"But he can burrow," said Juliet; "and if not the hops are growing so tall that you will never find him."

"We shall see," said Prosper, and calling his brother, with a loud whoop, they both ran off to the hop garden together.

"Excellent creatures, both of them," said Miss L'Estrange, "but some people are decidedly most agreeable at a distance."

As she said this, her eyes rested on Miss Palmer, who was standing near; not, I am sure, intentionally, for a gradual sadness and quietness had crept over this poor girl lately, which we all pitied; she, however, on meeting the glance of Miss L'Estrange, coloured, and drew back, evidently taking the remark to herself, for she turned away, and bent her steps to the solitary walk in the shrubbery.

She had just reached it, when, obeying a happy impulse, I ran after her, and catching her just as the shadow of the first laurels was cast upon her; "Miss Palmer," I exclaimed, "What are you going away for ?"

She neither stopped nor turned, but walked resolutely into the very thickest of the shadow, till at length I ran before her, stood in the grass-path, and faced her.

She was pale, and perhaps the gloom cast upon her from the trees overhead helped to overcloud her face; but there was an energy in its expression that I did not understand. I saw she had been struggling with herself, for those wonderful eyes of hers flashed, and changed their expression every instant; and though I had so bravely intruded upon her solitude I now felt half afraid of her; she appeared all at once, and by reason of some peculiar insight that I had acquired into her character, to have become much older, far wiser, and incomparably superior to myself.

I thought so at the time, but since then I have thought that the change must rather have been in herself; either the absence of her usual colour, or something which she had just read in the little New Testament, that she held tightly in both hands, had given to her features a strange look of awe, which increased as her excitement subsided, and which I cannot describe, though I have seen it characterised as

"That look

Which some have on their faces, who die young."

Though I had abruptly stopped her, she was too pre-occupied to speak at first, till, being determined she should not think that my friend and champion had intentionally distressed her, I laid both my hands on hers, which were clasped over the little book, and made an attempt to push her gently backwards towards the entrance of the shrubbery. I attempted, but did not succeed,

and she looked down gravely into my face, and said, “What do you wish, Miss West? What do you mean ?"

'Oh, Miss Palmer," I exclaimed, “you know-you know as well as I do, that Miss L'Estrange did not say that about people who are most agreeable at a distance, meaning or thinking anything about you.”

"It does not signify what she meant," she replied, after a pause, so much as what you mean?"

As I continued to lean against her, holding her hands tightly (for I wished to elicit from her some admission that she felt I was right before I let her go) she looked into my eyes, and seemed to be quietly considering my features, and reading all my thoughts, as if learning me by heart. I did not shrink from her scrutiny, and we continued to look at each other till the expression of her eyes softened, and she smiled with that peculiar sweetness seldom seen but in those whose cast of countenance is grave and cold.

"I should be sorry if you thought we wished you to go away," I said, answering her last remark.

"Oh, then, you do care about me?" she answered, quickly. "Care about you," I repeated, "Oh yes, of course."

I had forgotten at the moment that it was on my champion's account that I had followed her, and that only during the past few minutes I had cared about her for herself.

"I believe, since you assure me of it, that Miss L'Estrange did not allude to me," she then said, (I thought her language had also grown older) and as I released her hands she put them about my waist and drew me nearer. I saw she wished me to kiss her and I obeyed the wish, with a sort of consciousness that this was an important kiss to her, but no consciousness at all that during all my future life it was to be of importance to my peace, that I should have given it.

(To be concluded in our next.)

THE WEG-WARTENS.

IF you have travelled in Switzerland during the summer months, you have probably remarked a little wild flower, somewhat resembling one of our common corn plants, but with a different and peculiar shade of

blue. This pretty flower is met with in abunndance by the sides of the highways; the dry and dusty places where we look for nothing so bright and cheering. Hence its expressive German name of " Weg-warten," or Watcher by the way-side."

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Now, it has struck me that this modest little Swiss flower is not the only weg-warten which is to be found in our pilgrim path. As we traverse the broad thoroughfare of life, often wearied with its roughnesses, and harassed by its discomforts, our drooping eye lights upon some sweet promise, or some unlooked for mercy, which springs up around our footsteps, and in a moment our heart is cheered, and we hasten onwards with an elastic tread, and a lightened brow.

Ah, dear reader, the path of life is studded with these precious weg-wartens; but we too frequently pass them by unnoticed, and thus lose the comfort which they are meant to impart unto us. They are not large staring flowers, like the sunflower, nor yet lofty and majestic trees, like the palm, forcing themselves into view, and attracting our attention by their prominence; they are small and delicate in appearance, and easily overlooked by an unobservant eye. I should not wonder if there are many of them now "blushing unseen" close by your side, and wasting their sweetness on your discontented and repining spirit.

You can see, plainly enough, the weeds and the thorns which disfigure the ground; and as to the dust which the wind blows in your face, or the large stones which tire and obstruct your feet, there can be no doubt that your perception is keen enough with regard to them; but the little flowers of mercy and goodness, which a God of love has planted for your comfort and encouragement, why you have hardly yet glanced at

them!

Open your eyes, then, and look around you. Yes, the road may be dull and dusty; the hedges are untrimmed, and the heat is oppressive; but are there no

weg-wartens turning their mild blue eye upon you with a silent reproof for your neglect and unthankfulness? Begin to examine them, and count them, and you will be surprised to find how numerous and how beautiful they are; and it is even possible, as the result of your search, that from your lips may be heard the song of gratitude, instead of the strains of lamentation.

Happily, there are some persons in the world, who, like old widow Morley, are always on the look-out for weg-wartens. I used to say that a visit to her did me as much good as the perusal of the hundred and third Psalm; she was so lively and contented; so ready to point out whatever was pleasant and cheering in her experience. She could see to read her Bible without spectacles; and I am sure she did not want any magnifying glasses in order to discern her way-side flowers, or to appreciate their value. "Oh," she would sometimes exclaim, "I have so many mercies, I don't know how to be thankful enough for them." And yet she lived by herself in one small room, with neither husband nor children to solace her; often suffering, always feeble; and not knowing sometimes where her next dinner was to come from! Would it not be well

if you were to try and imitate her?

But the sweet flower of the mountain land may teach a lesson to another, and a different class of readers; to those who are toiling on with faltering steps and desponding hearts in the path of Christian usefulness and duty. I need not tell such that there is much in that path which tries their faith, and disappoints their hopes.

You labour and pray; you plant and water; you watch and wait; and yet all seems to remain barren and unproductive. Is it strange that the bearers of precious seed are those who go forth weeping? Still, dear reader, hope on, struggle on, persevere, have tience, "be not weary in well-doing." There are

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some weg-wartens just budding, or bursting into flower besides you; hidden, perhaps, at present, but soon to be revealed, in answer to your mournful and oft-repeated inquiry, "Who hath believed our report? and to whom have the arm of the Lord been revealed?"

I have met with these fair flowers myself, dear reader, and will tell you about one of them, if you like to listen to my simple description.

Some years since, I had a class of Sunday school children, of the most unpromising and discouraging character, under my care and instruction. They were girls of varying ages, who belonged to some of the lowest grades in society. Rough and rude in their manners, difficult to manage, and difficult to interest, I could often have sat down and wept over my want of success. I believe I sometimes did. Week after week I returned to my post, and did all I could for their improvement; but it was rather from a sense of duty, than from the hope of really doing them good. The soil upon which I had to work, resembled the sandy desert, or the barren rock. Could flowers ever grow there? I thought not.

For some months I was laid aside through illness. Before I had perfectly recovered, a messenger came to say, that Bessie N-, one of my old scholars, was dying of consumption, and wished to see me. It is needless to add that I went to her immediately. In a miserable house, in a most miserable neighbourhood, I found this poor girl. Her mother, a dirty, forlornlooking creature, with a squalid baby in her arms, was gossiping, and half-quarrelling at the entrance of the court; and her father, unwashed and unshaven, was smoking his pipe over a remnant of fire in the kitchen.

Upstairs, alone, and neglected, where the cold wind rushed in through the broken window, lay my little pupil. She was so wasted and worn that I could scarcely recognise her; and she welcomed me with so