In the meanwhile, Miss Sinclair and Anne proceeded on their walk. They had taken with them some few articles of clothing, promised to one or more of the poor they were accustomed to visit; and, having made their distributions, were returning home, when it occurred to Miss Sinclair that, being so near to Nutleigh, they might as well call to inquire for old Margaret Lindsay; observing to Anne, "I have seen nothing of Mabel for a long time; and, when I last saw her poor mother, she gave me but a sad history of her daughter. If I remember right, she was then wishing to get her away from this part of the world, into service; and, as we are leaving home so immediately, I should like to hear something of her, and know how things have been settled."

It was now August, and the weather intensely hot. They had walked unusually fast, and Miss Sinclair proposed to Anne, seeing that she was tired, to rest on a stile before they proceeded further; to which proposition her pupil very readily assented.

"How calm and peaceful Nutleigh looks from this! There is the Priory, and the little church 1; Summerfield, too, and even Everton, with its beautiful woods in the distance," observed Anne, as she seated herself by her governess.

"We have, indeed, a lovely view before us," returned Miss Sinclair. Nature is clad in her brightest, to-day; but what a melancholy reflection it is to a thinking mind, that so fair a world as this is should

yet, in everything, bear the marks of the primeval curse! No loveliness that is of anv duration; no certainty, no lasting happiness, however highly coloured to our present view; but there is a rest, Anne, you know, a glorious rest; and shadows are permitted to fall heavily and darkly on all our brightest hopes here, and tarnish all our best treasures, to open our eyes, and cause our hearts to long for that rest." And a sigh escaped Miss Sinclair as she spoke, for those shadows had been permitted to fall heavily (as our readers may remember) on her fortunes.

"And Edward, dear Miss Sinclair, dear Edwarddo you think he has entered into that rest?" timidly inquired Anne. "I have frequently wished to ask you this question; for I often, very often, think of him;" and a tear silently stole down her cheeks as she spoke.

"We must hope so; his removal was so very sudden, my dearest Anne, that we could have no outward evidence of the state of his young mind. The compassion and tender mercies of the Lord, we know, are very great; at the same time, we are only told in the Word of Truth, that those who die in the faith of our Lord shall enter into the heavenly Poor Edward's early death is a call to you, young as you are, dear girl, to seek the Lord early. You remember the sweet promise to those who do so, do you not?"

rest.

"Yes; it was one of the texts marked down in the Bible poor dear Aunt Edith gave me last year

when she was with us, and I have always loved it for her sake."

"If you are now sufficiently rested we will continue our walk," said Miss Sinclair, "as I do not wish to return home late."

So saying, they slowly descended the winding hill, which brought them to the little village of Nutleigh. It was a remarkably pretty one; all its cottages had, more or less, neat, small gardens, each vying with the other in variety of beautiful flowers and arrangement. Who that has traveled much in France or Germany, will not, with a feeling of national pride, draw the decisive comparison in our own favour?-the simple neatness, cleanliness, and comfort of the humble English cottage, with the disorderly and unsightly habitations of the villages on the Continent, through which one passes, take which and what route you may.

Margaret Lindsay's cottage, to which I am now conducting my readers, was one of the very prettiest at Nutleigh; and Mabel, her daughter, was reckoned also the belle of the village. As Miss Sinclair and her pupil approached, the garden gate was slightly a-jar, and, amidst a profusion of roses, stocks, and mignionette, there grew one beautiful moss-rose, old Margaret's favourite nursling, and also a bed of lavender in full blossom. They paused a moment to enjoy the delicious fragrance of these mingled sweets, when they heard distinctly the sound as of people talking, and waited to catch the voice

of the speaker; but there was again a silence. Miss Sinclair gently raised the latch of the doorno one was there. The room was scrupulously neat; and it was evident the voices they had heard proceeded from the room above. Miss Sinclair ascended the little narrow stairs, motioning gently to Anne to wait her return below, wishing first to ascertain whether it was illness that detained the inhabitants of the little cottage upstairs. She was about to pronounce old Margaret's name, and call to her, when the voice already mentioned to have been heard on approaching the cottage, resumed again. Raising herself one step higher (whilst she concealed herself completely from view), she was very speedily initiated into the state of the case. The door was, on account of the heat of the weather, quite wide open; old Margaret was rocking herself uneasily in a chair by the side of the chimney-piece, every now and then casting an anxious glance at the bed, on which lay extended her daughter Mabel, whose cheeks, and whole appearance, indicated the presence of high fever. With his back to the door stood a gentleman, whose face Miss Sinclair could not see; there were two or more people, she thought she perceived, in the room, but it was impossible to distinguish from the place where she stood. To this gentleman poor Mabel was, beyond any doubt, addressing herself; her manner was excited, and she spoke with much rapidity.

"Yes, Sir, I sent for you-I entreated mother to

send for you; I feel myself dying, Sir; I know I have but few days, perhaps hours, to live, and I wished to tell you the truth; and, perhaps, even from such as me, it will do you good. Oh, Sir, it is a fearful thing!"--and her whole frame shuddered as she spoke (whilst she seemed endeavouring to penetrate, if possible, the very soul of the person she addressed)" Oh, it is an awful thing to come to this hour, and to feel one has nothing to lay hold of! You have preached to me and to others, as I have sat Sunday after Sunday to listen to you, but you never told me to search my evil heart-to read my Bible, my long-neglected Bible. You never told me to look only to Christ, and I should be saved. I have heard you speak, Sir. Oh, Mr. Priestly". for it was no other than himself " I have heard you talk of the Church, and how the Church had become neglected in these days, and how every good Churchman should endeavour to build up her glory; and I have felt proud in being better learned than others, and I have been pleased to do something (though I knew better); I learned better in old Mr. Priestly's time, in your father's school at RepThe Church, Sir, will not save me now. If I had only thought less of my works, and more of a Saviour! But now-I can't!... There's my Bible, but word in it condemns me.... I can't pray every now-I have neglected my Saviour, and He will not hear me now- -Where shall I go? for I am dying!-I am dying! I see it all now when it is

ton.