomforts, and made more exertions than she knew, rather than tire her or vex her by employing even son or daughter, and who was besides set free from some amount of anxiety.

Indeed, the widow had too perfect a sympathy to interfere with the wife's only comfort. When it could safely be done, she left the two alone together, and applied herself to winning the hearts and soothing the spirits of the poor children down-stairs, and suggesting and compounding new nourishing delicacies.

* Our earlier readers have a still prior acquaintance, if they remember 'The Castle Builders' in our first and second volumes.

She even persuaded Mrs. Underwood to go to the next room for a night's rest while she sat up, and learnt-what the silent wife had never told anyone-how trying the nights were even to that cheerful spirit! At first the patient liked to talk, and drew out much of the hidden treasure of her spirit respecting her husband, who though ailing for years, had finally passed away with only the immediate warning of a week—the final cause being harass from the difficulties from those above and below him, that beset an earnest clergyman of his way of thinking.

What struck her, as it did all, was Mr. Underwood's perfect absence of all care, and conviction that all the burthen was taken off his hands. Her own husband had, as she could not help telling him, found it hard to resign himself to leaving his plans half carried out to instruments which he had but half formed. He had wished with all his might to live, and though he had resigned himself dutifully, it had been with a real struggle, and a longing for continued service rather than rest, a hope that he should more efficiently serve, and much difficulty in refraining from laying all about him under injunctions for the future.

Mr. Underwood half smiled. 'I am neither head nor principal,' he said. 'Plans have been over long ago. I am only tired out, too tired to think about what is to follow. If I live three days longer, I shall have just had my forty years in the wilderness, and though it has blossomed like a rose, I am glad to be near the rest.'

And then he asked for the Midnight Office; and afterwards came fitful sleep, half dreamy, half broken by the wanderings of slight feverishness and great weakness; but she thought her attendance would not be very brief, and agreed mentally with what Mr. Audley had told her, that the doctor said that the end might yet be many weeks away. When in the dark winter's morning the wife crept back again to her post, and all that could be done in those early hours had been effected, Sister Constance went to the half-past seven o'clock service with Felix and Clement, imparting to them on the road that the Superior of St. Faith's was expecting to receive some of the least of the children in the course of the day, to remain there for the present.

Both boys declared it would be an infinite relief, but they doubted exceedingly whether either father or mother would consent to lose sight of them, since the former never failed to see each child, and give it a smile and kiss if no more. If they were to be sent, Felix supposed there was no one but himself to take them; nobody with whom they would be happy could be spared, nor did he shew any repugnance to the notion of acting pere de famille to three babies on the railway.

It was quickly settled. Mr. Underwood at once confessed the exceeding kindness, and declared it to be much better for everybody. 'Do you not feel it so, Mother?'

She bent her head in assent, as she did to all he said.

Having them back will be good for you,' he added persuasively; and again she tried to give a look of response. So they were brought