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Edward's oars slipped from his hold, and as quickly was his arm outstretched to lay hold of the receding oar as he fancied-but the current was strong-he lost his balance-it was but the affair of a moment. And Mr. Stewart had the unspeakable horror of seeing his unfortunate pupil sink to rise no more. His cries for immediate help attracted two of the gardeners to the spot, and they succeeded, with himself, in finding, at last, the body-which rose twice-only, alas! on landing it, to find death had seized on its youthful victim.

"Rash boy! had he only waited for me, before he entered that fatal boat!" burst from poor Mr. Stewart's lips, as he gazed on his young pupil's lifeless form.

The medical man, who was immediately sent for, could do nothing. Of this Mr. Stewart had been previously, too surely, convinced. Sir James was only just returned from his ride, as the lifeless body of his only son was conveying to the house. He was a kind father, and though accustomed to see comparatively little of his children, besides being a man who demonstrated rarely much feeling, he could not witness the melancholy sight that now met his eye, without considerable and evident emotion. His first thought (when the fearful truth, which he endeavoured hopefully, at first, not to believe, became too startling a reality, that Edward was indeed dead) was for his wife. Heartless as she was

to his other children, selfish and indifferent as she

was to him, he knew her affection for her son amounted almost to idolatry, and that the shock to her would be dreadful. He had not courage to meet her, and break the truth; he requested Mr. Stewart to do this for him, gently to do it, and discreetly prepare Lady Fitzwilliam for what could no longer be concealed. Her piteous shriek which followed Mr. Seaford's mournful shake of his head and few words, Sir James was fully prepared for, and it was a relief to him that the worst had been told her; but so little sympathy existed between them, that to convey her to her own apartment, and consign her to the care of her own attendant, was all he could do.

It would be difficult to describe the agony of this proud woman at her sudden bereavement. She gave herself up to the most uncontrolled grief, refusing to see either husband or children; but Sir James was too well accustomed to his wife's manner of acting, on far-far less trying occasions than the present, to feel surprised. On him now devolved the last sad offices-the melancholy, but necessary preparations for the interment. The vault, the gloomy family vault, opened to receive poor Edward's remains; and all that was left to those who mourned his early doom was the remembrance of his amiable and sweet disposition. He had been a universal favourite, as well as one of the Abbey's brightest ornaments. His sisters, Anne and Marion, could ill restrain their first burst of natural grief at their

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young brother's sudden removal; but, taught submission to God's will by their excellent governess, this, once over, they yielded to Miss Sinclair, who recalled to their attention little Edith, their young cousin, so lately deprived of a devoted mother; gently reminding them, that without some forgetfulness on their part of themselves, in their present affliction, her young spirits would receive a very prejudicial chill. With all the innocence of her age, this little creature had made herself completely at home, from the first, with her cousins and Miss Sinclair, to whose especial care she had been consigned on her arrival, by her aunt. Things, therefore, gradually resumed the usual routine

Paington Abbey, Lady Fitzwilliam only excepted. Confining herself entirely to her own apartments, she would receive no one, not even her most intimate friends. Her former vivacity transformed itself into a haughty melancholy, and none were permitted to intrude upon or share her grief. Her health, after a few months, gave way, and her own prescribed indulgence of, and abandonment to, such uncontrolled sorrow, told very sensibly in her altered appearance. She was obliged, at length, to give in most reluctantly, and go to London, to consult her own physician, who failed not to recommend immediate change of air and scene. During her ladyship's absence, Miss Sinclair and her young pupils interchanged very constant visits with their amiable neighbours at Summerfield.

Many and many a pleasant ramble the children enjoyed together, and nurse Budd (whom we must not entirely forget to name) had reason to rejoice in the healthy and invigorated appearance of her dear little Miss Edith, now quite a different being since her arrival at Paington.

"We will vary our walk this afternoon, I think,” said Miss Sinclair, to her little trio, as they were returning home one lovely summer's afternoon, in the beginning of August, "and call at Summerfield."

This proposition received a joyful assent from the little party, and they were received by Mrs. Vivian with her usual kind welcome. They found both her and Louisa, however, about to start for their accustomed walk; and as Miss Sinclair would by no means allow of Mrs. Vivian's deferring it to a later moment, it was agreed they should join her.

"We were going to Everton," observed Mrs. Vivian, "you do not fear it being too far?"

"By no means," returned Miss Sinclair; "but even so, we can but accompany you half way. The sun is beginning to be much less powerful; we shall all enjoy a walk with you, my dear madam, this lovely afternoon, exceedingly."

It needed but a glance at the young faces present fully to confirm Miss Sinclair's assertion; and, it being thus agreeably settled, they set out. It was, indeed, a very lovely day. was in her richest dress; the trees, with their massive foliage, cast their pleasant shadows here

Nature

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and there on the road; the birds, singing their melodious songs of rapture, and now and then the distant lowing of cattle, with the various hums peculiar to the country; the very air scented with the fragrant smell of flowers, and the azure vault of heaven, with its distant golden tints, preparing the couch into which the sun, notwithstanding its then brilliancy, threatened a little later to sink—all bespoke a glorious summer's day.

The young people proceeded merrily on their way, leaving Mrs. Vivian and Miss Sinclair to follow more leisurely.

"What news have you of Lady Fitzwilliam, since her departure? Is she beginning to be more reconciled to her affliction?" inquired Mrs. Vivian of her companion, after they had proceeded some little way.

"Indeed, my dear madam, the few lines I received a day or two since, from Graham, her ladyship's maid," returned Miss Sinclair, "were by no means satisfactory. The doctor recommended traveling, she said; but nothing has been decided as yet. Her ladyship continues much in the same state. Edward's death was a cruel blow to Lady Fitzwilliam, for she was deeply wrapped up in him. It is difficult to bear God's chastening hand when the heart is a stranger to Him."

"Truly, my dear Miss Sinclair; even his own children find their faith greatly tried in unqualified submission to His sovereign will. I have learned

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