I used to go down to the mouth of the Hudson river, that I might watch the redfunnelled Cunard steamers start on their passage to England-sending my heart after them in impotent cravings: I used, I remember, to mark off the days as they passed, in the little almanack of my pocket-bookscoring them out, just as Robinson Crusoe was in the habit of notching his post for the same purpose:-I used to fret and fret, in fact, eating my soul away in vain repinings and foolish longings!

And, still, my fortunes did not brighten— notwithstanding that I hunted in every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painful associations by hopeful anticipations of "something turning up" on the morrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck :—my fortunes got darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grew stronger.

I would have borne my troubles much better, I'm certain, if I could only have heard from my darling.

There was no hope of that, however, as you know. Even if Min would have con

sented to such a thing, which I knew she would not have done, I should never have dreamt of asking her to write to me in opposition to her mother's wishes. It is true that I had dear little Miss Pimpernell's letters; but what could they be in comparison with letters from Min ?-although, of course, the kind old lady would tell me all about her, and how she looked, and what she said, in order to encourage me?

It was a hard fight, a bitter struggle—that first year I passed in America; and, my memory will bear the scars of the combat, I believe, until my dying day.

Still, time brought relief; and, opportunity, success-so the world wags.

CHAPTER XI.

LIFE!"

I hold it truth with him who sings,
On one clear harp, in divers tones,
That men may rise, on stepping stones
Of their dead lives, to higher things!

bearable.

OWEVER grievous and crushing

we may consider the trials and troubles of life to be, while they last, they are never altogether un

The load laid upon us is seldom weighted beyond the capacity of our endurance; and then, when in course of time our ills become alleviated, and the burden we have so long borne slides off our backs, the relief we feel is proportionately all the greater, our sense

of light-heartedness and mental freedom, the more intense and complete.

Existence, to follow out the argument, is not always painted in shadow, its horizon. obscured by dark-tinted nebulosities! On the contrary, there is ever some light infused into it, to bring out the deeper tones-" a silver lining" generally "to every cloud," as the proverb has it. So, I now experienced, as I am going to tell you.

The second year of my residence in America opened much more brightly than the miserable twelvemonth I had just passed through might have led me to hope-if I could have hoped on any longer, that is!

Early in the spring, when the warming breath of the power-increasing sun was slowly unloosing the chains of winter-when the rapid-running Hudson was sweeping down huge blocks and fields of ice from Albany, flooding New York Bay with a collection of little bergs, so that it looked somewhat like the Arctic effect I had seen on the Thames on that happy Christmas of the past, only on ever so much larger a scale-I received letters from England that cheered me up

wonderfully, changing the whole aspect of my life.

"Good news from home, good news for me, had come across the deep blue sea "- in the words of Gilmore's touching ballad; and "though I wandered far away, my heart was full of joy to-day; for, friends across the ocean's foam had sent to me good news from home" to further paraphrase it.

Good news?" glorious news," rather, I should say !

Yes, I had not only a glad, welcome letter from Miss Pimpernell, in which the dear little old lady made me laugh and cry again; but, I also heard from the good vicar, who was one of the worst correspondents in the world, never putting pen to paper, save in the compilation of his weekly sermons, except under the most dire necessity, or kindly compulsion. To receive an epistle from him was an event!

And, what do you think he wrote to me about? What, can you imagine, made dear little Miss Pimpernell's lengthy missivescribed as it was in the most puzzling of caligraphies-of so engrossing an interest, that I