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in what was wrong-had made confession before their fellow-beings, and had asked forgiveness of God, and so had set their faces honestly the right way, determined with His help to pursue that course for the future.

Under these circumstances Margaret made her appearance amongst the girls, no longer with a cloud upon her brow, but with that open, confiding smile which made its way at once to every honest and feeling heart. If some who had been her most determined enemies stood back a little, this smile invited them to come, without a shadow of doubt or fear. It assured them that on her part all was peace and confidence and good-willthat the past was put away as if it never had existed, and thus they were all one now in girlish love and mutual faith.

It takes off a little from the romance of this scene to say that Margaret was nearly borne down by embraces, smothered with kisses, and crushed out of all fashionable shape; but such is not unfrequently the best part of human life,-when we cannot look into a glass and say that the picture is at its best, but-oh, happy time!-when we do not care whether it is or not!

Margaret was in her element now. Not receiving apologies-that was not her wish; not even receiving explanations-Miss Clare had explained all,-but sharing the general good-will, the general cheerfulness, an honest and hearty joy, arising out of feelings which none need blush to own-feelings congenial to youth, and to all that youth can most depend upon for its future happiness and

welfare.

It was pleasant, with companions in this frame of mind, to roam about the well-remembered walks and grounds; and though there were reasons why the busy talkers could not say much about the more immediate past which they had shared together, they managed to talk about a thousand familiar and amusing things, without treading upon dangerous ground; for all understood that the more painful portions of their mutual experience were not to be entered upon with Margaret; and perhaps her friends never loved her better than when they found

that such was her wish-that she had not come back to preach a sermon to them, not even to tell them how wrong they had been, nor how much they had made her suffer,but to rejoice with them, and to thank God for the happy change.

There were a few amongst the girls, however, to whom this was not enough. They felt too keenly how deeply they had wronged a noble and generous nature, and they could not pass over in silence this their first, and perhaps their last, opportunity of making what atonement was in their power. To them it seemed like a confirmation of their wrong not to speak openly to Margaret, and at least acknowledge their fault..

But sufficiently assured before-hand of the altered state of their feelings, it was painful to Margaret to hear the confession of these girls; only, remembering that in their place she herself would never have been satisfied without confessing, she bore their acknowledgments as well as she could, not making light of what they had done-that would have been against her own convictions,-but putting the matter away with all kindness and tenderness, and making them feel that it must henceforth be a closed page in their mutual history, only to be opened to the eye of God.

At the same time Margaret frankly took some blame to herself, and spoke openly and candidly of an abrupt, unpleasant manner that she had somewhat dictatorial, perhaps, and often too impatient of wrong.

She

would endeavour to correct it, she said, for she felt the unpleasant effect of such a manner in others, and ought to be on her guard against it herself.

And thus the matter ended, under the shady trees of that school garden. It ended there so far as to its being talked about as a grievance or a wrong; but if we could trace out the different histories of those most concerned in it, we might possibly see that the end was in honourable lives, in right and noble government of households and families, and in living and dying thankfulness for having been taught, though severely, the inestimable benefit of holding by what is just and right and true, even in little things.

In this manner Margaret's pleasant visit was closed, and a happier season has perhaps seldom been experienced than that which served the good end of healing the wounds received in her school-life.

So complete, indeed, was her satisfaction, so full her cup of joy, that she forgot for awhile the troubles, or rather the one trouble, which awaited her on returning to her friends at Eastwick. Here her relatives were again comfortably settled in their old quarters, when Margaret arrived, and Agnes Godwin was expected soon to join the social circle.

Archy Dunlop was now considered to have regained his health, and was perhaps as strong and well as he was ever likely to be, with a lameness which had now become a settled malady, and which, besides the inconvenience and pain it caused him, was a source of greater mortification to the sufferer than any of his friends would have anticipated. The fact was, they had never known the real force of that innate desire to be admired and loved, which lurked in the boy's heart, and which, as in all such cases, never so strongly developed itself as when he was in danger of losing ground in the opinion of his friends.

Archy was now also just at that age when personal appearance is of the greatest importance to a youth-when to be manly, active, and graceful in all movements and exercises is one of the first points of consideration, and when simply to look well is something, especially in the eyes of women. Agnes was coming home too, not only the beautiful girl he had seen her six months ago, but polished into a London young lady, accustomed to society, and, in short, in all respects what is generally understood by a charming and accomplished woman. What would Agnes think of him—a poor, sickly, limping fellow? She was kind and gentle -perhaps she would not mind-perhaps she would sit beside him, and read to him on summer evenings, when he was unable any longer to take rambling walks with her upon the cliff, or along the seashore. Perhaps she would not mind his lameness. He did not think it altered his appearance much, and not at all when he remained quiet.

And, then, poor Archy, with a sudden rush of thought, would go back to scenes of youthful enterprise, in which, if not the most alert, he was always active and merry. Nor was this all, nor by any means the worst; for by a similar rebound of feeling he would go back to scenes of innocence and happinesss, before he had anything to conceal, or had learned the miserable art of appearing to be what he was not. The difference now was such, that it made him shudder. He felt like one who had fallen from a height, and could not recover himself-who had dropped out of some fair region of pure air and sunshine and verdure, down into darkness and bad air and disease and misery. And for what?

Then Archy would mentally shake himself, as if from a bad dream, and try to think it was half fancy, or morbid feeling, or over-sensitiveness, or merely the result of long confinement and want of accustomed exercise; and then he lost himself in pleasant thoughts again, for was not Agnes coming home? Yes, many and many were the pictures, very fair and very sweet, which Archy painted as he lay thinking and dreaming upon his couch alone; and as his health improved, and he had less to suffer-yet at the same time was compelled to be still-his imagination took the active part, and did work enough for any amount of strength, if only it had been useful work, or likely to issue in any kind of good.

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In joining her friends at Eastwick, it was a great object with Margaret not to appear curious about the unpleasant reports which her aunt assured her were so far authenticated as to place Harry Dunlop entirely beyond the pale of acquaintanceship to her, or to any of them. "Except, as Mrs. Anderson said, "the Godwins might perhaps consider it an act of Christian duty not to cast him of. Clergymen, you know," she said, "must do many things in the of duty, which other people cannot do, and ought not to attempt."

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And still Margaret was kept in the dark as to the actual facts of the case. Still she would not encourage her aunt to explainstill she would not stoop to make inquiries

of the common gossips of the place, and still she shrank from asking even kind Mrs. Godwin herself. Mr. Godwin, she observed, seldom if ever mentioned Harry's namethat in itself was a bad symptom. Archy seemed to know nothing, and of course suspected nothing. His intercourse with the people of the place was necessarily very limited, and unless the Godwins should make him acquainted with the stories told about his brother, it was not likely that they would ever reach his ear.

"Some day," said Margaret, "I will know all, even if I ask Mrs. Godwin myself;" and if she shrank from making the inquiry at once, it was from no misgiving in her own mind that her friend had been guilty of any act of moral culpability. "He has only been doing some of his old rash acts," she said to herself, "setting public opinion at defiance, and bringing blame upon himself for nothing. Perhaps some wild sea enterprise has kept him out late at night, or he has been seen in the company of strange people-fishermen or sailors. Something of that kind must have brought these unaccountable suspicions upon him, for that Harry has been wicked or mean I never will believe."

The real charges brought against Harry Dunlop were such as Margaret never would have dreamed of, still less could have believed; and yet they were just such as no one could contradict, or clear him from. They would have been no very improbable charges to bring against many young men, and it required a very intimate knowledge of Harry, and a thorough acquaintance with his character, for any one who heard them under present circumstances to reject them. as entirely untrue.

It would scarcely have been in keeping with a character like Mrs. Godwin's to avoid speaking on any subject closely interesting to Margaret and herself. Even had the subject worn a darker aspect than this did to her, she would have been almost sure to speak, unless indeed it had been one of confirmed disgrace and shame; and as it was her general practice to find out the bright points in every picture, and the hope

ful indications in every case, there were few subjects on which she did not speak with her intimate friends, and sometimes she spoke both warmly and eloquently.

Thus, the very first time that Margaret was alone with Mrs. Godwin, and likely to be so for a considerable length of time, the' subject which was upon both their hearts was fairly entered upon, soon, however, to be interrupted by Margaret's earnest exclamation,-"But what is it, my dear Mrs. Godwin? I do not so much as know what all this is about."

"Not know?" exclaimed her friend, with the utmost astonishment.

"No; I would neither ask my aunt, nor allow her to tell me."

"You are a strange girl! Why, I thought you took a deep interest in Harry Dunlop." "So I do. Perhaps too deep to sit still and hear him abused."

"Oh, I understand you now! Well, you' remember Tom Lawson, a young farming man that Mr. Dunlop took away with him? He was engaged to a smart pretty girl, the niece of James Halliday, the fisherman who lives down in the little bay yonder-not a good man, and one whom I suspect of being at the root of all this mischief."

"What does he say? I know James Halliday, and have seen his niece, who appeared to me a respectable, nice kind of girl."

"Yes, altogether respectable; no one can say anything to the contrary. And observeit is not a case of open wickedness which they attempt to bring forward, or we might all have joined to contradict it; but of treachery and deception."

"Such as Harry Dunlop never would, nor could, be guilty of!"

"So I say, and I say it the more confidently because I do not believe that treachery and deception ever come at once. I believe there is always some preliminary failure of principle, or weakness of character, or something of that kind, to indicate the probability of deception before it occurs to any considerable extent; and Harry Dunlop was clear as the day, like a rock in his firmness and decision-almost too bold

and stern in his integrity: nothing could shake him-nothing could make him yield. But for all that, appearances are against him. There is no doubt but that he was seen more than once walking with Nelly Armstrong, deeply absorbed in some kind of confidential intercourse; and the report goes in this way-that while planning to get the girl over to Canada, ostensibly to join her affianced husband, Tom Lawson, he has been secretly scheming to get her over to be his own wife,"

"Absurd! impossible!"

"Yes, I say absurd, and impossible, too; but then he was seen walking with Nelly late on the cliff, he was a frequent visitor at her uncle's cottage, he was seen in earnest conversation with her late on the evening before you and Agnes left to return to school."

"On that evening?" exclaimed Margaret, earnestly, and she remembered almost instantaneously all that took place-her long walk with Harry on the seashore that evening, not only what they had talked about, but the very tones of his voice-his lookseverything-even to the slightest expression which had been associated in her mind with that memorable evening; and was it possible, she thought, woman-like, that he could have walked with another girl after that-a very

different girl from herself, and could have carried on a conversation such as these people described?

Margaret had no proof to the contrary. Harry Dunlop had never written to her. Even in the close and interesting communion of mind with mind, or rather of soul with soul, which had marked their intercourse that evening, and made it memorable, he had said nothing to her except as friend might speak to friend. He had given her no pledge by which she might hold him under any especial bond to herself. He was free, as regarded her, to speculate upon any wife that might suit his heart and home. And yet there was undeniably a something, which it would have been impossible for her to define, which made this story, if true, assume an air of meanness in him, and of treachery to her.

If true! Margaret was shocked, grieved, disturbed, perhaps, beyond what she had ever been in her life before; but after looking thoughtfully upon the ground for some time, she raised her clear eyes, and fixing them full upon Mrs. Godwin's face, said calmly, but firmly, "I don't believe it."

"No more do I," said the cheery little woman, and they walked on together more happily, talking pleasantly of other things.

THE HOME LIFE OF H.R.H. THE PRINCE CONSORT.

"We know him now, all narrow jealousies
Are silent and we see him as he moved:
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise—
With what sublime repression of himself;--
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
And blackens every blot."

NE summer's day, nearly thirty years ago, there was a grand ceremony at Westminster. Men talked of it in lands severed by half the circumference of the globe. It absorbed the thoughts of millions throughout the British Isles. The sceptre of these realms had fallen from the grasp of our grey-haired sailor King, and been taken up by a young and gentle girl. Not the gorgeous

equipages, the State pageantry, nor yet the imposing grandeur of the vast multitudes. chiefly arrested attention-it was her fair, calm face that was the sight most coveted as she then passed to her coronation. Manly eyes moistened as they watched it on her progress to the great Abbey, and as she returned, her smoothly-banded hair crowned with the diadem of England, Christian hearts swelled with an emotion such as Christianity approves. For loyalty is no earth-born sentiment. The King immortal and invisible does not borrow from, but lends His titles to, mundane princes. His relationships to us are only reflected by our relationships to each other.

Two years later, the great Dover road was thronged with spectators, for railways were yet in their infancy. The fair lady who wore the Imperial crown of these realms was about to share so much of its burden as was per mitted to her with a young German Prince of the Protestant line of Saxony; and again the multitudes had gathered for a momentary sight of a single face. That face was one to photograph itself on the memory. It bespoke a cultivated intellect, a gentle heart, and dignified firmness of character. The sweet gravity of its expression, indicating a sense of the responsibility about to be assumed, was welcome to all who valued the happiness of the Queen and the welfare of the country.

Years sped on, and the opening promise of "twain lives made one," was developed in the Home Life of a Royal Household, which presented such a picture of "whatsoever things are pure, lovely, and of good report," that the nation's loyalty, advancing far beyond the principle of allegiance to the throne, deepened into a feeling of almost personal attachment and affection towards the Queen and her Hus band.

The royal pair became a notable pattern of those private and domestic virtues which, next to the "righteousness" which "exalteth a people," are the truest elements of a nation's strength and prosperity. Those who bear in mind how demoralising and wide-spread must be the influence which the profligacy of a Royal Court necessarily exerts, are able to appreciate the reformation in social and family life which the Queen and her Consort so powerfully promoted in the land.

From the very first, the princely character of Albert was manifest. Called at an early age to fill a most difficult position, he shunned on the one hand the fashionable vices and frivolities of youth, and on the other the ensnaring temptations of political ambition. He chose a path of his own, which has for ever associated his name with the progress of his adopted country, in manufactures, agriculture, selence, and the fine arts; and, what is far more important, identified him with every philanthropic and educational movement of the age. Of course he did not always please all. No man in such a position could entirely escape either the jealousies in which even the great sometimes indulge, or the vulgar detraction which is natural to the mean. But throughout his career the voice of jealousy or detraction was very seldom able to make itself

heard, and when it did succeed, it was instantly silenced by the nation's expression of indignant reprobation.

But however appreciated whilst living, it was not till that sad morning when the shock of grief fell upon every heart and home in the land, and eyes that had scarcely ever been dim with tears, overflowed for their Queen, in the desolating bitterness of her great bereave, ment-it was not till then that England could really know and feel how much she owed to the wise counsel and conduct of her noble Prince. The telegraphic communication which, on that Sabbath morning, stilled the voice of prayer in so many Christian temples for one who needed prayer no more, aroused and quickened the pulsations of the national heart: and that heart, throbbing in closest sympathy with the sorrow of the best of earthly sove. reigns, bespoke, in language which could not be misunderstood, the sense of a loss which the country felt could scarcely be over-estimated.

Since the hour of this great sorrow, years have again sped on, and we may truly say, whilst time has fled, our Queen in her widowed loneliness, whether in her household or upon her throne, has not been less queenly than before. We know there have been those who have found occasion for censure in Her Majesty's partial retirement from the world's gay circle-where grief is so often disguised from the eye, but continues nevertheless as a canker-worm to feed on the heart. But even that retirement, we doubt not, has had its influence for good: and whilst Christian loyalty may and ought to prompt the earnest prayer that the light of another world may increasingly dispel the sorrowful recollections connected with happiness in this which has passed away, filling their place with the anticipations of hope looking forward to a reunion above, and so bracing the mind for active service till the appointed time, it should ever be remembered that Her Majesty's partial retirement must be regarded as a personal matter, in which her own judgment alone could guide her; and, moreover, we must also admit that hitherto this retirement has never been

allowed, in any single instance, to interfere with the faithful discharge of the royal duties incumbent upon her. Her walk in life may have been less public than it would otherwise have been, but perhaps it has not on that account been less influential. The "outward pomp and circumstance" of royalty, after all,

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