"We were engaged to one another," sobbed the young wife," before I ever saw my husband, and I could not stop my heart from loving him all at once. Mr. Hollis did not know this. When Frank came to say good-bye for ever, the day before he sailed for India, he broke off a sprig of myrtle when we were alone in the conservatory and gave it to me-(I have it still)—with one last kiss. It was evening, and there were lights in the place, and Mr. Hollis, who was smoking a cigar in the garden, saw all this. I know not what might have happened had it not been for Sarah-Sarah Thwaite as she was then-who, before I could speak for terror, confessed that it was she whom young Mr. Lilton had kissed, and to whom, because he was so old a friend, she had given the sprig of myrtle. She saved me, (and, what was more, dear Frank,) at the expense of her own good name; and since she has asked it of my heart, by token of that sacrifice, not to desert her boy, ought I to suffer him, as Mr. Hollis threatens, to be sent to the workhouse?"

"The workhouse!" screamed Lady Beebonnet; "the late Sir Joseph B. should have cut me into mincemeat before I would have consented to such a thing. Come, now, let me sit down and write a line to your one day to be Deeply-Regretted-you have no idea how pleasant it is to be a Relict!—

but at present tender-hearted, generously-impulsive husband, which will bring him at least to a sense of decency. See here.

"DEAR SIR,'-(that will be the cold application which will make him shiver in the anticipation of the pretty things I am likely to circulate about his kindness to orphans)- Hearing that you are about to part with your young Harry's playfellow, I beg that I may have the pleasure of offering that poor friendless boy a home in my own house, which, although humble in comparison with yours, will not, at least, be so great a change as that which it is generally understood you have in contemplation for him. I remain, yours, &c. &c.' (which he will fill up with unpleasant adjectives enough, I'll be bound,)

LYDIA BEEBONNET.'

"But, my dear friend, this is inflicting a tax upon you that I cannot possibly permit," urged the grateful wife.

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Nay, don't be alarmed, my love, it is only a tax upon paper," replied the widow; "I have known the Hon. Henry Hollis much longer than you have, and I must say for him, that, after all, there is less of the bully about him than of the coward."

Lady Beebonnet was right; the "indomitable will" bent easily enough before the fear of ridicule, and at ten years old young Robert's address

was still at Bulbul Square. He had never been used to anything but dependence, but still its bread had never ceased to be bitter to him; if he gave the least trouble, however unavoidably, to the domestics, they did not scruple to let him know their opinion of one as lowly born as themselves, heir to nobody, and inheritor of nothing; if he angered the master ever so little, the child was not spared, nor was the rod of correction. Young Harry liked him, it is true, as much as a fickle boy could like his playmate, but it was before Mrs. Hollis alone that the child of her adoption poured forth all his wealth of love, and strove to pay back in love's very coinage his great debt of gratitude; he thought for her, felt for her, worked for her, and, for her sake, would have laid down his young life cheerfully. And when he learnt that he was to go to school at her own private cost, by which expense he knew she would be deprived of many a pleasure, he manfully made up his mind to do his very best to get his own living as soon as possible, and show, by proof, that he was not unworthy of her care and sacrifice. He had Maria to bid good-bye to, tearfully, and Mr. Field (although his sentiments towards that gentleman were, perhaps, rather dutiful than affectionate), but, otherwise, he felt little regret at going to school, because, alas! there was no such thing as

home to be contrasted with it. For if ever that true saying, ""Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all," seem false, it is when we are torn for the first time away from parent, and sister, and brother, and all the intercourse of home affections, to be placed in a more hostile and more cruel world than that of men, without the armour of the man in which to battle against it. Ah, hour, bitterest of all, save that wherein death is beckoning! Ah, day, darkest of all days, that even now can cast a shadow over our spirit across these so many years!

For Robert Birt, as it seemed, school could have but few terrors; circumstances had taught him, as we have said, to regard it merely as a stepping-stone to independence, and he cared but little whether it should be rough or smooth ;-he cared but little, that is, outside the coach which was carrying him through the clear frosty air at eleven miles or so an hour, to Senbury. Every feature of the country road was new to him, for he had been left in Bulbul Square whenever the family had gone to their country seat in Rookshire, and had never been out of town in all his life; the whole day's experience was like the commencement of a new existence, filling him with thoughts that shut out both the past and future; but when the long drive was at last ended, and he

had arrived at the sombre cathedral town where he was to be left friendless for so many weeks, it was different. When the coach drew up before those iron-studded gates under the darksome archway by the porter's lodge, and his little portmanteau was taken out of the boot, and the hand-shaking with the kindly passengers on the hind-seat was done, and when the guard had said, "Good-bye, young gentleman," and the last flourish of his triumphant horn had died away, it was very different. The sturdy little heart (it was but ten years old!) could stay no longer in its place, but climbed up the poor boy's throat and nearly suffocated him.

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My dear, dear, dear Maria," he sobbed aloud, and the welcome tears came down in a grateful shower ;-then "dear, good Mrs. Hollis," thought he, and he wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, and, standing upon tiptoe, rang the huge bell manfully. He had no notion of making such a noise as that which followed. "Bome, bome, bome," again and again it pealed forth, and then an echo took it up and repeated, "bome, bome," until it got quite sleepy over it and dropped it, but presently picked it up once more and murmured out "bome, bome," as its dying words. After a little there was a creaking of locks, and an undoing of bars, and the mighty gates drew back to left and right