when no other would, and as we've kept you so Tom Ellis removed to the county town, and long we won't part with you till you're able to do something for yourself. After that you're your own master."

The poor boy's heart was deeply sensible to this touch of feeling. He rose, got his stick, and asked leave to go out in the summer twilight.

"Whenever I'm happy," said he, "and my heart's full, I like to take a walk by myself, for then I feel relief and my mind gets lighter and easier."

Martley was then left to make the best progress he could without an instructer. Still he had been taught the method of learning, and made up by practice for the want of a master. His "Bonnie Jean" was heard at all hours, and from all parts of the village; for to the simple boy even this slight memorial of her name was a sweet, sweet solace. In this way, two years passed, during which time he improved himself so as to be able to play by ear in a manner sufficient to satisfy those on whom his humble skill was in future to be exercised.

These were two happy years. Their love grew with their growth, and drew their hearts day by day still nearer to that point at which they were to mingle for ever; it was now known too, and from the unity of their fate, and the peculiarity of their situation, excited no surprise. One would have thought that there could be little to diminish

He accordingly went out and took a solitary stroll through a green field which stretched behind the house, uttering, as was his custom, those indistinct murmurs which unconsciously escaped from him whenever wayward fancy, whether in pain or pleasure, wrapped his imagination in the visions that arose from the hopes and fears, the sufferings or affections, which chequered his humble life. Ellis, on hearing the determination of Philip's the happiness or love of two creatures so humble family upon the subject of his removal from them, as our orphans. But wherever the human heart was somewhat surprised, for he expected that they is, there also will be all the bright and dark that it would have felt happy at an opportunity of getting is doomed to enjoy or suffer. Martley at this time him taken off their hands; as it was, he had no accidentally heard that Jane was wooed by another. other course left but to forward the boy's progress as Until this intelligence reached him, his whole life rapidly as possible. No great natural talent for might be said to have been one calm flow of hapmusic did our orphan possess, although he was far piness. The idea that it was possible that she from being deficient in talent of a higher order, might cease to love him, and become attached to had it been cultivated; but what he wanted in another was utterly insupportable. He reflected natural quickness he made up in perseverance and upon his own blindness and the slender provision most unremitting attention. His interviews with he was enabled to promise as a husband; he Jane were now much rarer, but then they were thought of the advantages which his rival postender in proportion to the length of time that sessed over him both in person and situation, for elapsed between them. He himself was glad, that during her servitude his daily attention to the instructions of Tom Ellis, and the subsequent necessity for practice, engaged his mind, and won it back from those musings which her absence would have made painful to a heart so much accustomed to her society. But he felt thankful even for this kind dispensation in his fate, and although he only had, with few exceptions, an opportunity of seeing her on Sundays, yet as there is no sabbath in the affections, our humble pair, when they met, considered Sunday as their week of hearts, and gathered from love and innocence the manna on which their souls fed until they met again.

he was her fellow-servant and continually near her; he was not ignorant that the eye frequently guides the heart, and that personal beauty often takes precedence of goodness and virtue; bat there was one thought heavier and more hopeless than all he knew that in becoming his wife, she must stoop to the lowest depths of wretchedness and shame, and consent to go with him hard in hand through life, the object of common charity. This train of reflection arose not from the gloomy creations of a jealous mind. It was all true, and the suspicions to which it gave rise were reasonable. It is no wonder then, that Martley felt as if the arrow of death was in his heart. The change Time thus advanced, and for a season brought which came over him was marked by neither venothing to disturb either the tenor of their lives or hemence nor outrage, but it spoke of despair, gloom. their confidence in each other's love. But, alas! and a querulous impatience of temper which struck we know too well how easily this world's adver- all observers as unaccountable in one whose spirit sities break the promises of hearts that are too had been hitherto proverbially meek and patient. eager to guarantee their own happiness. Poor From this moment, his clarionet, whose tones had Martley's love mingled in all his pursuits. The breathed night and day of his "Bonnie Jean.” first tune he enabled himself to play with ease was became utterly silent, or gave forth nothing but sirs that beautiful one-Burns's "Bonnie Jean." He steeped in hopelessness and sorrow. During his learned it more eagerly because the girl was in his love-his trusting and happy love-he lost himse f thoughts, and he intended to surprise her with this in those delicious broodings over his own affection touching proof of her hold upon his heart, though which make solitude so sweet and holy to the removed from her society. At this time, however, heart; but now it was that he sought it more

eagerly than he had ever done, and felt all inter- "No," said the boy, whilst his features worked, course with society a restraint almost too painful and his breast heaved, and his blood sped through to be borne. Hour by hour, and day by day, his his veins with such force that the pulses of his indistinct murmurings came forth, while slowly temples stood out visibly-" No-no,” said he, traversing the fields, like the wail of the ring-dove "I'm not ungrateful, but you're killing me-I can't during impatience or sorrow for its absent mate. bear this-you're killing me—and I'm not provoTwo Sundays had elapsed since he heard the king you to it." tidings which moved him, and yet she had not come "The best way, then, to avoid killing you, and to him! He had thought of going to demand the to miss being hanged ourselves, is to give you a truth, and having heard it, to take a long and last lodging once and for ever on the wrong side of farewell of a girl whose change of affection he the house." mourned, but could not blame. At home, his re- He caught poor Martley before the close of his plies became sharp, and his sense of what was sentence and led him rudely towards the door. due to those who supported him apparently less "Oh, don't" said the boy--" don't. I'll overcome grateful. Some small losses too, unfavorable to my temper, if you will let me stay. Philip, don't the family, had occasioned them to regret prevent-put me out on the world, for I have no friend, as ing him from accepting Ellis's offer. There was, you know, to shelter me, and after all I could live therefore, little wanted to sever the very feeble in no other family so happily." bond which held them together.

"Our manner," said Philip, "has been changed towards you for the better too—but it appears that it has done you more harm than good. One would think by the sulks you eternally get into of late that you think we've a right to keep you-but I tell you if you don't lay them aside that you'll find yourself very much mistaken

66

"I care little--I care little about that or any thing else,” he replied ; no one now can make me happy-no one now can make me more miserable than I am."

"What is it that has come over you of late?" inquired Philip's wife; "your temper's dark, and something appears to trouble you."

"As to what darkens my temper, I'll not be questioned anything about it," he replied-" nor I'll not be pitied either-I want no consolation,and I'll have none-why should I care about any human being? I that no one living loves."

No further remonstrance, however, would be heard; his staff and clarionet were placed in his hands; the door was closed against him; and in this state he was left without a roof to cover him.

It was near dusk of a Saturday evening in the early part of autumn, when the boy passed out of the cabin in which he had spent his life. The mournfully desolating tumult in his heart, and the conviction that he was now homeless, both united, so completely distracted him, that without well knowing whither he went, his feet turned mechanically towards his parents' grave, on which he lay down in the apathy of a mind stunned by the keenness of pain into a momentary forgetfulness of its sufferings. For some nights before, he had slept but little; and as the accounts which reached him of the attachment that subsisted between Jane and her fellow-servant, had been detailed with painful minuteness even to the mention of time and place, he wished, when placing his head upon the grass

"You won't be questioned," said Philip-" you! under which they slept, that his repose might be And is this the tone you speak to us in ?"

"I know very well what ails him," said the wife. "He was in love with Jane Campbell, and now he's jealous that she's going to be married to another-why surely you poor blind foolish creature you couldn't be so mad as to expect that she would marry you and become a beggar for life." You won't be questioned," repeated Philip, dwelling with indignation upon words which he considered to imply want of personal respect.

as sound and unbroken as their own. Yes, he laid down his head upon that melancholy pillow; and as if the spirits of the dead hovered over their blind deserted orphan and soothed him in his misery, he felt himself sinking by degrees into forgetfulness, and soon was asleep. The next morning he awoke not until after the sun had risen; but in addition to his mental malady, he felt himself inclined to indisposition, although for that day it affected him but slightly. Grief and despair were No," said William; "and if I thought the words strongly upon him—and again as usual he sought your wife has just said to me were ever to be repeat- his former haunts about the fields, where he waned, I'd never sleep another night under your roof." dered from place to place, insensible to every thing "Do you mean this as a threat?" asked the but his abandonment by the girl he loved with such man, laughing ironically-" surely you wouldn't incredible strength and tenderness. Two o'clock desert us now, and leave us to sink or swim with- had arrived, and he sat under the boughs of a out your assistance? Because an ill-favored awk- blasted elder, occasionally muttering to himself, wark girl won't marry a blind, pock-pitted booby and sometimes blowing a solitary and mournful like you, we are to be deserted and left to break note on his clarionet, when all at once the noise of our hearts with grief after you-ha-ha-ha- footsteps startled him into deep and sudden attenwell that's good." tion. An ear like his could not be mistaken; the

tread of the feet which approached him vibrated | along every nerve into his heart, and told him that his "bonnie Jean" was beside him.

For a minute she stood with her hand raised as if to tap him on the shoulder; her pale face elated with more than usual gladness; but she soon perceived by his manner that his heart was troubled with more than usual harshness-her heart partook of his distress, and melted into affection and pity. "William dear," said she softly," 'you must be very much troubled when you did not hear the noise of your own Jane's feet."

She stooped down while speaking, and caught him tenderly by the hand, but, to her utter amazement, he repulsed her, and returned no answer.

"Has Philip put you out?" she inquired.

No, no; poor Philip! I'm not angry with him or his."

"William," she replied, "you're displeased about something, but indeed, indeed, you need not be so with me. I feel for you this minute as much as I ever did."

"This minute-ay for this minute may be you pity me as much as you ever did; that word would break a thousand hearts, and how can mine stand it? And so you pity me! go-go-I'll speak to you no more."

"You know, William, I love you." "Give me your hand," said he suddenly," and sit down beside me."

She accordingly did so, and placing his fingers upon her heart he felt its pulsations beating for some time in silence.

"Is not," said he abruptly, " is not George Fin

"None," said he, none but one-nobody but one has ever injured me—your Jane you said—no-lay courting you?" no-she that was my Jane, has broken my heartwhy did you come this day to me? for you only come to deceive me-"

"To deceive you!"

"Yes to deceive me-to kill me."

"Why what do you mean? but I suppose you are angry because I staid away from you the last two Sundays; it was out of my power to come-it was, indeed, William, and I came as soon as I could."

The suddenness of the question, and the light which it instantaneously threw upon his conduct; joined to her consciousness that it was true, startled and agitated her considerably. The pulsations quickened and got stronger; her hand, too, trembled, and a blush, could he have seen it, overspread her face.

lently leaving the spot where he sat, walked towards the village. In vain she followed him-in vain she wept, and besought him to hear her; all was to no purpose; his heart appeared to be immovable. At length she was forced to discontinue her

"I want no answer," he continued. "I know it all. From this minute, I'll never speak to you again." "Leave me, Jane-leave me. I'm tired of The poor girl burst into fresh grief, and implored everything and every one-I like to hear no voice-him to hear her, but he would listen to no expla my heart's full of grief and sorrow-There's no nation. With a flushed cheek he got up, and “one now that I can trust-there's no one now that I can love—I'm sitting here under this blasted tree-just like itself—I'm sitting here as you see it's my home, Jane-it's my home, for I have no other to go to-but I would not care about that if I was as I used to be. There was a day when I solicitations; and after drying her eyes, which were had a home when your heart was my home-it was then I lived and was happy, but now in every way I am homeless; but I don't care, I dont't care." Before he had done, the tears were streaming down the faithful and affectionate girl's cheeks, who never for a moment dreamt of the strong passion which moved him.

red with weeping, she turned by a short cut toward her own home, unwilling that the evidences of be grief should be observed by her acquaintances.

CHAPTER VI.

Within the simplest section of the very humblest life, what an extent of woe and suffering may lie. Poor Martley was a proof of this gloway truth; for lowly as the reader knows him to have been, yet he will admit the difficulty of describe!

"You needn't cry," he continued-"I don't want you to be sorry for what you have done-It was wrong for me to think that one like me-like meme-what am I? Oh it was wrong to think so, but I was young when I thought it first-it was folly-the heavy load of misery which pressed upon s it was folly."

"William," said the girl, "if you do not tell me what it is that afflicts you, who is there else you can tell it to, or who has such a right to knowwho can, or will or ought to feel as much for you

as poor Jane ?"

heart.

On entering the village he met the very person to whose home he was then directing his steps. Feeling that his exclusion from the asylum which had hitherto been his home, was final, he resolved to ask leave from this man to sleep in his bar, until some course of life should be adopted.

"I'll have nobody to feel for me-feel for meno-I'll not be pitied-there was too much of that. Leave me, Jane," he repeated impatiently,-"leave" me, leave me."

"Why," said the man, in reply to his request,
has Philip put you out at last?"
"The wonder is," said the other, unwilling to

let fall an unfavorable word against him,
"the
wonder is that he kept me so long, and he so poor
and struggling himself.”

He put the clarionet to his lips, but whether from a momentary absence of mind or from habit, the first notes were those of the air which the man

"True enough," said his neighbor," and indeed, asked him to play. He stopped-laid down the every one did wonder at it."

"Philip's way," said the boy, "is worse than his heart; but I hope to be able yet to offer him some recompense for making his house the orphan's home."

clarionet, and placing his head on his hands, burst out into an uncontrollable fit of sorrow.

"There is something on that boy's heart," observed a woman who stood by with a child in her arms" and if it be what I fear," she added, "God

What do you intend to do with yourself now?" pity him." asked the man.

"To play on my clarionet from place to place," said poor William, "and to take whatever I get. There's no other way of life before me." "And when did you leave Philip ?" Yesterday evening before dark." "And who kept you last night?"

"Poor fellow," said they to each other, "he has led a lonely and unhappy life all along, and surely it's no wonder he should feel grief now, when he hasn't a house to put his head into,-Philip has turned him away."

But Harry Lacey has taken him in," said others, "and says he'll keep him as long as he

"I slept in the churchyard," said the orphan, stays in the neighborhood." "upon my father and mother's grave."

"YesI would There are straw and eat some

They then proffered him whatever comfort they could afford, which indeed was but little. Food he would not taste, and the care that oppressed him they were unable to lessen.

"Oh, God help you," said the man. yes, of course you may sleep in the barn. give you a better bed if I had it. and sacks enough. But come in When his grief had subsided, he arose, and after thing, and while you stay among us you'll not acknowledging their friendly offers, turned his want your bit and sup, so long as I can spare it." steps towards Lacey's house, where he was re"I have no appetite," replied the orphan, "thank-ceived with kindness, and again pressed to take ing him. "I could eat nothing now; my mind is some food-this, as before, he declined-complaindistressed, and I don't feel well. I'll go back to ed of not feeling well, and begged Lacey to open the field for my clarionet, where I forgot it; it the barn door that he might try, as he said, to get used to be a comfort to me-but now, neither it some rest. The man did so, and having himself. nor any thing else is." prepared this humblest of all couches, was about to bid him good evening when the boy, seizing his hand, said

"Do you know the first wish of my heart this night?"

"No," said the other; "what is it?"

"It is that when I sleep here I might never

"Yes, it's true," replied the boy-"I did not think of that, but if it was the will of God, I would be glad that my bed was the one where my father and mother are this night sleeping."

For the remainder of the day, he occasionally sat or walked about as was usual with him whenever his mind became disturbed by the dark and thick-coming fancies which arose from his imagination. During all this time, his clarionet was silent; but as the shadows of evening began to deepen, there was heard trembling upon the still-awaken-I would be glad to die." ness an old Irish air, called the "Uligone dhu O,” 'But, Willy, that wish is sinful." or the song of sorrow, so deeply and exquisitely pathetic that it might in truth be well said to pour out the last breathings of a broken heart. Many of the villagers came to their doors to listen, and they could not help observing, unskilled in music "Don't be so much cast down," said the man; as they were, that, as they themselves, said, "they "what if Philip did put you out-we'll all keep never heard Willy play that tune so sorrowfully you time about, and you may live among us as before." In a little time afterwards he was seen long as you wish. All we'll ask is a tune on your approaching slowly, and with that quiet step which clarionet. If I had a bed, or half a bed, it's not betokens contemplation and the gloom of a moody here I would put you-but I have not, and you mind. On arriving at where they stood, one of must take the will for the deed now; good night, them asked him to sit on a bench and play a tune and don't let your spirits sink so much—you're for them. young and the world's all before you."

66

"Willy, here's the bench," said the man, take a seat and play us your favorite tune of Bonnie Jean."

The boy stood and was silent for about a minute. "Don't ask me," said he at length-" don't ask me-I'll try any other that you wish, but as for Bonnie Jean, I'll never play it more."

"Well, whatever you please," said the man.

He then left him, not without being moved by the tone of melancholy dejection which ran through his words as well as by a situation in itself so desolate and wretched.

It is not by keeping the eye fixed upon the moving mass of human life that we can ever learn that noblest, but most neglected of all philosophy, affection for our kind. If we wish, however, to

train our first tendencies to benevolence, we must | being under the same roof as the dwelling-house, imitate those who study the habits and instincts of the distance between the doors was of course but the inferior animals. Instead of permitting our a few yards. He pointed this out to the boy, and observations to become distracted by too great a told him that they would get a nurse-tender to variety of objects, we ought to select one; and by take care of him, and that until then some of his minutely watching its progress, feelings and rela- own family or of the neighbors would look to his tions, it will not be a task of much difficulty to wants and be constantly about him. If the boy, ascertain the history of the class to which it be- even in his pain, had but one solitary link, however longs. This cannot be done by a casual or a cur- slender, to bind him to life-but one hope, however sory glance, which is too often all that is bestowed far and distant, towards which he next might turnupon the poor man's life and the humble incidents the kind words of Lacey would have in some dewhich diversify it. Many an eye, for instance, gree soothed him. But, alas! he was now like made dull to distress and suffering by the apathy the dead, utterly beyond the reach of all human of an indolent habit, might have rested upon our sympathy; without hope or fear-and indifferent unhappy orphan without perceiving more than a to a world which, should he recover, could be to blind boy sleeping in a barn, because he had no him no more than a shadow or a name. Dreadful relations with whom to live. Let those who would must the situation of a young heart be, which in cherish and extend their sympathies, remember the freshness of youth, finds its dreary consolation that the heart of the lowly man is a world to its in the gloom of the grave, and is forced to say of possessor, and that circumstances which often ap- life, "thon cans't not deprive me of another hope. pear unimportant to the great, may constitute thou cans't not heap on me another misery." Such either his happiness or his misery. an accusation, however true it may be for the mement, is always unjust, if not impious; we know not how life may change, and reprove our impatience or despair, by creating for us enjoyments, that may render the memory of our sufferings sweet and fragrant.

On that night, the orphan found that the tumult in his mind was not his only malady. The indisposition of which he had complained, made a fearful progress-sleep came not to his eyes, no more than light; and he lay on his cold straw, racked with severe and acute bodily suffering. The pain The account of the orphan's illness was spread of his head, back, and loins, was such as he through the village; and as it was now known that could scarcely bear, and his groans at times rose he had been deprived of the particular care of into cries of torture. Vainly were they uttered, Philip and his family, so did the villagers consider for what ear but that of God was open to receive it a more pressing duty on their part to see that his them? It would touch any heart to hear him who had been heretofore so remarkable for his meek and patient character, now crying aloud in his agony, and beseeching God to take him from his sufferings into the calmness of the grave.

The next morning, Lacey who on finding that he did not come in to breakfast, went to see whether he had risen, felt alarmed at the formidable symptoms he witnessed, and the excessive pain the boy

suffered.

cure.

wants were supplied. Notwithstanding the strong apprehension which is felt of contagious fevers. his miserable bed was seldom without some of the elder persons of the village, who procured him drink, and administered such remedies as they deemed in their simple skill most efficacious—st: was the situation of our orphan inexpressibly desolate. There is a hardness of manner in the atten tions prompted by common humanity or a sense of duty that prevents them from bringing that consolation to their object which affection never fails to bestow; kindly and benevolently are they frequently performed, but, alas! they possess not the charm which personal love conveys so sweetly to the heart.

After the first two days, the pain of Martley's illness became less acute, although the fever creased and lay on him with a burning and heavy power, which promised soon to realize the last gloomy wish of its victim.

"I got it," said the poor patient, speaking of his illness, in reply to the kind-hearted man-"I got it the night I fell asleep on my father's grave in the churchyard. I felt stiff and chilly when I awoke, and have been unwell ever since. On last night, it set in terribly, but if it goes on as it is now, I cannot bear it long, and I hope I will not; the grave that gave me the complaint will bring the When I'm asleep there I'll be well-it's my only wish, and to a creature so helpless as I am, it ought to be so. I have been a burthen and a for him in the absence of medical skill, except to trouble to every one as I am to you now-but what give him whey and other drinks of a cooling nacould I do? It was God who left me so, and I had ture. The seventh day found him delirious, and, to bear it-I trust he takes pity on me at last." as far as the judgment of those who attended him These affecting words were spoken with much went, without any prospect of recovery. difficulty, and after the lapse of short intervals Sunday now arrived, and with it came his own between them. In the mean time, Lacey offered Jane, depressed and anxious to be restored to the him all the consolation in his power. The barn only heart she had ever loved. On approaching

Little could be done