then hastily laid them down, in remembrance lights and shadows, the quiet made glad with of Aunt Mary's injunctions. 66 Oh, what a dear little hammer!" cried Arthur. Are you obliged to take that, Auntie?" he added, with a comical look, as if he did not think it quite the thing for a nurse. "You shall have it when I come back," she answered, replying to his thought; "and now go and look what a nice bath that is, and what a soft mattress. Aunt Ellen has had it made for me; and a great comfort it will be, I am sure! Here, too, are Aunt Ellen's pretty slippers, which she worked." * "Where are you going? May n't we go with you?" cried little May, when her aunt came into the school-room in her bonnet and shawl the day before the one on which she was to set out. "Not to-day, darling. I am not going far, and will soon be at home again," Aunt Mary answered, as she opened the French window and passed out. --- the cawings of rooks, and the distant sound of threshing corn. But even while she looked and looked, the outer present world began to fade away, and bygone days arose before her as vividly as if they had never passed away. In one short hour she lived through all her life, with its few sorrows and its many joys: the happiness she had tasted and the happiness she had lost - when he to whom she had given all the love of her young heart had passed away suddenly from her to sleep the sleep of death in his quiet grave beneath the shadow of the yew trees, whose dark evergreen branches were contrasting, strongly now, with the soft brown of the leafless elm-trees growing round that little churchyard. Yes; and I dare say Aunt Mary will give them away to the first poor soldier who wants them," said Arthur, "just as she did "We will not talk of things that are past," interrupted Aunt Mary, hastily. "And now, "Oh, what a comfort to feel that his noble my dears, you must go down stairs again, spirit, his loving heart, would have entirely while I take off my nurse's dress; so good-bye sympathized in such a work as this," thought to you all." Mary. "How would he have encouraged, in word and deed, those who are setting forth on this mission of love. Little, indeed, did I guess when he said to me, "Live on, dearest, for your work on earth is not yet ended," what that work would be! And yet if it please God to call me hence, even as he was called away in the midst of his work, and when his life seemed to be most valuable ?-oh, no one will ever be able to supply his place, no one will ever be to this village what he was." Thus she went on forgetting herself in thoughts "Not to-day--I must be alone to-day!" re- of him, until, rising from the terrace-seat, she peated Mary Vaughan to herself, as she walked walked on, and; opening a little gate, went up and down on the terrace, losing herself in along a narrow path, which led across the park thoughts of the past and of the future. That into the quiet churchyard. Ten years had terrace walk! how often would it recur to passed away since all that was mortal of Arthur her memory when far away - associated as it | Percy had been committed to the grave. But was with so many recollections, sad as well as his memory still shone brightly in the hearts happy, yet all equally sweet and cherished. of the many who loved him, and the hands There as a child she had played with her which would have delighted to minister to him brother and sister; there she had walked be- in life, were still employed in thoughtful loving side the failing steps of that dear mother, who care about his last resting-place. The first had so early left her children to mourn her loss rays of the morning sun shone upon his grave on earth, and there, under the shadow of the it was his own wish that he should be buried lime-trees, her mother had loved to sit and in a sunny, cheerful spot- and tipped with gaze upon the beautiful prospect stretching out golden light the edges of the stone-cross which before her. Rugged hill and brown moorland; stood at its head. No epitaph was needed to heaths as crimson in autumn with heather as tell what his life had been; it was deeply ensun-set lighted Alps; wooded glen and green graven in the hearts of all who had known hill side, a winding river and a picturesque him. Meeting at college in their student days, bridge; the little gray church half showing it- Henry Vaughan and Arthur Percy had formself from amongst the dark elms that over-ed a cordial attachment for each other, and on shadowed it; all could be seen from the seat the death of the rector of Merton, Mr. Vaugunder the limes. And, November day though han had given the living to Arthur as the it was now, Mary thought that she had never dearest friend of his son. Then followed halseen the landscape look more beautiful, as hill and valley, heath and moorland, wood, river, and pasture glided into brightness, or sank into shade, whilst the fleecy clouds went careering over the sky. Thankful was Mary from her very heart for the cheering influence of the day, for the pleasant breeze, the changing -- cyon days, days never to be forgotten by any of the family at the Hall. First came Henry's marriage with Arthur's sister, Edith; then, the birth of their first child Catherine, followed the next year by the birth of Reginald, the son and heir, but whose gladly-welcomed entrance into this world was the forerunner of a sad and 620 66 My own brave, darling sister," and Mrs Vaughan's peaceful, trustful look as she silently embraced her, amply repaid her for the exertion she had made; though so unselfish was she as to be scarcely conscious of the ef fort it had been to keep up for the sake of those beloved ones to whom, to-morrow, she was to bid a long farewell. * most unexpected blow. Reginald was born in the afternoon of a stormy December day, and by the time night came, his life was despaired of, and a messenger was sent to summon Arthur to baptize him. He went in all haste, neglecting to put on his greatcoat, caught cold, and in a week's time symptoms of consumption began to show themselves. No one was alarmed at first, and the preparations for the marriage between Arthur and Mary, which it Just as the church clock was striking six had been long fixed should take place immediately after Easter, still went on. But on the next morning, Mary Vaughan arose calm Easter morning Arthur's spirit passed away; and hopeful, and having finished all her preand it was with a mournful meaning that the parations the night before, she was able to family at the Hall ever afterwards addressed dress without hurry, and had time left to seek to each other the rejoicing Easter salutation: the composure which she felt she should need "Christ is risen indeed!" Yet Arthur never The gray morning light had just begun to seemed to have really died; and to hear the steal in at her window, and faint streaks of Vaughans speak of him, a stranger might red to show in the eastern sky, when the have fancied they were only talking of a dear sound of the church bell was heard rising friend who had gone from them for a time, through the still air. Mary opened her winbut whom they would be sure to meet again dow, and looked out. It was the calmest of unchanged. His spirit still dwelt amongst winter mornings; a soft mist was lying over them even the children, none of whom had the fields, and softening the outlines of the now leafless trees, whilst along the path which seen him, spoke fondly of "Uncle Arthur;" and they had no greater pleasure than to hang led through the park to the church-yard, she a garland of freshly-gathered flowers over the could see some of the villagers bending their cross which marked the place where he was steps towards the little church, there to join laid. It was still Mr. Vaughan's delight to go for the last time with her in the early service. "Thank God for this best of all supports on with the work which, under Arthur, had been so well begun in the village and at the and refreshments," she said to herself, as, putHall. He had been fortunate in meeting, in ting on her bonnet and cloak, she went quietly the clergyman whom he had appointed as Ar-down stairs into the hall, where Mr. and Mrs. thur's successor, one who was always ready to Vaughan, with the children and servants were follow his advice and carry out his plans, ready, waiting for her. A few words of mornthough wanting in power and energy to sug-ing greeting, and kisses to the children, and gest anything of himself; and this it was then they all set out, silent yet peaceful, and which had made Mary feel so keenly that no even happy. When they arrived at the little one would ever be able to supply Arthur's place. church, they found it full of people, and the sight of so many gathered together to pray with and for her, was almost too much for Mary's composure; but a few moments of unuttered prayer restored her to calmness, and For a few minutes she knelt beside his grave, looking rather upwards than onwards, and then, with a countenance full of resignation and a heart full of God's peace, she rose re-she was ready to join in the service. The freshed and strengthened, and returned to the Hall. children sat quietly in their accustomed places whilst the service proceeded. It was the first The last evening was spent calmly and qui- time they had ever been present at the adetly in the interchange of loving words and ministration of the Communion, but Mr. affectionate counsels. All the packing had Vaughan could not resist their entreaty to be been done the day before; the village children with Aunt Mary to the last; and he also felt had been to say their last good-bye, and Mary that to witness such a scene would be likely Never, indeed, had been that morning to pay her parting vis- to produce an impression on their minds never its to all her sick poor. Reginald, Arthur, afterwards to be effaced. and little May had begged hard to sit up an- could that morning be forgotten by any who other hour, as it was Aunt Mary's "last even- were present; the calm quietness which ing," and glad were their elders of the child- seemed to rest upon all who were assembled; ish prattle that prevented their minds from the dim light of the winter's morning strugdwelling on thoughts which, however much gling in at the narrow lancet windows, sober they might strive against it, could not but ing, yet not depressing the feelings of the have some sorrow in them. Mary herself was worshippers; the bonds of love and long inthe most cheerful of the whole party; and tercourse which united them all as in one when they separated for the night, Mr. Vau- family; all this, under the peculiar circumghan's whisper as he tenderly kissed her: stances of the case, was suflicient to stamp forever the recollections of that morning in the memories of all. that all of these were, and sans peur they seemed also, for not a shadow of doubt or anxiety could he trace upon any one of those animated countenances. The sun was dissipating the mists as the little party walked home, where a cheerful breakfast was set out in Aunt Mary's sitting So, indeed, appeared also to think Sir room. Beside her plate was placed the chil- George Dashwood, who, much to Mary Vaudren's usual morning offering of flowers, only ghan's delighted surprise, made his appearthis time, in addition to those which they had ance on the platform a few minutes after their gathered out of their own gardens, a few arrival. She had fancied that it would be imchrysanthemums and china roses, they had possible for him to leave Lady Dashwood, who begged some camelias and geraniums from the was daily expecting her confinement; but gardener, and Catherine had arranged them the instant she saw him, and glanced at the all in one large bouquet. After Aunt Mary radiant expression of his countenance, she had sufficiently admired the flowers, and said felt he had some pleasant tidings to impart, that they would cheer her during her journey and was quite prepared for his first rejoicing with many pleasant thoughts of the dear little words-"Ellen is doing very well. She bade givers, she packed them carefully in her bas-me come to you with her love and her fareket, and then they all sat down; the children, well blessing, and a kiss from her little son as usual, making talk for the elders, though and heir, born yesterday morning. I stayed too much excited to know very well what they with her till the evening, and then she made were saying. At last the sound of carriage- me leave her. I came to town by the nightwheels was heard, and Mr. Vaughan, looking mail, arrived only half-an-hour ago, and here at his watch, said he was afraid he must hasten I am." Then, glancing around him at the their departure. But Mary had another or- little band of nurses, all dressed in their gray deal to go through first. The servants had gowns and cloaks and brown bonnets, interall collected in the entrance hall, and some changing last words with their friends, he of her poor people were standing outside, smiled, and whispered in Mary's ear, “ You are waiting to give her their last good wishes and quite right, my dear, I give my full consent, their blessing. She felt inclined to shrink and revoke all my objections, for this is an arback when first she caught sight of them; gument I cannot resist." but ever more thoughtful of others than of herself, she instantly went forward, shaking one after another kindly by the hand, and saying, a few simple affectionate words to each. Then, after hastily kissing the children, who had borne up, as they had promised, “bravely to the last," and not daring to speak when Mrs. Vaughan pressed her in her arms, she got into the carriage, her brother jumped in after her, and the next moment they were on their way to the railway-station. It was late ere they arrived in town, and Mary went at once to her room, in order to snatch, if possible, a few hours' sleep before starting on her journey next morning. She had already arranged to join the other ladies, who were going out with her as nurses, at the station, and the hour fixed was half-past four o'clock. 66 Mary's only answer was a pleased, grateful smile. Her heart was too full to allow her to say anything. Moreover, her thoughts just now were all engaged about her darling sister, and the happiness which had been granted to her. The dear old Grange, how pleasant to think of the sound of children's voices cheering its quiet rooms once more," she said, to herself. God bless the little fellow, and make him a blessing to his parents." She was startled from her reverie, (for Sir George had turned from her to greet Mr. Vaughan, just returned from seeing Mary's box safely placed in the van,) by the sudden appearance on the platform of an elegantly-dressed and sweet looking young lady, who had come with bright smiles, and thoughtful gifts to bid the travellars God speed, and to cheer them with the inspiriting news that the Queen had desired If the scene in the quiet little church at Mer- her to say she took the warmest interest in ton, the morning before, had been impressive, what they were doing, and wished her Mr. Vaughan felt it was no less striking thing to also to signify to them the expression of her be driving through the dark and silent London highest approbation. The lady, well known streets at that early hour, and then, suddenly to all by the part which she had taken in diarriving at the brilliantly lighted station, to recting and superintending the undertaking, meet such a company there. The travellers had scarcely finished speaking, when the had already assembled, in number about fifty, warning bell began to ring, followed by the all attired in the same quiet, unobtrusive cry of Take your seats, ladies!" In a few costume; and Mr. Vaughan thought, whilst moments they were all comfortably arranged looking at them with anxious interest, that in their carriages; another bustling minute, proud as England may well be of her sons, then the whistle sounded, and, with three her daughters have an equal claim upon her hearty and long-echoing cheers from the asadmiration; sans reproché it was very evident sembled crowd, the train started on its way. Quickly it vanished from the sight of those several dwellings, their hearts filled with penwho were left behind, as quickly the lights sive yet hopeful thoughts of those whose places were extinguished at the station, and it was would now be vacant at their Christmas fireleft in silence and darkness, whilst those who sides; and amongst all these none will be had just bid farewell to dearest friends and more tenderly or more constantly rememberbeloved relatives quietly returned to their ed at that coming season than Mary Vaughan. AFTER a long period of decline and helpless suffering, cheerfully borne, the Author of Our Village died at Swallowfield Cottage, near Reading, on Wednesday last, aged-as a memorandum furnished by herself some years ago assures us-sixty-six years. gant-full of pertinence in its allusions; full of A COLLEGE tutor (who had great aversion to the master of his college, Lowther Yates,) lecturing on the doctrine of extreme necessity, thus illustrated it : She was born in 1789, at Alresford, in Hampshire. Her mother was an heiress and the daughter of Dr. Russell of Ashe, in Hampshire-a man of scholarship and letters. Her father-belong. ing to the Mitfords of Northumberland, -was, as her own Reminiscences' have told us, a sanguine, cheerful and speculative man-who tried physic, played at whist, spent every one's money and something more, and made every living creature about him love him, lend to him and forgive him. To this love and to his extravagance his daughter's life was sacrificed. Every and pain. fortune that came in his way-including a 20,- There are few of whom surviving friends will 000l. prize, won in the lottery-was wasted-long think so affectionately and so cheerfully as gayly and plausibly-by Dr. Mitford; and while of Mary Russell Mitford. Her name has an yet a girl, with all the impulses of a poetess, but honored place in the library of healthy and with all the reserve of an old-fashioned gentle-real English literature. woman, strong within her, his daughter was placed in the position of one who had to "stave off" want and sorrow from the parent to whom she was devoted, by turning her choice and beculiar gifts to account in authorship. Educated in a London boarding-school-which seems to have had the peculiar gift of "bringing out poetesses-Miss Mitford first presented herself to the public in three volumes of poetry,-one a South-Sea romance, after the fashion of Scott. It was by chance that she afterwards fell on the He said, "Suppose Lowther Yates and I were veins of country life, scenery, and manners, on struggling in the water for a plank which would the one hand.-and on the other, of high tragic not hold two, and that he should get possession passion and action which "Our Village" and her of it, I should be justified in knocking him off;" plays in verse severally represent. The story of and he then added, with great vehemence, “ D—n these has been told too frequently and too minute-him-and I would do it too, without the slightest ly by herself in late publications which have hesitation!"-Gunning's Reminiscences. passed through our hands for it to be necessary to dwell more minutely on them now, or to enumerate the works that made a laborer's cottage with a duchess's "flower garden," three In frosty weather we are told we should lop miles from Reading, a place of pilgrimage to our timber out of doors. The most sensible way some of the highest and most accomplished per- of lopping your timber will be to cut your stick sons in Europe. But we must add, that Miss and go in doors to a comfortable fire. Mitford's works did not represent all her gifts, produced as they were under sharp pressure, and at moments when it was fitter that the body of a delicate woman should have been at rest 10th, Day breaks at 6h. 2m. Considering that rather than that her fancy should have been every day breaks, we should, instead of wasting goaded into exertion. Her letters were charm- the remainder of a broken day, make the best ing her conversation was shrewd, racy and ele-Inse we can of all the pieces. EXTREME NECESSITY. From Fraser's Magazine. PART I. YES-she loved him. It was the thing which has happened over and over again-which will do so to everlasting, whilst the world endures; almost the saddest thing which can happen in the life of a woman: he only liked her-she loved him. I use these impersonals in commencing, because they seem to come naturally in writing of the two concerned. "He" and "she" were then, and for years after, the most important beings in my circle of existence-my brother, Alwyn Reid, and Marjory Blair. He lived with me, earning his bread as a teacher of languages in our country neighborhood; she was his pupil. At least it was that at first; gradually I found he had gained the footing of a friend in the house. Old Mr. and Mrs. Blair were simple people; fonder even than grandparents are proverbially allowed to be. They liked everybody who liked Marjory. men in those parts. He had nothing to do but to be himself-his natural true self-without any seeking to please-to make almost any woman care for him. And so it befel poor Marjory, who was simple, and lonely, and perhaps, from her weak health, too much given to look to the dreamy and romantic side of things. Also, the cup-the universal cup-being held to her lips rather later than to most, for she was four-and-twenty -six months older than Alwyn-she drankdrank; thinking, perhaps, that it was his belov ed hand which held it, when, in fact, it was the hand of the angel of doom! I was very sorry indeed for poor, gentle Marjory. "Well, what do you think of her?" said ho, eagerly, as we walked home. All that you think of her, and something more." She did not betray her feelings in any unmaidenly way; in fact, they were scarcely be trayed at all, except by accidental Aushings and tremblings; a certain restless wandering of the eye towards any corner of the room where he was; a certain intentness of ear whenever he was speaking, however hard she tried to keep up conversation with me the while. For all things else, (these little things no one would notice, or did And Alwyn told me-as I doubt not his man-notice, save me,) she was just what I expected ners openly told at the farm, for he was a warm- to find her-graceful, simple, retiring. He had hearted, impulsive, and demonstrative fellow-painted her correctly, which no lover would have that he liked Miss Marjory very much indeed. done. She was the first woman he had known intimately that is, the first who had youth, grace, and a cultivated mind; and at his age all women are angels. I feel sure that, for a little space, his fancy had thrown the shadow of an ideal over the simple manners and mild, expressive face of Marjory Blair. For a day and a half he even contested with me that she was handsome. However, that notion faded away, and he contented himself with avouching that it was her soul which made her beautiful, since in her were combined the finest intellect and the highest moral nature he had ever found in a woman.He used to talk of her qualities, taking her to pieces, anatomizing her, as it were, by the hour together, proclaiming continually her perfection, and how very, very much he liked her. At first I was uneasy for his sake, remembering that Mr. Blair was a rich farmer, and my brother a poor| teacher of languages. Afterwards, on keener observation, I grew satisfied on his account. Thus things went on for a whole summer, it was not until the fall of the year that I, myself, was formally invited to the farm. "That is right; I felt sure you would like her. She is the very sweetest girl we know. If sho were only a little prettier, and-don't you agree with me?-just a trifle less pale; a degree more of rounded outline." "I thought you hated fat women" 66 Ugh!-so I do. But she is so very thin.Ah, she will never live. She is too good for this world." He sighed and then began talking of how far she had got in Italian, and how in their lessons this morning, Petrarch's description of Laura had seemed to him exactly like Marjory. "Did you tell her so ?" "I don't remember; yes, I think I did. Why not? It really was very like her I could not help it; could I now ?" I glanced up at his fine, earnest face, so free from all a young man's self-conceit with regard to women. "Oh, no,” I said; yet my heart sighed "Poor Marjory !” Coming home, after having for a long evening watched Miss Blair and Alwyn, I just drew from my own mind the conclusion, which afterwards All love-stories are more or less alike; it is became only too clear, thinking it sadly over to just the same thing repeated in different forms myself-in almost the same words which head-very often the same form-to the world's end. this chapter. The world would weary of it sorely, save that the perpetually throbbing universal heart of the young generation attracts the history to itself, and makes it always new. Aye, Marjory loved him. Poor little girl! I do not think he was to blame; he was a very honorable fellow. He did not "make love," as the saying is, in the slightest degree. The "love" People who have seen around them a lifetime made itself-sprang instinctively in response to of loves rise and set, climax, change, and cease, his goodness, his kindness, his tenderness. For she sometimes ended by the will of fate, sometimes was a feeble and delicate creature; and for Alwyn going out like faint candles in vapor, rarely if to feel and to show a protecting fondness for such ever growing to be a light to lighten the world, an one, was as natural as the breath he drew. Then as a happy and a pure mutual love ought always he was so totally different from all other young to be-learn to view these things differently, and |