nervousness was uncalled for. The sight of what he was about, and of the tender way in which he was handling the child, drove all remembrance of his heresies and contumaciousness in the matter of psalmody out of her head. She greeted him with frankness and cordiality, and presently when he had given up his charge to the mother, who was inclined at first to be hard with the poor little sobbing truant-came up, and said she wished to speak a few words to him.

David was highly delighted at Miss Winter's manner; but he walked along by her side not quite comfortable in his mind, for fear lest she should start the old subject of dispute, and then his duty as a public man would have to be done at all risk of offending her. He was much comforted when she began by asking him whether he had seen much of Widow Winburn's son lately.

David admitted that he generally saw him every day.

Did he know that he had left his place, and had quarrelled with Mr. Tester ?

Yes, David knew that Harry had had words with Farmer Tester; but Farmer Tester was a sort that it was very hard not to have words with.

"Still, it is very bad, you know, for so young a man to be quarrelling with the farmers," said Miss Winter.

""Twas the varmer as quarrelled wi' he; you see, Miss," David answered, "which makes all the odds. He cum to Harry all in a fluster, and said as how he must drow up the land as he'd a'got, or he's place-one or t'other on 'em. And so you see, Miss, as Harry wur kind o' druv to it. 'Twarn't likely as he wur to drow up the land now as he wur just reppin' the benefit ov it, and all for Varmer Tester's place, wich be no sich gurt things, Miss, arter all."

"Very likely not; but I fear it may hinder his getting employment. The other farmers will not take him on now, if they can help it."

No; thaay falls out wi' one another bad enough, and calls all manner o' names. But thaay can't abide a poor man to speak his mind, nor take his own part, not one on 'em," said David,

looking at Miss Winter, as if doubtful how she might take his strictures; but she went on, without any show of dissent,

"I shall try to get him work for my father; but I am sorry to find that Simon does not seem to like the idea of taking him on. It is not easy always to make out Simon's meaning. When I spoke to him, he said something about a bleating sheep losing a bite; but I should think this young man is not much of a talker in general?"-she paused.

"That's true, Miss," said David, energetically; "there ain't a quieter spoken or steadier man at his work in the parish.'

"I'm very glad to hear you say so," said Miss Winter, "and I hope we may soon do something for him. But what I want you to do just now is to speak a word to him about the company he seems to be getting into."

The constable looked somewhat aghast at this speech of Miss Winter's, but did not answer, not knowing to what she was alluding. She saw that he did not understand, and went on

"He is mowing to-day with a gang from the heath and the next parish; I am sure they are very bad men for him to be with. I was so vexed when I found Simon had given them the job; but he said they would get it all down in a day, and be done with it, and that was all he cared for."

"And 'tis a fine day's work, Miss, for five men," said David, looking over the field; "and 'tis good work too, you mind the swarth else," and he picked up a handful of the fallen grass to show her how near the ground it was cut.

"Oh, yes, I have no doubt they are very good mowers, but they are not good men, I'm sure. There, do you see now who it is that is bringing them beer? I hope you will see Widow Winburn's son, and speak to him, and try to keep him out of bad company. We should be all so sorry if he were to get into trouble."

David promised to do his best, and Miss Winter wished him good evening, and rejoined her cousin.

Well, Katie, will he do your behest?"

"Yes, indeed; and I think he is the best person to do it. Widow Winburn thinks her son minds him more than any one."

"Do you know I don't think it will ever go right. I'm sure she doesn't care the least for him."

"Oh, you have only just seen her once to-day for two or three minutes."

"And then, that wretched old Simon is so perverse about it," said the cousin. "You will never manage him."

"He is very provoking, certainly; but I get my own way generally, in spite of him. And it is such a perfect plan, isn't it?"

been for years a proscribed person. She lived up on the heath, often worked in the fields, took in lodgers, and smoked a short clay pipe. These eccentricities, when added to her half-male clothing, were quite enough to account for the sort of outlawry in which she lived. Miss Winter, and other good people of Englebourn, believed her capable of any crime, and the children were taught to stop talking and playing, and run away when she came near them; but the constable, who had had one or two search warrants to execute in her house, and had otherwise had frequent occasions of getting acquainted with herin the course

"Now we must be really going home, papa will be getting restless." So the young ladies left the hay-field deep in castle-building for Harry Winburn and the gardener's daughter, Miss Winter being no more able to resist a tale of true love than her cousin, or the rest of her sex. They would have been more or less than women if they had not taken an interest in so absorbing a passion as poor Harry's. By the time they reached the Rectory Gate they had installed him in the gardener's cottage with his bride, and mother, (for there would be plenty of room for the widow, and it would be so convenient to have the laundry close at hand) and had pensioned old Simon, and sent him and his old wife to wrangle away the rest of their time in the widow's cottage. Castle-building is a delightful and harmless exercise.

Meantime David the constable had gone towards the mowers, who were taking a short rest before finishing off the last half acre which remained standing. The person whose appearance had so horrified Miss Winter was drawing beer for them from a small barrel. This was an elderly raw-boned woman with a skin burnt as brown as that of any of the mowers. She wore a man's hat and spencer, and had a strong harsh voice, and altogether was not a prepossessing person. She went by the name of Daddy Cowell in the parish, and had

an opinion of her. He had never seen much harm in her, he had been heard to say, and she never made pretence to much good. Nevertheless, David was by no means pleased to see her acting as purveyor to the gang which Harry had joined. He knew how such contact would damage him in the eyes of all the parochial respectabilities, and was anxious to do his best to get him clear of it.

With these views he went up to the men, who were resting under a large elm tree, and complimented them on their day's work. They were themselves well satisfied with it, and with one another. When men have had sixteen hours or so hard mowing in company, and none of them can say that the others have not done their fair share, they are apt to respect one another more at the end of it. It was Harry's first day with this gang, who were famous for going about the neighbourhood, and doing great feats in hay and wheat harvest. They were satisfied with him and he with them, none the less so probably in his present frame of mind, because they also were loose on the world, servants of no regular master. It was a bad time to make his approaches, the constable saw; so, after sitting by Harry until the gang rose to finish off their work in the cool of the evening, and asking him to come round by his cottage on his way home, which Harry promised to do, he walked back to the village. To be continued.

Looked pitiless on eyes grief-worn, On the dying lamp's red, flickering flame,

And, slowly through the wavering

gloom

Searching out the shaded room,
Fell on a form-the pillowed head
So motionless, supinely laid.

O, was it death, or trance, or sleep, Had power his sense thus locked to keep?

She turned, that woman wan and mild;

She gazed through tears, yet hope-beguiled;

He was her son, her first-born child,— Ah, hush! she may not weep.

Many a night, with patient eye,
Had she watched him-sight of woe!
Fever-chained, unconscious lie;
Many a day passed heavily,
Since met in glad expectancy
Round the cheerful hearth below
Young and old, a goodly show,
To welcome from the wondrous main,
Their wanderer home returned again.
The father's careful brow unbent,
The mother happily intent
That nothing should be left undone
To greet him best; the youngest one
In childish, bright bewilderment,
Longed, curious, to look upon
Her own, strange sailor-brother sent
Afar, before she could remember;

While elder sons and daughters thought

What change in the playmate unforgotten

Time and foreign skies had wrought.
Could he be like that fair-haired boy,
With curly hair of golden hue,
And merry-twinkling eye of blue,
Whose tones were musical with joy?
For he had sailed all round the world,
In China's seas our flag unfurled,
On Borneo's coast with pirates fought,
From famed spice-islands treasure
brought,

Had been where the Upas grew!

But the long June day was closing fast,

And yet he did not come ; And anxious looks and murmurs passed.

Some gazed without, sate listless some; Down the hill-side, across the vale, Night-mists are rising, sweeps the gale;

But nought can we see through the gloom; When, hark! a step at the wicket-gate, And the brothers rushed out with call and shout.

Welcome, at last, though late! And round him hurriedly they press, And bring him in to the warm-lit

Ah! cursed Malay-I see his cruel eye; His hissing arrows pierce me? Must I lie, Weltering in torture on this hell-hot brine;

Not one cool drop my parching throat to slake?

Jesu have mercy! what a fate is mine!"

Yet ever his mother's yearning gaze,
Saintly sad, was on him dwelling;
Could it not penetrate the haze
Of phantasy, and, frenzy-quelling
In heart and brain, soft-healing flow?
His sister came with noiseless tread,
And, bending o'er the sufferer's bed,
Lightly laid her smooth, cold palm
Upon the throbbing brow;
And with the touch a gradual calm
Stole quietly, diffusing slow
Sleep's anguish-soothing balm.
Pain's iron links, a little while
Relaxing, let his spirit rove
In vision some Atlantic isle,
Where waved the tall Areca palm;
Fresh breezes fanned, and gushing

Makes his hue so ashen white." But, when broadening day shone bright,

Froze to despair her shivering dread.
None who have seen that leaden mask
Over loved features greyly spread,
"Whose superscription this?" need
ask.

Soft she unclosed the door, and said,
"Come," in whisper hoarse and low;
And silently they came,
One by one, the same

Who had joyous met by the hearth below,

Only three short weeks ago.

They looked, "Is it life, or death?" She beckoned them in, and, with hushed breath

Standing around, they saw dismayed
That living soul already laid
The shadow of the grave beneath.

Or careless whistler passing near—
May, unaware, pierce the dull ear,
And feeble, mystic wonder wake,
And straight the web of fancy break;
The awful Presence over all
Hovering unseen, a brooding pall.
"O, look! what change is there? can
hope revive?

Lift his head gently, give him air-
As drive
Strong winds through a thunder-cloud,
and shear

Athwart, on either side, its blackness,
Sweeping the empyrean clear;
So, from the stony visage rent,
Instantaneously withdrew

The heaviness, the livid hue;
And the inward spirit shining
through

Serene, ethereal brightness lent.
His eyes
unclosed; their gaze intent
No narrow, stifling limits saw,
No aspects blanched by love and awe-
Far, far on the eternal bent.
Hark! from his lips the seaman's
cheer,

Sudden, deep-thrilling, did they hear, "Land ahead!" The words of welcome rose;

Then he sank back in isolate repose.

What land? O say, thou tempest-tost!
Whither hath thy worn bark drifted,
Seest thou thine own dear, native
coast-

Vision by strong desire uplifted-
Britain's white cliffs afar appearing;
Or art thou not, full surely, nearing
That unknown strand, that furthest
shore,

Whence wanderer never saileth more ? But hush! again he speaks with stedfast tone,

"Let go the anchor." Now, the port is

won.'

O happy mariner! at last,
Ocean storms and perils past,
Past treacherous rock and shelving
shoal,

And the ravening breakers' roll,
Securely moored in haven blest,
Thy weary soul hath found its rest,
Touching now the golden strand!
Before thee lies the promised land,