of their long and interesting conversations, as well as quicken their gratitude to Providence for the especial protection he appeared to afford the being most dear to both of them.

Nor did Lucy want for matter in her voluminous replies, for, with an affectionate girl, it is "out of the abundance of the heart that the mouth (or rather the pen) speaketh." She sent him nothing certainly in the shape of news, yet how did he devour every precious word of those read and re-read letters, the more welcome because they contained only the details of the fire-side she was guarding with the constancy of a Penelope during his

absence.

It is true that she occasionally wished to have the power granted to lovers of old, of consulting that celebrated spring of Lycia, or rather, the oracle of Thixeus Apollo, situated near it, and where all good and bad fortune was foretold, to learn exactly when George would return; but as that was denied her in these more matter-of-fact days, she was obliged to be content with reading, and with what a proud rapture, his rapid promotion, in the gazette. Ah! she knew not at what a cost that promotion was purchased! She knew not that true to his resolve of "achieving greatness," he had rashly volunteered in the vanguard, forming the forlorn hope of the company to which he belonged, always composed, alas! of "enfans perdus," as the French emphatically call them, the party being determined to take a town by storm, at all rates certain that it will lead to promotion or death; and, as in too many cases, the young men recklessly observe, they shall then be provided for. Glory was the sole aim of George—to win a name to place in competition with the "filthy lucre" he could not drudge, and plod, and slave to obtain, and thus render himself Lucy's equal.

"Comrade after comrade fell before the fire of the enemy-the young, the loving, and the loved-still did he persevere in making one of the ladder party, with the section of the company to which he belonged, nothing daunted by the bristling cheveux de frise' of actual swords raised to oppose them;" when, after performing prodigies of valour, he fell, pierced with bullets, into a ravine.

The next gazette announced that Captain Thornton was coming to England on furlough for his health, and a private letter from a brother officer, to Mr. Jones, informed him when he might expect the invalid.

From morning to night after this intimation Lucy never quitted her scat at the window until the chaise which brought her adored George home again stopped at the door, when she bounded down stairs to welcome him; but, on catching a glimpse of his pallid cheeks and closed eyes, she shrieked "He's dead!" and fell into the arms of her uncle insensible. He was not dead, though; he had only fainted from the over-exertion in his debilitated state of

travelling too fast and far in one day, in his irrepressible eagerness to reach the precious ones who were to "pour wine and oil into his wounds."

Too truly had old Jones predicted that one campaign would suffice for him; he had returned a complete wreck, but with a name most resplendent on the annals of fame.

It was in vain that the more philosophical old gentleman exhorted the frantic Lucy to compose herself, assuring her that her anguish was selfish in the extreme, that if she really loved George she would feel it a paramount duty to conceal it, and endeavour, by her own cheerfulness, to revive his drooping hopes, and that if she did not he should establish himself as sole nurse, and forbid her to enter the room where he was. She promised to do all her really kind uncle wished, and did at last command her feelings wonderfully, but still, when he was not there to chide, and his own poor sunken eyes were closed upon her sorrow, she would allow tear after tear silently to steal down her now pale cheek as she contemplated the wasted form of him she so truly idolized-her once handsome, sanguine, light-hearted, buoyant George, as he lay almost inanimate before her on the sofa, by the side of which she daily took her seat, fearing he never, never could be the same again.

How would she kneel down by that sofa, and with his thin, cold hand unresistingly clasped between hers, bestow kiss after kiss in her lavish pity on those lips, now incapable of returning the precious boon, now almost insensible of it. It was wondrous that passionate girl's ardent embrace had not Promethean power to re-kindle the pulses of that languid heart to health and love again!

Then when he dozed she would turn to the faithful servant who helped to nurse him with her, and who had been wounded in the same engagement, although not so seriously, and make him repeat every act of bravery her George had performed, "giving him for his pains a world of sighs," even to the fortitude he had displayed under the doctor's hands, and the sweet dreams he had had of her in the delirium of fever. Then would Lucy steal on tip-toe to the side of her lover, to listen if he really slept, to imprint another and warmer kiss on the dear lips that in almost death still murmured fondly and lovelily of her.

Time, affection, patience, prayers, and piety at length restored him to health. Again he walked forth in his former manly beauty, before the eyes which actually worshipped his every movement; and on the very day on which he was gazetted major (for promotion was awfully rapid in the height of the war-alas! for the new-made widows attesting that melancholy fact) he also became a benedict, and walked up the centre aisle of the magnificent church of St. John with a step as elastic as the one with which he

had formerly bounded up the crazy keep of Carisbrook Castle, while his eye was as brilliant, and his cheek was as vivid, as on that memorable occasion. Nor did uncle Jones, in his snowy waistcoat, blue coat, and nankeen "irresistibles" (as poor Marie Antoinette used to call the culottes of the beaux garçons who composed her gay and elegant court, in her days of happiness and broken English) appear to have advanced an atom down the hill of life since his visit to the Isle of Wight, while Lucy looked so much younger and lovelier than ever that people could not help remarking," How is it that Miss Jones keeps her youth and beauty so unimpaired ?" C'est tout simple-le bonheur sied si bien, et George sait si mieux prodiguer cette parure-la on his sweet bride.

It was a dual matrimonial celebration, for George and Lucy were followed by Corporal Lakin and the house-maid, Susannah; he, like Corporal Trim, having found favour in her eyes by his eloquence and indirect compliments, as Trim had formerly, in her susceptible namesake's.

If George had forgotten to nod to her on the eventful morning of his departure, he did not forget it now, quite abashing her by the frequent and significant ones he bestowed on her-nay, winking too, she fancied, but whether the major did or not," she was certain sure her master did," which we verily believe, for such was the rude state of old Jones' spirits at thus, at last, accomplishing the dearest aim of his heart that it would not have surprised us if he had been guilty of the indecorum of winking at the grave and dignified divine who was sealing that aim by the indissoluble vows of love and innocence-or at all events, at the parish clerk !

HIDDEN THINGS.

THE summer sky is bright,
Fair is the summer night,

With her thousand spangles bright,
Hanging above.

Lovely are woodland bowers

Deck'd in their thousand flowers,

Sweet with their cherish'd dowers,
As the first words of love.

And ocean's varied hue,

Now clothed with heaven's own blue,
A lovely shroud!

THE PEER AND THE MENDICANT.

THE poor wandering exile, Maria Stuart, was blind and an outcast mendicant. She was, too, as the people said, a little touched in the head. Maria was once innocent, happy, and beautiful, and possessed eyes which spoke the language of truth and love.

On the very day she surrendered her virtue and honour she was struck blind with lightning!-awful day that to poor Maria! The unfortunate girl was soon discarded by her friends and relatives, and thrown upon the wide world an object of pity, destitution, and charity; yet did the child of sorrow experience a peace of mind consequent on inward rectitude. She knew the purity of her intentions; she felt she had been hardly dealt with.

The outcast became the mother of the infant Maria. A month after the birth of the child the parent again betook herself to wandering. She lived entirely upon charity. Suspended from her neck she wore a card on which was inscribed these words-"I am blind and in great distress."

Although divested of sight her countenance was most pleasing. A smile of contentment, mixed with sadness, was ever visible on her deeply interesting features.

Maria was passing through the village of Hampton, bearing her babe in her arms, as she heard the footsteps of horsemen approaching, when, as was her practice, she stood with her back to the wall till they passed by.

Presently the young Lord Lindon, accompanied by his groom, came up. They were returning from a hunting party. His lordship cast an eye on the pitiful object before him, and threw a piece of silver at her feet, which a little boy picked up and gave to Maria.

The young nobleman rode on musingly; he was thinking of the poor blind girl. His lordship's horse, as if conscious of his master's frame of mind, and willing to indulge him in his reverie, moved on with downcast head at the slowest possible pace. The groom kept his position behind, but took little or no heed of his master, for he was well used to these his lordship's melancholy moods.

"Blind and in distress," said Lindon to himself. "And yet," continued he," she positively looked happy. I observed a smile playing on her countenance as I passed. Good heavens! how

strangely do things fall out! The worthy are often in rags, hovels, and poverty; the unworthy in mansions, enjoy ng wealth