of crimson sleeves, with which she hastily covered her arms; and thus she stood on the black scaffold with the black figures all around her, blood-red from head to foot. "Her reasons for adopting so extraordinary a costume must be left to conjecture. It is only certain that it must have been carefully studied, and that the pictorial effect must have been appalling. "The women, whose firmness had hitherto borne the trial, began now to give way, spasmodic sobs bursting from them, which they could not check. Ne criez vous,' she said, 'j'ay promis pour vous.' Struggling bravely, they crossed their breasts again and again, she crossing them in turn and bidding them pray for her. Then she knelt on the cushion. Barbara Mowbray bound her eyes with a handkerchief. Adieu,' she said, smiling for the last time and waving her hand to them, 'Adieu, au revoir.' They stepped back from off the scaffold and left her alone. On her knees she repeated the Psalm, 'In te, Domine, confido' ('In Thee, O Lord, have I put my trust'). Her shoulders being exposed, two scars became visible, one on either side, and the Earls being now a little behind her, Kent pointed to them with his white wand, and looked inquiringly at his companion. Shrewsbury whispered that they were the remains of two abscesses from which she had suffered while living with him at Sheffield. "When the psalm was finished she felt for the block, and lying down her head muttered: 'In manus, Domine tuas, commendo animam meam.' The hard wood seemed to hurt her, for she placed her hands under her neck. The executioners gently removed them, lest they should deaden the blow, and then one of them, holding her slightly, the other raised the axe and struck. The scene had been too trying even for the practised headsman of the Tower. His arm wandered. The blow fell on the knot of the handkerchief, and scarcely broke the skin. She neither spoke nor moved. He struck again, this time effectively. The head hung by a shred of skin, which he divided without withdrawing the axe, and at once a metamorphosis was witnessed, strange as was ever wrought by wand of fabled enchanter. The coif fell off and the false plaits. The laboured illusion vanished. The lady who had knelt before the block was in the maturity of grace and loveliness. The executioner, when he raised the head, as usual, to show it to the crowd, exposed the withered features of a grizzled, wrinkled old woman. "So perish all enemies of the Queen,' said the Dean of Peterborough. A loud Amen rose over the hall. Such end,' said the Earl of Kent, rising and standing over the body, 'to the Queen's and the Gospel's enemies."" The remains of the mother of a line of kings repose in Westminster Abbey, and some of the most beautiful and pathetic writers have made allusions to her tomb. There is scarcely a royal family in Europe which does not boast of Mary Stuart's blood in its veins, NIL DES PERAN DU M. CHAP. VI. (A Tale). BY LADY S Six years have rolled away since I, Tabitha Lawson, last took up my pen. I must confess to having been tardy in fulfilling my promise; however, there is an old proverb, "Better late than never." Never have any six years in my memory glided away with such happiness and rapidity as have these, and yet what wonderful events have occurred; most particularly in our own small family circle! Our far-distant brother dead, his widow and four children returned by the next vessel from China, and are now settled in a comfortable house in Kensington; my sister Priscilla, who refused-as I have mentioned in the first part of this tale-so many excellent offers, has been for six years a happy wife and the proud mother of three blooming children. Can it be guessed who was the individual who tempted her to give up, as the French say, dressing Saint Catherine's hair, by relinquishing her resolution of leading a single life? No, I do not think anyone can guess it; still, I cannot yet make up my mind to mention the name. The gentleman in question is one year older than Priscilla, and possesses fine, dark, dreamy, yet at times melancholy-looking eyes, a good figure, prepossessing countenance, with the pleasant addition of a sweetly-modulated voice. I see him now from the window, carrying on his shoulder little rosy-cheeked baby Harry, to whom he has evidently given a ride round the flower-garden; Lizzie is holding his other hand, and apparently, from her rapid gestures and the bright sparkle of her dark laughing eyes, relating to her papa some droll childish story, he looking down upon her with such an affectionate smile. But who is this coming quickly, yet still sedately, up the path, with all the fancied importance of her five years of age and her knowledge of being herself the eldest of the family? It is Emma, of the flaxen hair and pretty blue eyes, with such a fair complexion; she is, no doubt, bringing an anxious message from mamma, who fears, though it is a warm evening, baby Harry is out a little too late. The group enter the house. Like the sudden change in a magic-lantern, my pretty picture has quickly vanished. I am penning these few lines from a pleasant, luxuriantly-furnished room, with every convenience for epistolary communication, the only fault consisting in the arm-chair being too comfortable and the view from the window too beautiful not to tempt one's eyes to wander out. First there meets one's gaze a charming flowergarden, bright with many-coloured flowers well arranged, beyond, a pretty lake with its little fishing hut and boat; the sun is setting most gloriously with many a rich shade of red and purple; magnificent large dark trees, misty yews and firs, form a sheltered background, and setting to a picture, otherwise perhaps a trifle too dazzling. But who do you think is master of this splendid mansion, for such it is? Who owns this large park and the many broad acres that constitute the extensive estate of Moorland Park? Who is the happy husband of my dear sister Priscilla? It is no less a person than Mr. Prior, the Mr. Alfred Prior the melancholy hero with the sad countenance and mournful eyes, whose early misfortunes I did my best to pourtray in the first part of this tale: how it was all brought about is certainly most singular. In 1863 we had nearly forgotten all the incidents connected with this romantic story, in which I confess I had been deeply interested. To begin a detail of past events:-One sultry morning early in July, when the birds were almost too lazy to sing, and one looked out one's coolest, thinnest muslins, the post brought a kind invitation to Priscilla, from our cousin Mrs. Mowbray, to join her at Birmingham and accompany her on a visit to the beautiful place where her childhood had been spent; a place that now from the death of the late possessor had become hers-(Mrs. Mowbray, I must observe, was now a widow)-and desired to revisit it previous to making arrangements either for letting it on a long lease or selling it as offers might be made; for she felt she would rather not be troubled with the care of two properties, finding the estate her late husband had left her in the midst of an agreeable circle of friends, in whose society she had passed her married life, quite sufficiently large for her own management. Mrs. Mowbray's kind offer was readily accepted. Three days after the receipt of this letter, Priscilla was travelling on her journey to meet her at the Birmingham station. I, as may well be supposed, received many letters from my absent sister, but they were of no particular moment, till the following one reached me. I remember well its arrival, for it was the morning after a terrible thunderstorm that had seemed to shake the dear little cottage to its very foundation; but this morning was one of such sweet balmy freshness, I had had an early walk and gathered many sweet flowers | from the rectory and our own little garden. This letter surprised me not a little, and brought various nearly-forgotten incidents vividly back to my memory. It was as follows: "Moorland Park, Lancaster, "July 16th, 1863. "MY VERY DEAR TABITHA,-As you may suppose, Mrs. Mowbray has frequent applications from persons desirous of tenanting this beautiful place, but all seem to object to a long lease, and no one has offered to purchase it till yesterday, when who should make his appearance with this purpose but Mr. Prior, Mr. Alfred Prior, in whose melancholy fate we once took so warm an interest. Mr. Prior was introduced by Mr. Horace Smith, the agent of the estate. I left Mrs. Mowbray upon hearing she was likely to be engaged for some hours with business matters, and only returned from a walk in the garden as luncheon was announced. Upon entering the dining-room you may picture my astonishment upon finding our hero at Scarborough ensconsed in an arm-chair by the window. I found him quietly admiring the fine prospect. I received, of course, from Mr. Prior the most polite renewal of our slight acquaintance at Keswick. We talked over our mutual friend Mrs. Spicer, the delightful, pleasant old lady with the snow-white hair, where I had spent such a pleasant visit when at the Lakes with dear Mrs. Mark. I had to relate the death of our lamented friend, and was sorry to hear Mrs. Spicer had not been well lately. After luncheon we all walked out; Mr. Prior seemed greatly pleased with the arrange ments of the extensive gardens, hot-houses, vineries, green-houses, &c. As he expressed a wish to again inspect the place a little more fully in a few days' time, Mrs. Mowbray asked him to dine with her upon his next visit. "20th.—Mr. Prior has just left us: he improves greatly upon acquaintance. Mrs. Mowbray is delighted with the slight but amusing sketches he gives of his foreign travels: he has seen much of far-distant lands, and has observed all with a keen eye and retentive memory: his drawings are also very spirited and clever. I must now, dear Tabitha, close this letter, or you will reproach me for my long silence. Ever, with kind love, "Your most affectionate sister, "PRISCILLA LAWSON." After the receipt of this letter several more arrived, all speaking in praise of Mr. Prior, mentioning various pic-nics, boating excursions, and pleasant rides; in all which he seemed to have been of the party. Then there came a long mysterious silence. What could have occurred? Why did not Priscilla write? Was Mrs. Mowbray ill?" When my patience was nearly exhausted and I had written letter after letter begging earnestly for a few lines in return, there came one announcing to me the startling intelligenee that that very morning in the pretty flower-garden Mr. Prior had made her an offer with much affectionate tenderness, assuring her that of all the young ladies he had seen since his early youth, none had, either in mind or appearance, pleased and interested him so much as herself. "With my face all in a glow, I said, dear Tabby, that little word 'Yes.'" So concluded this to me most delightful letter, for to see dear Priscilla happily married to the man she loved and esteemed, to a really good honest man as I heard Mr. Prior was, would have thoroughly recompensed me for the pain of losing the constant friend of so many years. yet who can ever take a dear sister's place by one's side, the one person to whom we can talk without reserve, to whom we can trust the most secret or important matters? We may love other female friends, but to none can one feel as to the sister, with whom is associated all our childish griefs and joys. After marriage it is true we may often meet, often live under the same roof; yet still the entire affectionate sisterly intercourse can never be the same. Another comes, as it were, very properly, to divide us; and though at first he painfully severs our former close union, still it is right it should be so. It is to him, to her husband, to whom her most secret thoughts must turn; whom henceforth it will be her delight as well as her duty to endeavour to please in all things. A sister must, therefore, always, in marriage, be a secondary consideration. CHAP. VII. On reading this eventful letter, coming by the second post and brought by a neighbour to our little cottage at Ackleton, many thoughts crowded upon my brain as I perused my sister's handwriting. These thoughts were half of pleasure, half of pain; for I first cried, then smiled over Priscilla's letter. Dear, darling Priscilla; never did I scem to have loved her half so much as now when I was about to lose her. Then I thought what a pleasure it would be to see her happy; and again how sad not to have her living here with me, but to continue for the future to lead a lonely, dreary life, all by myself. I sat by the open window of our little sitting-room, with its white muslin curtains, its pale green walls (the wholesome green), the closed letter firmly pressed in my hand; I heard the evening song of the birds, the hum of the bees in the soft air still hovering over the many sweet flowers, and I inhaled the fragrance of the mignonette and roses planted close underneath, and the sweet honeysuckle which clustered and vied with the Banksea roses nearly touching my hands; but I did not look upon them with my usual pleasure, my thoughts were far away. Lights were brought, tea was offered me, but I could not quit the window, I could think of nothing else; I had never contemplated my sister's marriage since the loss of her betrothed lover at sea, particularly since the death of our dear parents; the idea of marriage as regarded her had never even crossed my mind. In dwelling upon it I felt almost frightened | raced home again, wondering why even Priscilla's at the great change it would make in the hitherto letter should for one brief moment have made quiet, happy tenor of our Ackleton life: what a me sad. As it was, I was forced tomake myself as solitary being I should become when left alone. happy as I could under existing circumstances; Oh, if only dear Mrs. Mark had been alive and the next morning as bright and beauwould I not have pretty quickly flown to her tiiful as the previous day, I placed myself after reading this important news, just have put at my old-fashioned writing-desk to pen a leton my bonnet and shawl, and away I should ter of sisterly congratulation to Priscilla, widely have gone to talk the matter well over with my different from any other she would receive, enkind old friend, and obtain comfort and good tering into her feelings as only a sister can do. common sense, mingled with womanly tender In this letter, sad as I felt, with the tears affection in all her observations; but, alas! often running down my cheeks, I yet did my dear Mrs. Mark was, as Priscilla had mentioned best to leave myself, as it were, out of the quesin one of her letters, no more. She had been tion-at all events, I can truly say I endeataken away very suddenly; her house was voured to write prettily upon this occasion, and already let, inhabited by fresh inmates, a retired also before ending I tried to indite some trifling grocer and his wife; most respectable people in compliments on Mr. Prior's behalf, saying how their way, no doubt, who had newly-papered, much, in 1860, when we first saw him at Scarpainted, and furnished it in a most gaudy style. borough, I was interested with his appearance All Mrs. Mark's pretty effects had been sold by as a mere stranger; in short, I hope I sent a public auction. We had bought several ele- suitable letter to Moorland Park, though all the gant trifles as souvenirs of one we had so much time I had the terrible thought, she may show loved. All was now so different in this once it to him. These fearful words seemed ever pretty cottage, no one would have recognized haunting my mind, taking possession of me. it for the same; it was no longer the ladylike I abode where we had spent so many happy hours. The large garden, with the exception of a tiny bit, was now let to a market gardener, of whom we bought our fruit and vegetables. Upon good Miss Pym one might certainly call, in a sedate formal company manner, arrayed in best bonnet and mantle, card case in hand; for in spite of our long acquaintance-in spite of having received from her great kindness for many a year-a visit to her had always to be paid with a certain degree of studied form and ceremony at the proper company hour for morning calls. The news of such an important event as an expected marriage in one's family would have been received by Miss Pym certainly with much pleasure; she would have uttered all the proper compliments and fitting sentiments she imagined proper to be uttered on such an interesting occasion; she would also very likely have sent an elegant present and card of congratulation at the exact proper time, according to old-fashioned precedent. But to the good stiff Miss Pym no one would, I fancy, in their senses, have ever thought of flying in little better than a home evening dress, or to have had any hopes of receiving such kind motherly counsel as dear Mrs. Mark would so gladly have given one. Never for one moment would she have criticised the texture of one's dress, or if one's hat was new or old; but if in our poorer days she had thought our purse low, she would have tried in the most delicate way in the world to have replenished our scanty wardrobe. But, however we were dressed, at whatever hour we called, her welcome was always equally warm: she was ever pleased to share our griefs and our joys. How the dear little woman would have dwelt upon all the bright part of the picture, and even the darker part of it, in which I was myself concerned, she would have brightened with such pleasant tints, that all my sorrows would have been changed into merriment, and I should have longed for a reply, but a whole week elapsed before one arrived: then a very short note came, telling me of Mrs. Mowbray's intention of soon leaving Moorland Park, for it had been finally sold to Mr. Prior, and that she herself (Priscilla) was, as before, to accompany our cousin as far as the station. So dear Tabby concluded the letter: "Expect me on Friday afternoon, and, if possible, come to meet me at the corner of the two lanes where the coach stops. Please send the donkey-cart for my luggage, with your own dear self: excuse my naming my asinine friend first!" So ended this long-expected missive, except, of course, that there was the PS., in which part of the letter ladies are generally supposed to put all the gist of their epistolary communication. i PS. to Priscilla's letter: "Mrs. Mowbray, I must tell you, is immensely pleased at the turn affairs have taken. Whether she likes having sold her estate or my being taken into the bargain the most, I know not, but she so likes Mr. Prior, and thinks I am the most fortunate girl in the whole world to have captivated him. Mrs. Mowbray says we must somehow find room for her in our own cottage, as she must be present when I surrender my liberty, and become the live property of another. Dearest Tabby, how solemn this sounds, to leave one's dear sister, and one's pleasant home of so many years for a comparative stranger, however good! Still, I love him, Tabby, not a little. He is very delightful, and you will like him, I am quite sure. How much, dear Tabby, we shall have to talk about when we meet! Mind you come with the donkey." So ended Priscilla's long-expected letter. Never can I forget my sister's pretty wedding: she did look so well as a bride. Dressed in a simple white silk, fastened with the handsome large pearl and ruby broach of my mother's, never was she so pretty; for the timid, half-shy look, so natural to one about to take such an important step in life, gave a delicate, mild, rose sort of colour, with almost, at times, a bright tinge to her cheek, and made her appear most interesting. Then her pretty eyes; sometimes bright, then again a little softened by a silent tear. Two nieces of the late Mrs. Mark and the two eldest step-granddaughters of Mrs. Mowbray acted as bridesmaids. Miss Pym kindly received these young ladies at her house: this lady was of course one of our honoured guests. These bridesmaids were dressed in simple white muslins, trimmed with rose colour. Some of our little village schoolchildren, in their Sunday best, strewed Autumn-flowers on the path of the bride. The ceremony was performed by our good old curate, assisted by a clerical friend of Mr. Prior's. Marriages are generally said to be happy, joyous affairs; so perhaps they may be sometimes, but still amidst the smiles there must be tears shed on the side of the timid bride, about to quit her home and friends, and those she leaves must tenderly feel the separation; and when it is an only sister and companion, it cannot be any small grief. However, owing to the thoughtful kindness of Mrs. Mowbray, I was not allowed to nurse my natural sorrow in solitude at Ackleton, but was whirled off one bright October morning, just as the leaves were changing into their brightest hues, by this kind friend to visit Brighton, where we spent a pleasant month, receiving charming accounts of the bridal pair, then visiting Paris, with which city Priscilla was as much pleased as strangers generally are. It was her first trip abroad: they were to visit Versailles, Saint Germain, and Fontainebleau, with its romantic forest and interesting palace; a short tour into Germany was to conclude their foreign travelling for the present. I returned home, but not alone, for the eldest Miss Willis, who had been at the seaside with us for a week, accompanied me, to enliven me by her presence till the return of the Priors, when I was to join them at Moorland, and spend my Christmas there. All these six years have been pleasantly passed in alternate visits to my sister, short amusing excursions with Mrs. Mowbray, visits to other friends, and an occasional brief abode at my little cottage, generally with some friend. (To be concluded in our next.) MARY'S HOLLOW. BY THOMAS MACKELLAR. A shady dell beside the road, Sequestered, cool, and grassy: A pleasant brook anear it flowed, Its current pure and glassy. Sweet Mary's home was on the hill, Her father's sheep the tender maid Her steps had sought to follow, And friskful lambs around her played, Down in the grassy hollow. And there she sat on summer days, Her nimble fingers flitting Through many an intertwisting maze In curious arts of knitting. And there she sang some simple song Or hymn, learned from her mother. The hours to her were never longEach moment chased the other. A native quietude of mien So graciously became her, The maidens on the village-green With honour loved to name her. The quiet meekness of her brow And oftentimes a sudden smile Her countenance stole over, As flitting sunbeams dance the while O'er fields of blooming clover. The angel of her peaceful hearth, Her mother's hand caressed her : She changed her father's care to mirth, And silently he blessed her. On Sunday, in the village choir, Her pure, sweet voice out-pealing, Struck up, in listening hearts, the fire Of deep and holy feeling. When sorrow's burden fell upon Some soul too weak to bear it, She bent her willing shoulder down, And kindly sought to share it. The great wide world was all astir, And heaved in toppling billows, But all was calm as heaven to her, Beneath her drooping willows. As life ran on with silent pace, Her meek and quiet spirit Grew meeter for the holy place The pure in heart inherit. So, when the leaves were turning red, And autumn-winds were sweeping Sweet Mary with the early dead Beneath the grass was sleeping. |