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own, almost frightened her. As the daughter of a country gentleman of small property, the management of domestic affairs and the practice of domestic economy, had been at once her duty and her pleasure; and, as the wife of a clergyman in a village like "sweet Auburn," her household virtues were again exercised for the benefit of all around her. Exactly suited for the sphere in which she moved, she cared for nought beyond it. Woman," she would say, "cannot be an independent agent; to fulfil the purpose of her being— to be the helpmate, not the rival of man-she must remain in her proper place, the fireside of her home." At the commencement of her widowhood, she had come to stay at Greyhurst, for Mrs. Hyde had been her schoolfellow in early years; and, since the death of that lady, she had resided there entirely, in compliance with the wish of her deceased friend, in whose opinion she was a suitable person to be entrusted with the charge of the young heiress. Her yielding temper, gentle disposition, and unworldly character, well fitted her to be the submissive companion of one possessed of a stronger will than her own; but these very qualities, excellent though they were, rendered her incapable of gaining any great influence over the unformed but active mind of the wayward and enthusiastic girl, or of controlling and directing the noble impulses with which it teemed-impulses sudden and unaccountable, which sprang up and blazed and died away, but which blended firmness and sympathy might have trained and cultivated, until the flickering and uncertain fire, easily ignited and as easily quenched, had become a bright and steady flame. Though a warm attachment had arisen between them, Mrs. Maitland was too deficient in judgment, and perhaps in penetration, to use for Ella's advantage the power it gave her; and thus the precious hour of the mind's awakening, the years of early youth, with all their freshness, were thrown away, and the uncultured mind-garden was overrun with weeds, which grew up in rank luxuriance where flowers alone should have flourished. True it is that the seeds of many virtues were sown there afterwards, but the first strength of the soil had been wasted, and there was much evil to eradicate before the useful plants could blossom and bear fruit. As yet, however, the wilderness was unreclaimed, so Mrs. Maitland need not have been so much startled by the blooming but thorny bramble which crossed her path, in the form of Ella's singular avowal of dissatisfaction with the lot, which her amiable but not very clear-sighted friend thought so superlatively delightful.

Fortunately, the young lady was spared the infliction of a

well-meant but ill-judged harangue, commencing with a few common-place remarks on the impropriety of her behaviour, and concluding with an exhortation to gratitude for being deterred from indulging her trifling whims and wilful fancies, by the entrance of her maid, who handed her a tray, on which were two small morocco cases, saying, "Mr. Hyde" (she was no servant of the squire's she said, Miss Thornton was her young mistress) "told Reynolds to take these to you, Miss; but as I was coming to ask if I should take out your riding-dress, I brought them."

"Thank you, Bennett; give them to me, please, what can they be? Oh, about riding," after a moment's consideration; "why, the horses are not ordered, but, as Mr. Hyde does not want me this morning, I may as well go out. Let Briggs know that I shall soon be ready."

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Exit Mrs. Bennett, wondering, probably, what the flat maroon-coloured boxes can contain, if she has not already gratified her curiosity.

"What can they be? jewellery, of course; a necklace, perhaps-no, bracelets, for the cases are the same size-I am sure I have bracelets and necklaces, too, in abundance-but still, as this is my birthday, I suppose my uncle thinks he must give me some present, and of course, like all men, he believes that girls care more for dress and jewels than for all the world beside. Well, I would as soon have them as anything else. Oh dear! how sad it is to have nothing to wish for!"

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"Very," said Mrs. Maitland, laughing. "How inconsistent you are, Ella; how frequently you contradict yourself."

"Not at all. I do not mean that I have nothing to wish for, but that I wish for no thing."

"A delicate but just distinction!"

"Never mind about distinctions now. What can they be?" And she held her uncle's gifts and turned them over, repeating, "What can they be?"

"I would advise you to look, my dear."

So having exhausted the pleasure of wondering and guessing, Ella opened one of the little cases, and beheld a miniature, exquisitely painted, of a very lovely creature, apparently about her own age, and so like her, that it might have passed for a portrait of herself. With a slight exclamation, she touched the spring of the other; the lid flew up, and another likeness, taken after the lapse of some few years, from the same original, met her eager eye. The first she had scarcely recognized, but one glimpse of the second was

sufficient; and pressing it to her quivering lips, she cried, "Oh! mother, mother!"

"What can be the matter?" exclaimed Mrs. Maitland; but Ella turned her flushed and tearful face away without reply. Alarmed by her emotion, her friend rose quickly, and again asked its cause; but the orphan did not notice her; she saw but the image of her lost parent, and she was again the child that, ten short years ago, had knelt beside that parent's knee, and said the prayer that parent's voice had taught her. One after another rose the memories of her unforgotten infancy, and the figure of her mother was in every scene-leaning over her child's low couch and smoothing its downy pillow, and wishing her good night; or withdrawing the curtains of the little bed, in the bright summer mornings, and wakening the slumberer with such a soft but fervent kiss as a mother's lips alone can give. Now Ella remembered herself as playing by her mother's side, or learning from her some simple precepts of duty and obedience; and clearly, oh! how clearly, did she remember the day when she sat beside her dying mother, and lisped the text, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God; and how her mother clasped her in a weak but a fond embrace, and breathed one last petition, that her child might early seek her God, and so become an inheritor of his kingdom.

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"Ella, Ella," said Mrs. Maitland, and how strange her voice sounded; 66 are you dreaming? Are you not pleased with your uncle's present?"

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Very pleased," she answered absently.

"Are they both portraits of Mrs. Thornton?"

"No-yes-I suppose so—this, at least, is my mother, my own dear mother."

Mrs. Maitland passed her arm round her companion's waist; she understood her agitation now, and tried to calm it by changing the direction of her thoughts. "How con

siderate of Mr. Hyde; they must have been very expensive. Look, dear, they are not fastened in, so you can have them set as bracelet-clasps-rather too large for that, perhaps; or as brooches; though it is impossible that they should look better than they now do, the dark velvet throws up the colours so well."

There was so little similarity between the two pictures, that it seemed scarcely possible that the laughing girl-with the light of hope in her sparkling eye, the bloom of youth and health on her fair cheek, and an arch smile curling her naughty little mouth, as if, conscious of the power of her fascinations, she demanded homage, and challenged admira

tion could have grown into the pensive woman, from whose pure pale face the traces of all earthly passion were obliterated; only in the liquid darkness of her lustrous eyes were depths of true maternal tenderness. The radiant loveliness and joyous air of the former, were as different from the tranquil beauty and spiritualized expression of the latter, as the sunny morning is from the starlight night. One was a Hebe, coloured with the brightest tints of the palette, the other was like the Mater Dolorosa of Guido, only less lachrymose; and the resemblance in each instance was heightened by the disposition of the drapery, of the black and glossy hair, which wreathed with flowers flowed carelessly over the maiden's shoulders, but was banded smoothly beneath the widow's cap, and the black hood which covered it. Could it be that time had made so great a change? No; time might have dimmed, but it could not have so subdued, and purified, and exalted. The gold, mingled with the dross, had been thrown into the furnace of affliction; the worthless part was cast away, and the good metal came out refined from all alloy. Hence the resignation and the peace that gleamed like a serene twilight upon her countenance.

A glimmering of this passed through Ella's mind, and now a word of counsel would have been well-timed, but, as had often happened before, Mrs. Maitland let the right moment pass. A note had been enclosed in one of the cases, and when the lid was raised the paper had fallen on the table. Ella opened it, and read a few words from her uncle, in a polite and formal, but really kind manner, requesting her acceptance of the gift which it accompanied, with the usual wishes on the return of her birthday.

“I must thank him immediately," she exclaimed, with tears glistening in her eyes. "Oh! Mrs. Maitland, how good he is, and I am so detestably ungrateful. How he has always studied my wishes, and I begrudge a few hours to relieve the tedium of his confinement. Even now I will again offer to sit with him this morning."

"You are going to ride, dear, and you know Mr. Graham is with him."

"I would rather not ride; and a few minutes ago I heard carriage wheels going down the avenue, so I think Mr. Graham must have left. I must thank my uncle, at all events, and begin at once to be more grateful and dutiful, and try to be a comfort to him." And taking up her treasures, she opened the door; then looking back, with a smile, she said, "After all, this may perhaps be my mission." "And what was yours, Mrs. Maitland?"

CARLA MEREX.

WILTON GRAY'S PEEP INTO FUTURITY.

WILTON GRAY sat one afternoon in an easy chair by the fireside. He was not well, you may be sure, or he would not have been there, for Wilton Gray was one of those energetic, restless men of business who never seem to want a holiday, or to know how to employ one! But he had been laid up for some days with a severe cold, and although now rapidly recovering, he was not yet well enough to return to his counting-house. So, with a book in his hand, and his feet stretched out on a large ottoman, he was passing a quiet hour alone; for it was holiday-time, and his gentle, cheerful, little wife had gone out on an excursion of sight-seeing, with her troop of noisy, merryhearted children.

Wilton sat with his book in his hand, but he was evidently rather thinking than reading. He was thinking about the probable and possible events of the coming twelve months; and as he, with the rest of mankind, had just crossed another of the boundary lines of time, there was nothing very remarkable in the subject of his cogitations. It is natural for us, is it not, when the New Year, amidst mirth and music, has made her entrance into our dwellings, to ask her what she has brought for us, and what she will give us? Certainly, there is not much use in asking these questions, because she gives us no response; and her imperturbable silence, upon all matters connected with her future mission, disturbed, and at length, almost irritated, the mind of the reflective Wilton. He was naturally of an anxious, unquiet turn of mind; always striving to know things which no one had ever been able to find out, and loving to ponder over any topic which was enveloped in mystery and difficulty. To be sure, he had not much time for mental speculation in his hurried business hours, yet even then he

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