charmed with him on the former occasion, and had looked forward with pleasure to the second sitting. To the young man's great surprise, she gave him the addresses of half-a-dozen friends who desired to avail themselves of his talents. Charles was overwhelmed with joy. His dream was now realized, and he could support himself and wife by his art. There was no longer any necessity for beginning life in the very humble way which at first the young couple had decided on. "Madame, I thank you warmly, both for myself and Constance.' "And Constance!" said Madame Pellissier, turning very pale, though without being noticed by the artist, who was fixing his easel in a good light. "Yes, madame. To her-she could not deny it-I owe my first start in my profession. I have long loved her, and now that fortune smiles on me, I mean at once to make her my wife." You do well and nobly," said Leonie, with a very sickly smile; and then she added to herself, "Thank God, he has spoken so plainly. I certainly have taken a very strange liking to him, but crushed so early it will not take root. Courage, my woman's heart." "I am ready, madame." "And I am at your disposition," exclaimed Leonie, gaily, and the sitting commenced. argue any vanity. All men, whether they perceive it or not, are under the influence of emulation, and the desire of distinction is the goal towards which all genius intuitively aspires. For the hope of gathering "Those well-won bays, than life itself more dear." the poet is content to forego the blandishments of pleasure; he fixes his aim on lasting honours, and would make his monument of imperishable thought.-Jackson. THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE. "I do believe," he says, taking his spoon out of his glass, and tossing it on the table, "that of all the obstinate, wrong headed creatures that ever were born, you are the most so, Charlotte." Certainly, certainly, have your own way, pray. You see how much I contradicted you," rejoined the lady.. "Of course you did'nt contradict me at dinner time; oh no, not you!" says the gentleman. "Yes, I did," says the lady. 66 "Oh you did!" cries the gentleman, you admit that?" If you call that contradiction, I do," the lady answers; "and I say again, Edward, that when I know you are wrong, I will contradict you. I am not your slave." Not my slave!" repeats the gentleman, bitterly; "and you still mean to say that in Blackburn's new house there are no more than fourteen doors, including the The young widow, who with a warm and generous heart, wine-cellar?" "I mean to say," retorts the lady, was peculiarly open to a romantic passion, had certainly beating time with her hair-brush on the palm of her found her feelings lean very strongly towards Charles hand, that in that house there are just fourteen doors, Dupont. But as she had no intention of rivalling poor and no more." "Well, then," says the gentleman, rising Constance, she, thus suddenly checked, succeeded at in despair, and pacing the room with rapid strides "this is once in mastering what was as yet a mere growing incli-enough to destroy a man's intellect and drive him mad!" nation. She felt rather proud of being able to do so, By-and-by the gentleman comes to a little, and passing and promised herself genuine satisfaction in witnessing his hand moodily over his forehead, reseats himself in his the happiness of the young couple. The artist was emi- former chair. There is a long silence, and this time the nently successful in his portrait of Leonie. Employment lady begins. "I appeal to Mr. Jenkins, who sat next to from that day was not wanting, and at the end of a me on the sofa, in the drawing room, during tea." month Charles and Constance were married. They were happy, and still are happy, for they love one another. "I do not mean anything of the kind," answered the lady. Morgan, you surely mean," interrupts the gentleman. I have seldom seen a more delightful ménage than theirs. Now, by all that is aggravating and impossible to The selfish and cold sneer at love matches, but they bear," cries the gentleman, clenching his hands and confound them with passion-matches. Marriage is a looking upward in agony, "she is going to insist upon it huge falsehood when not founded on affection, and real that Morgan is Jenkins!" "Do you take me for a peraffection is a thing which is tested only by time. If it fect fool?" exclaims the lady.. "Do you suppose I lasts, it is real; if it ceases to exist, it was never genuine. don't know the one from the other? Do you suppose I In this instance it was evidently true, for after six years don't know that the man in the blue coat was Mr. of wedded life, the lovers were as happy, if not happier, Jenkins?" "Jenkins with a blue coat!" cries the than they were at first. gentleman, with a groan. "Jenkins in a blue coat!a man who would suffer death rather than wear anything but brown!" "Do you dare charge me with telling an untruth?" demands the lady, bursting into tears. "I The mark that poetry puts upon her children is inef-charge you, ma'am," retorts the gentleman, starting up, faceable. The character of the poet affords interesting "with being a monster of contradiction-a monster of investigation to those who may make the subject their aggravation-a-a-a-Jenkins in a blue coat! what study. It is one composed of extremes; child-like doci- have I done that I should be doomed to hear such lity, and deep haughtiness, an expansion of heart that statements? would embrace all humanity, and a shrinking sensitiveness that would prompt to perpetual seclusion---now swelling dark with passion as the lightning-charged cloud, and now, calmly tranquil as the sleeping ocean-his breast bears a hidden fire, that— THE POET'S CHARACTER. MARKS OF THE WORLD'S PROGRESS. Such minute and ample accounts of the immorality of uncivilized men are hardly anywhere to be found as in Southey. What a vast mass of cannibalism was the "Now melts into softness, now maddens to crime." whole population of Brazil! To have replaced it by the One, and perhaps the most distinguishing trait in the most corrupt Europeans was one of the greatest benefits character of the poet, is his unchanging, undying love for to the world. The treatment of savages, and half-civihis glorious calling. Sorrow cannot dim it-slander can- lized natives, by the discoverers and conquerors of the not tarnish it-sickness cannot weaken it-age cannot sixteenth century, compared with the conduct, in similar wither it. Nay, so far from it, it burns the stronger circumstances, of those of the eighteenth, is one of the from all attempts to quench it. The deeper the dark-strongest marks of direct improvement. But improveness without, the brighter the star within; and often is ments never can be measured by such short periods as it the sole prop and stay of those who are as immea- centuries. It is enough if, after dividing history into surably above their fellow-men in mind and soul, as they periods of five hundred or a thousand years, every sucare probably below them in worldly possessions. The ceeding millennium is found manifestly to surpass that hope of fame is dear to every poetic mind; nor does this which went before it.-Sir James Mackintosh. RHYMES FOR WORKERS. READ A POEM; 'tis a pleasant And a soul-refreshing deed: Read a poem, 'tis improving, But consider while you read. Prize the words for they are jewels From the spirit's choicest mine; Learn their import, and their teachings With thine own ideas combine. WRITE A POEM; if the power To accomplish it is given; Write it, with a noble purpose, Making earth the nearer heaven. Let not love's delirious passion Be enwoven in thy theme; Make the cause of human progress The incentive of thy dream. LIVE A POEM; for 'tis better Than to read or write a lay; ERNEST WATмOUGH. MY GRAVE. Оn! bury me not in the sunless tomb, Where the bones of the scarce-remembered dead, Oh, bury me not 'mid the ceaseless hum Where the steps of a thoughtless crowd might come, In the eye of love, should a tear-drop start, But, bury me out in the wild, wild wood Where the sunlit leaves are dancing,- In the forest home-in the wild-wood home- To my grave, like dear friends that love me! Yes, bury me out in the wild, wild wood, Where the glad, sweet song of the poet-birds Where the fond leaves murmur above my breast. MRS. H. M. STEPHENS. DIAMOND DUST. Do good and fly from evil is the sum of human duty. This is virtue in short-hand, perfection in epitome, and heaven in reversion. THINGS are often impossible because cowardice makes¦ them so. Ir has generally been noticed, that those who have most cause for presumption display it least—as a treasurecar makes less rattle in the streets than an empty carriage. HE that does anything praiseworthy merely to fulfil a promise is not likely to derive much satisfaction from the performance. ALL genius is metaphysical, because the ultimate end of genius is ideal, however it may be actualized by incidental and accidental circumstances. IN the treatment of nervous complaints, he is the best physician who is the most ingenious inspirer of hope. To suppose all lost is a short way to lose all in earnest. THE magnet does not more surely and powerfully attract the needle, than youth, by some electric sympathy of soul, is attracted by youth. SURFEIT vaults over pleasure, to alight upon the bitter side of pain. LOVE, like the plague, is often communicated by clothes and money. LUXURY increases the luggage of life, and thereby impedes the march. "DON'T care," shipwrecked Harry on the coast of Africa; "do care shipwrecks many a precious vessel on the coast of society. IF love were never professed but when it is felt, it would appear to be a scarce article. THE higher character a person supports, the more he should regard his minutest actions. A KIND action performed in a rough manner may be mistaken for an intentional offence. DISPUTING is hot service, and is generally performed with too much eagerness to be successful. MANY complain of neglect who never tried to attract regard. THE love lost by a continued cooling, can only be regained by as persevering a warming. KINDNESS and confidence are strengthened by every new act of trust, and proof of fidelity. A COURTIER'S dependent is a beggar's dog. Or whatever nature our inclinations are, we generally incline to bring others into the road we are travelling ourselves. BE neat without gaudiness, genteel without affectation; for a suit which fits the character is more à la mode than that which sits well on the body. THE life of an artist is one of thought rather than action-he has to speak of the struggles of mind rather than the conflict of circumstances. WE are all of us sick of curable diseases, and it costs us more to be miserable than would make us perfectly happy. REGRETS, towards the evening of life, will occur nearly to all, even the happiest. We mourn the departure of the luminary, though his setting be glorious. WE should never wed an opinion for better for worse: what we take upon good grounds, we should lay down upon better. Printed by JonN OWEN CLARKE, at 121, Fleet Street, London, and published by CHARLES Coox, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street SUNSHINE AT EASTER. In a quiet little cottage situated on the outskirts of the village of Broxburn, a family group sat one mild March evening at work. An elderly lady-for such she seemedoccupied a roomy elbow chair by the fire, and was engaged in knitting, from which she occasionally looked up to glance towards a slender youth who leant over an easel in the deep-bay window of the little room. This window looked out upon a little patch of garden already gay with crocuses and primroses, the first offerings of the year. Beyond lay the winding highway, bordered on either side by broad strips of grass, and lined with lofty beeches, through the boughs of which the ruddy glow of the evening sun shone with mellowed glare. Down in the valley beyond, the village church, its taper spire as if tipped with gold, shot up over a green mound, and the white walls of the parsonage peeped through the wooded clump amid which it lay sheltered. The river wound past the village and the church, and crept along through the grassy meadows, far down the valley, where it became lost in the distance; and bounding fells and moors, with a background of blue hills, shut in the prospect. There are particular seasons at which Nature thrills to the heart's core, and awakens in us an unusual depth of feeling. The first sweet spring day, bringing back again the clear sky and the singing birds, the balmy deliciousness of the warm air, the buds springing again into fresh life, the tender green of the young grass shooting up in beauty, with the pied flowers everywhere unfolding their petals upon its bosom, make us feel happy at heart, and fill us with an inexpressible sense of blessing. In high summer-time we have become familiarized with all these objects, and they fail to strike upon our senses and feelings with the charm of novelty that they do in early spring; and in autumn, it is a kind of softened melancholy that we feel at the obsequies of Nature, still lovely even in dying. But in spring, it is new bursting life, bright beaming joy, bounding hope, thrilling gladness, and warm, throbbing love, which pervade our whole being. Such was the feeling of this little family group, as in the now mellowed twilight, quietly resting from their several tasks, they gazed out upon the charming prospect before them. The young man was the first to speak. "How baffling is Nature to all Art, of even the highest kind! How poor and feeble are our very best efforts, when we come into her glorious presence! It almost makes me despair "Despair, Frank? No, no-excelsior! That's the word. Think high, aim high, and you will reach high. The man never did anything yet, who began by despairing." [PRICE 1d. So spoke the mother in the widow's garb! "Thank you, dear mother; noble and true as ever. Excelsior! higher, still higher. That is the true thought. But look at that glorious sun! What palette of colours can ever reach an effect like that? "Still try-aim to do your best, and you may reproduce even that. What say you, Carry?" The person addressed was a young girl who sat opposite the elderly lady, and like her, in the falling twilight, had laid aside her work. You could but see a charming outline of a figure as she reclined back in her chair, and with her left hand dashed back a cluster of curls from a beautiful brow. "Oh, yes," she said, "surely Frank will do all that he endeavours to do. He will carve out a name for himself yet: for the world of Art is not half explored; and whoever adventures there with a bold spirit like his will bring back beauty in clusters, and gladden all true human hearts." "Bravo, sister! Why, men would call you an enthusiast; perhaps a blue-stocking. Have a care-have a care for your reputation. A young woman, you know, can't afford to be wiser than her neighbours now-a-days." "I say what I feel, and if that be true and right, who cares for the name they may give me? Look at that sky, Frank; see the golden edge of the sun just sinking behind the hill, and the stray fleece of carmine cloud. hovering over it as the glorious orb goes quietly down to its rest." "It is indeed beautiful," said the youth, putting his arm gently round his sister's neck; "do you remember Wordsworth's noble sonnet, "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea; A sound like thunder-everlastingly. Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine; Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not." "Noble poet, I thank thee. What a picture!" exclaimed the girl. "Ah, even words can paint Nature better than our poor colours can do. But it is the poet's eye that gives the seeing and the feeling everywhere." "True, Frank! and none can be a creative artist who is not also a poet. Hence I have hopes of you, Frank. And now, good boy," kissing him tenderly on the forehead, " you must be tired after this hard day's work, for I think you have not risen from off your chair; lay aside your canvas and colours for the night, and tell us all about this long journey to London. Which of the pictures will you exhibit? There is the "Mill-stream, early morning," "The Orison," and my favourite view "Sunset," from this cottage-window, which of course you will offer for exhibition?" Well, Carry, I shall try them. I have heard what rebuffs young artists have got, and am prepared for the rejection of them all. But I have done my best, and shall not feel the reproach of idleness. Then, I have long years before me yet, I hope, and shall labour to mend my faults and imperfections, of which I am but too conscious. There is my Great Teacher!" pointing towards the sun, which had now set in the west, but left long trailing clouds of glory behind him. "And when shall we see you back among us, Frank? I, for one, shall have no sweet rest till I know of your success, see your face, and hear your voice again." "I shall be back at Easter," said Frank, "and I shall bring you the news myself. Prepare then for victory, or for defeat,-only temporary though, mind that! I shall either bring clouds or sunshine with me-Sunshine at Easter! You remember the old fancy, still traditional in our old villages, that the sun dances at Easter! Well, a merry dance for the orb this year, and may we all be here to see it." And thus passed the quiet evening hours in kindly converse among the members of this loving little family group. Frank Grey was an enthusiastic young artist. Born and brought up in a beautiful pastoral district, under the care of intelligent parents, he had early imbibed a passionate love of nature, and learned to view it with a poetic eye. He fed upon the skiey influences of the open fields, the wide moors, the upland leas, and the rolling meadows, was nurtured upon sunshine and shadow, on hill and in valley, by the moorland stream, and in the leafy dell; knew all the choicest haunts, the sweetest and most sublime scenes of nature, throughout a district unrivalled in England for varied and picturesque beauty. The sublime grandeur of the summer and autumn fogs rolling up the sides of the hills, and of the thundering cataract plunging down their gulfies into the valley below; the inexpressible sweetness of the glow of evening enveloping the far-spreading valley, amid which the peaceful flocks and herds browsed in quiet joy; the glory of sunrise, "When from the naked top Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun All were familiar to him from a boy. Thus was his mind fed upon Nature, in her choicest aspects; and as these impelled a Wordsworth to become a poet, so did they impel the enthusiastic heart of this young man towards Art and its cultivation. "Oh, would," he exclaimed, on one occasion, "that I could seize these fleeting glories of the sun, the sky, the deep woods, and the fields, and make them immortal. Beautiful nature, how I love thee, nay, almost worship thee. Thou art my bride, my exceeding great joy, my love, my beautiful! " Some, to whom he uttered rhapsodies like this, "pooh poohed" them as the utterances of a dreamer; others, as the outpourings of a youth whom a too fond mother was allowing to grow up into a fool before his time. But his mother, perhaps, knew Frank better than his critics, and she allowed him to grow up in his own way, It had been the hope of his father that Frank should be an artist, and now that he was laid in the dust, there was a sacredness in the destiny predicted or wished for the lad by the departed, which she would not by a thought of hers disturb or counteract. So the youth grew up; and Nature was his teacher. From her he studied effects; and she sat to him without flinching. A few lessons from a travelling artist, once اد engaged for a time by the vicar down in the village, set him agoing; and study, reading, and patient labour did the rest. He learnt, in course of time, to make the canvas glow with beauty. We need scarcely say there were many failures; for the young artist had a high aim, and was never satisfied with what he had done. There was always a higher point beyond his reach for the time, and he aimed up to that. He might fall short, but still the effort carried him higher than if his aim had been low. Many a sleepless night did his study cause himstruggles of the teeming brain with the glowing fancy of the artist; but confused and fleeting images of beauty at length issued in definite shapes and forms; and then the ardent youth would spring from his couch at the first blush of dawn, and embody them, all glowing with life and beauty on the ready canvas. Here was the true artist Nature at work, love and labour strongly perseverant; and when did these go hand-in-hand, that triumphant, achievement failed to crown them?" Frank had fairly ventured on the artist's career, and he was determined not to look back. Some of his works had already been exhibited in the provincial town of his district, and had excited considerable interest there; amateurs had sought after him, and several commissions were the result. But he was bent on a higher flight; and London, with its great annual Exhibition, rose up before his mind's eye. London! thither all ambition in Art is directed. There, in the capital of the world, Art, Literature, and Science, concentre. The painter thinks of London while fagging at his portraits in country towns; the novelist and the historian think of London while toiling at their desks; the chemist and the philosopher have London before them when ardently investigating in their closet the secret mysteries of Nature. And now London loomed before our young artist, and stimulated him to new efforts in his sublime vocation. His last picture, which he was engaged in finishing at the opening of our story, was completed-the "Village Holiday," the most successful, and most carefully finished of his works; and now, though the colours are scarce dry, it is securely packed up with the rest, and all is ready for London. One bright morning soon after, when the sun was just peeping over the high grounds behind the cottage, and the birds were uttering their first morning burst of joy, the village rumble drove up to the little wicker-gate in front, as Frank proceeded quietly to descend the creaking stairs from his bed-chamber above. He had taken a tender leave of his mother and sister the night previous; and was startled to see a female form reclining in the eld arm-chair by the kitchen fire, as he crossed the floor towards the outer door. He started back. The faint light in the apartment enabled him to discern the mere outline of the figure, and he gently strode forward on tip-toe towards it. What was his surprise to find his sister Carry reclining there, her head leaning on her hand. She had watched over-night to call him early; but overpowered by watching, had fallen sound asleep. He stooped down and kissed her forehead, but had scarcely done so, ere the girl started up like a frightened fawn. "What! oh, Frank! dear Frank! is it so late? What a fool I am to have slept so." "Never mind, Carry, good-by. I'm off, farewell! be happy till I come back!" But here is breakfast ready, the kettle hissing, sit down! Nay, I'll not let you off so! It was only a moment's drowsiness; I kept awake as long as I could, and all through the night I have been thinking of you, and of our Sunshine at Easter, and such delights! more than you can think of." "Such delights! What can these be?" "Well, just sit down there now; I have news for you." "News! since last night?" "Even so; but go on with your breakfast while I tell you. Well, last night, you know you went early to rest, while I sat looking into the embers, and reading Wordsworth by turns,-what should I hear but a low knock at the door!" "Ah, I thought I heard some muttered noise below me; but soon dismissed it from my thoughts, I suppose, and fell asleep. Well, what was this knock?" some honest career for himself, before he could venture again to look his father and mother in the face. Alas, his father, at least, he was destined never again to see on earth. A few months after, while still suffering from the effects of his son's misconduct and flight, sunken in spirits and straitened in circumstances, with a frame but ill able to resist the effects of constant exposure and hardship, he was called off one inclement night to attend a tedious and lingering case many miles off. He rode there through the rain, and sat during the anxious night in his wet clothes, by the bedside of his suffering patient. He returned home ill, but continued nevertheless to work, until disease had so fixed upon him that he was beyond the reach of all skill. He died, and his sor"Not so fast, Frank. Wait till you hear. He en-rowing wife and her two children were left to battle with tered and proceeded to lay upon the table a bundle of the world for themselves. Fortunately, Mr. Grey had letters, and said that, by some most extraordinary over- taken the precaution of insuring his life for a small sum, sight or neglect, they had failed to be delivered to us. I and this, together with the uncollected debts, and the glanced over the directions, there were some to me, some sale of the practice and the small stock, enabled the to mother, and those to yourself,” handing two letters to widow to realize a slender income which would at least him across the table. place her and her little family beyond the reach of want. "I called gently behind the door, for I was fearful of disturbing you, 'Who's there?' And from the answer I knew the voice: I opened it, and it was the new curate." 'Ah, Carry, I understand. A blush! Why, Carry, who'd have thought it." "As I live," he exclaimed, on glancing at the address, "our brother Tom, whom we had given up for lost." "It is indeed Tom. What happy news for mother. What joy at Easter!" Leaving the brother and sister to discuss this extraordinary discovery of a brother long supposed to be lost, and the departure of Frank, who left it to his sister to gently break the delightful intelligence to the widowed mother, we proceed backwards in our story, in order to throw some light upon this new and unforeseen incident. But a second, and almost as severe a blow awaited her; for "misfortunes," it is said "never come single." A newspaper account of a Dreadful Shipwreck, had just appeared, from which it seemed that a vessel called the Mary Ann had struck on a reef off the coast of Newfoundland, and only five out of the entire number of passengers, had been saved. They turned to the last letter of the runaway son, and found their worst fears realized. This was the fated vessel in which he had announced his intention of sailing; and among the list of survivors his name did not appear. poor widow, and she could still rejoice that so many blessings had been spared to her. Now, old Caleb Thompson, who kept the town's post at H- was an excessively "slow coach." He would not have been tolerated for a week in these days of railroad speed and penny postage. But in country towns, in the time of which we speak, punctuality and dispatch were not the rule, to anything like the extent to which they prevail now. It was no unusual thing for Caleb to keep a letter by him a week or more, before delivering it. He had no system nor order, and letters got huddled to a side, under tea-packages, or among invoices, or mixed up with twine and small wares (for he was the general dealer of the place), and thus many failed to reach their destination for days and weeks after they had come to hand. What was there to detain the poor heart-stricken Mrs. Grey was the widow of a country surgeon, who widow and her family amid the scenes of their past haphad laboured for many years in the distant town of piness? She determined to retire to the village of her H. He seemed a comfortable and thriving man; childhood, there to live quietly and inexpensively, devowas diligent, sober, and skilful, and seemed in a fair way ting herself to the culture and education of her remaining of realizing a competency, though there are few or no family. She left, attended by the blessings and sympacountry doctors who succeed in realizing the fortunes of thies of the entire neighbourhood; retreated to her little either clergymen or attornies. Still he prospered, mixed cottage on the outskirts of the village of Broxburn, and in good society, and promised to enjoy a long term of there, in the expanding minds of her children, in their life. He educated his small family expensively but love of nature, and in the delightful sympathy which thoroughly, looking upon this as one of the best invest-bound them to each other, happiness returned to the ments he could make for his children. Tom, his eldest son, he destined for his own profession, and he was sent to college, when he became of sufficient age. Frank, he called "the artist," the boy having early indicated a taste for drawing; and this the mother did not choose to forget. Things were going on smoothly enough, until at length some information reached the father's ears about Tom's pranks at college, which greatly distressed him. He had fallen into the society of some dissipated youths older than himself, and became involved in their extravagant courses. Such things cannot long be concealed: they soon manifest themselves in the shape of debts, and Mr. Grey was applied to, first by his son,-whom he provided with money to an extent greater than his own means warranted, but which he took care to accompany with serious warnings as to the results of such a course, and then by the creditors of his son themselves, whose claims began to amount to a serious sum, beyond the father's means of paying. Mr. Grey announced his intention of immediately paying his son a visit; but the youth anticipated it by decamping forthwith. He had not the courage to bear the frowns and expostulations of the father whose means he had so disgracefully squandered, nor yet to return home and look in the faces of the brother and sister whom he had so grievously wronged. He fled; at first no one knew whither; his father could light on no traces of him at the late scene of his dissipations; but shortly after, a letter from him dated at a distant seaport town reached home, in which he expressed his deep contrition for his follies, and stated his determination to recover his character, and carve out Shortly after Mrs. Grey took her departure from H, a post-paid letter, with a colonial postmark, came into Caleb's hands. She had taken the precaution of furnishing Caleb with her new address (which was at a considerable distance), but somehow it had got mislaid or lost, and Caleb accordingly laid the letter on one side amongst a similar lot, with the remark that “Mrs. Grey is a respectable woman, and will turn up some time!" Other letters addressed to the deceased Mr. Grey, and to other members of the family, came to hand in like manner; and Caleb laid them aside as before. He never dreamt of such a thing as returning them to the "Dead Letter Office;" "for," he would observe to himself, "they are not dead: they are respectable people, and will turn up some time." But Caleb never found the |