piety was chastened, sober, resigned and unwavering ; | Edith Underwood's was ardent, glad, hopeful, but sometimes swayed by carthly feelings. As she now sat thinking of all that her husband had told her about his carly love, and imagining all that he had not told her, probably imagining a great deal more than the truth, the brave good heart within her was strongly moved; but never once did it rise in rebellion against God, or question the justice and wisdom of his dispensation. 66 Only if I might have been this Miriam Grey!" her heart whispered mournfully. "If I had but been associated in his mind with all this secluded calm! If he had loved me as a little child-as a beautiful girl! If he had loved me only because I was lovely and gentle, and his own heart overflowed with the desire of loving! That is a first love-the pure spiritual instinct impelling the heart towards the good and beautiful. It thinks not, reasons not, and is nevertheless unerring." 66 -Alas! alas!—my truthful, generous husband! And I have been so selfish as to think first of myself! What, if I am second or third in his heart!-It is something to have a place there at all. With God's help, I will deserve it. "It is now my first duty to support him in doing his. The sight of me, in these old familiar haunts, beside Miriam Grey, will be painful to him, but it will be salutary. I can bear the pain, and the humitiation of seeing how he feels the contrast; of being a source of annoyance. It will be salutary for me too. I have gloried too much in being the wife of David Underwood. Henceforth I shall be more humble." kitchen. There was a pleasant smell of fresh-baked oat-cake, which hung on lines stretched across the ceiling in the north-country fashion, and a bright sunlight streamed over polished kettles and saucepans, through a wide Gothic window that commanded a view along the valley. It was a cheerful old place. Edith's attention was soon called from the room to poor Dame Barnard, who lay in a corner, sobbing bitterly. She rose up, and after taking a few minutes to compose herself, advanced to the old door, and tried to open it. It gave way at her touch, and swinging back gently, disclosed a matted passage. She stepped into it, and the door closed again behind her. The passage was long and narrow; a dim light penetrated through it from a lattice at the further end. Edith Nay, that is folly! A first love is often erring, proceeded towards it, and half way down she came to and mistakes all that glitters for pure gold. With another and a broader passage, which conducted her common natures first love is frequently a delusion—into a square hall neatly paved with red tiles. There, the offspring of vanity and frivolous excitement; but in front of her, she saw the open door-way by which with my David it could not have been thus. The girl her husband and Mr. Shepherd had entered the house. he loved at eighteen could never become unworthy of Seeing no one about, and hearing no sounds, she adhis love; what is more, can never cease to be loved. vanced to the door of a room which opened into this And I what am I? Consider it well, Edith Un-hall near the entrance. It was a large old-fashioned derwood! Away with all paltry jealousies. Down! -down, thou selfish, exacting heart!" She pressed her two hands tightly over her forehead and eyes. Yes, yes, let there be no affectation of virtue. It is hard to feel that I am second where I have for so many sweet years believed myself to be first. I cannot give up that happiness with magnanimity. I am even ashamed at my own fond credulity in thinking I could ever supply the place of that early love. I am clever, cultivated, well placed in the world; I could understand and sympathize with his intellectual progress. I have been very useful to him." A slight shiver passed through her at the words. "Men do not lore a woman for all that. It is beauty and not utility that creates love. I have been useful to him, -he esteems, respects, admires me, and I have the second place in his heart-perhaps the third-for Leonora This is morbid unprofitable speculation. David has been a faithful, true husband to me, and Yes, ma'am. To think of my falling down at I have no right to pry into his secret thoughts. I, such a time, and spraining my good-for-nothing old who love him, and am his wife! I need not fear ancle! If I was to do it, why couldn't I do it before that he will forget what is due to me. His noble Nanny went, and then she might have sent some one loyal nature will do right at any cost to his own feel-up from the village. But everything is going wrong ings. While I am mourning selfishly over that early to-day. Ah! poor dear child! If it should turn out love of his, he, perhaps, is learning that it was not to be the real bad fever." dead all those past years; that it was only sleeping; and he will reproach himself bitterly. At this very moment the life-blood in his heart wages war with the enforced calmness of the brain; while he counts the fever throbs of Miriam Grey's heart, he remembers that he is bound to suppress all love for her. My poor David! If she should love him still,-should in the sore trial of sickness allow him to perceive it! | back into the chair. "What is the matter, my good woman? are you hurt?" asked Edith, stooping down beside her. The old woman turned her head in a little astonishment at the sound of an unknown voice, and looked hard at Edith. "You are very kind, ma'am. I don't recollect you just now." you "Never mind that. Let me help you up. Did fall down?" And the old woman, having been assisted by Edith into a chair, recommenced sobbing. Just then a bell was heard to ring violently. "Ah! they want something; that cold water, I dare say." And Dame Barnard looked towards a large can of water, and tried to get up. Edith pressed her gently "If you have sprained your ancle, you cannot carry | to your request in every particular but one. Jackson has gone for Dr. Burns, and will afterwards carry my orders to Leonora and the rest. I ventured to remain | here." a can of water up-stairs. Sit still; tell me which way to go, and I will carry it." And Edith immediately unfastened the skirt of her habit, and took it off, and laid aside her hat. Do you mean that, ma'am?" asked the old dame; "well, you've a kind heart, anyhow; and if you know my mistress, maybe you're proud to wait on her, now she's like to be very bad. Take care! it's heavy. Eh! deary me! but you're lame yourself! and you can't carry that weight of water with those little hands." "You shall see," said Edith, smiling; "I'm very strong. There!" and she lifted the can with apparent ease; "which way am I to go? No! no! you must not get up; I'll come down and look at your foot presently. Which way? "Across the hall; there you'll see the stairs. Go up. It's a weary height. Keep on till you come to a broad landing at the top, and there's Miss Miriam's door right before you. What will they all think when they see you? Perhaps you'll tell Miss Martha what's the matter?" "Yes; I've come to help Miss Martha. I'm a relation of hers;" and so saying Edith went out, carrying the water can. "Oh! ay! that's it! I thought you had a leetle of the Underwood air," thought Dame Barnard to herself, "though you are such a grand-looking lady." Edith had taken no easy task upon herself. To go up-stairs was always a trouble to her now; for the false leg was a poor substitute for the real one; and the water-can was heavy. Still she persisted, and had just reached the top of the stairs, when she saw her husband leaning against the balustrades above, with his handkerchief pressed to his eyes. He had left the room for a moment to control his emotion. Hearing some one on the stairs, he stood upright, and looking another way, said quickly, "Why?" "Because my first duty is here, David. You are in trouble, and I will not leave you.” She took his hand and kissed it. But I will not leave you alone to watch the Her husband made no reply, but pressed his lips hastily on her head. She looked into his eyes, and shrank back from their expression for a moment; and then, winding her arm round his neck, she whispered, in a voice choked with tears, Nay, dearest, we must hope. Do not think that yet. You are, perhaps, not calm enough. Dr. Burns will soon be here. Let me, David, I intreat you, let me go with you, and nurse Miriam Grey." He folded her in his arms, and murmured, "God bless you; do as you will.” Then turning from her he walked a few paces apart to a small loop-hole window, and there stood gazing out upon the sky. Edith remained where he had left her, and with downcast eyes abstained from watching his emotion. Perhaps even David, much as he knew of the nature of the noble and good woman, could not have appreciated the generous love and sorrow that swelled her heart at that moment, or the delicate respect which forbore to look on his grief. Perhaps he thought, if indeed he thought about it at all at that instant, he may have thought that this was an ebullition of romantic generosity on Edith's part,-a desire to perform an act of self-sacrifice by devoting herself to the service of a woman whom her husband had once loved. For David Underwood was well aware that some women like to admire their own virtue, much more than they care to have it admired by others; and that with them, as with one of Jean Paul's heroines, "an inclination to perform premeditated acts of kindness is the only littleness." I say, David Underwood may have thought this; but if he did think so, he was mistaken, and was speedily undeceived. Edith acted thus from no romantic generosity towards a person she had never seen, and whom as yet she had no special reason for liking, but from a And so you brought it. You are a strange principle of duty, and an instinct of love to her creature, Edith." "Come! come! my good woman; you have been a long time. Have you brought the water?" Then receiving no immediate reply, he turned to look at the person approaching, and seeing who it was, he exclaimed,— "You? Edith!" Then darting forward he seized her burden, and looking grave and very much annoyed, said, "What is the meaning of this?" "Don't be angry. I would not have carried it if it had not been necessary. The old servant has fallen down, and sprained her ancle. I happened to be with her when the bell rang. She said it was for this water, and-" husband. Because she loved, she desired to comfort and assist him in his present suffering, and because she believed it to be her duty as a wife to keep in David's remembrance his true position as a husband and a father, she had determined to remain with him now, if he would permit it. She knew that he could not loosen the ties which bound him, even in thought, without enduring a bitter repentance; for his nature "You did," she replied gently; "I have attended was a true and loyal one: and this repentance she "Not to you, David. Surely you understand that I am deeply anxious about this illness of Miss Grey's -that I would render any assistance in my power." "The best assistance you can render is to go home to the children, and keep them and yourself away from infection. I thought I had requested you to do so." He spoke very constrainedly. wished to save him. After a few moments David turned round. Some- | might once have been beautiful; but, with every feature thing in her attitude touched him deeply. He approached and said, "What is it you wish me to do, Edith?" "To take me with you into that chamber, and to allow me to nurse your patient;" she avoided repeating a name that he might not wish to hear. "Be it so," he replied; "your assistance will be of great advantage. Her sister is-gone away, and my sister cannot be well spared; my father's health is much shaken. He must go home. If you remain, Mr. Shepherd need not send his sister as he proposed. She would be a terrible woman in a sick-room." "You might be provoked to order her to begone before she had remained six hours, as you did that chattering lady at Leipzig." And Edith was pleased to see her husband smile slightly at the recollection of his prompt and energetic measures on that occasion. distorted by pain, there was no beauty to be discovered I should be more likely to throw Miss Shepherd from the bed, beckoned Martha aside. They went to out of the window," he said. "Then, my dear David," said his wife, assuming a funny little look of mock alarm, and stooping down once more to take up the water-can, (a female ruse to hide feelings remote from fun or alarm,) "pray let me be installed in office at once, to prevent any such scandale. Do not let us complicate our difficulties further by a trial for manslaughter. The physician is lord of the sick-room; but I don't think his power extends to throwing old ladies out of the window. However, if you will invest me with authority as nurse, I will take temptation from you. I mean, I will keep Miss Shepherd at bay. She shall not enter the room. I'll frighten her." David understood his wife, and he could not help taking her head between his hands, and pressing a long kiss on her forehead. God bless you, my own Edith! What should I do without you?" His voice faltered. 'You would throw your tutor's sister out of the window, and you would have had to wait a long time for this water. Oh! I am a very useful woman." There was the least possible touch of bitterness in the last sentence. the window, passing by Mr. Underwood, who sat at a table with his head resting on his hands, and his eyes fixed on the patient. Mr. Shepherd sat in a great chair, near the bed, with closed eyes and folded hands, as if in prayer. Dr. Underwood-David-wishes me to stay and nurse Miss Grey. He can trust me in cases of dangerous sickness better than a strange nurse who might misunderstand him." "Of course. It is very good of you, though. It is too much trouble. I was just perplexed on this subject. Father must go home. It will not do for him to stay here. Look at him. If you would kindly stay for a few hours till I can come again or send some one. Poor Mrs. Barnard is too old to be active enough." "My dear Miss Underwood, set your mind at ease on one point. All that the best medical skill and the most assiduous nursing can do for your friend shall be done. David and I will remain with her. Take your father away, and Mr. Shepherd; they can do no good. No one must remain here who is not wanted. David will not allow it, I know; nor will he allow any visitors-both for the patient's sake and David felt, without understanding it. He kissed their own-in a fever like that. Tell Miss Shepherd her again, and then said, as he took the water-can this. Come yourself, dear Miss Underwood, and I will from her hands, "Come to Miriam now. She is meet you outside the house whenever you like; it sleeping uneasily, the fever affects the head. We is as well not to enter it. Another thing I must remust apply cloths steeped in cold water all over it quest you to do, my dear. The old servant has just immediately, before she wakes.". sprained her ancle. You must find some active, trustworthy person to help her-a young girl, who can run up and down stairs quickly, and without making a noise. Now, come and show me where I shall find clean linen for Miss Grey-towels, sheets. Is there a medicine chest?" Edith stepped on to open the door, and in another minute was by Miriam Grey's bedside. * # Mrs. David Underwood saw nothing in the chamber for several minutes except the face of Miriam Grey. It was disturbed frequently by convulsive twitches-there was a hot, hectic flush on the cheeks and foreihead, and the blue-veined eyelids did not quite cover the glassy eyes. She did not sce there the beauty she expected. The calmness, the angelic sweetness, were not there now. She could only see a face that Martha took her sister-in-law to a small inner room where Miss Grey kept all these things. Here she assisted in taking off the rest of her riding gear, and found a dressing-gown of Miss Grey's which Edith put on instead. That done, they returned to the sick-room and bade each other good bye in a silent 66 Now," she thought within herself, "I shall never know how beautiful she really is. By tending I shall learn to love her, and then I shall certainly think her beautiful. Poor sufferer!" she murmured tenderly, as she felt one of the small hands which were pressure of the hand at the foot of the bed. Martha | she might have looked on her first as she really was. then whispered a few words to her father, who rose at once from his seat. She did the same to Mr. Shepherd, who rose also; and each, after casting one last lingering look at the poor sufferer, followed Martha out of the room. Wherever else men take command, in the sick-room they obey women im-flung towards her at the moment, "How hot and plicitly and by instinct. David, who sat beside the patient, saw their movement towards the door, and glanced inquiringly at his wife. He understood by her look in reply, that she had contrived to send them away. It was quite right," he whispered. "But I must speak with my father and Martha. Take my place here, and change the cloths frequently." He left the room, and Edith took his seat beside Miriam Grey's pillow. dry!" She then removed the cloth from her head and placed a fresh one there. In doing so she remarked the extreme beauty of Miriam's hair. While she was looking at it, the poor parched lips moved convulsively, and Edith heard the words. "What have I done to be so wretched?-David! David!-Why did you stay away?-Married!—I do ¦ not love him! No! no! That was over long ago. But,—but "-Here the voice died away, and suddenly Miriam started up in bed, and burst into tears. Her eyes were open; she was awake-conscious. She looked eagerly round the room, and at last her eyes rested on Mrs. David Underwood. She gazed at her intently. "Who are you?" she said in a very low tone; are you?-Yes,-you are,” "Edith Underwood!" said Edith, kneeling down and taking Miriam's hand. "You are very ill. I have come to nurse you if you will allow me." And without another word between them Miriam laid her aching head on Edith's shoulder and sobbed like a child. Edith was murmuring the soft honeyed words she used to address to her children into Miriam's ear when David entered the room. He was unable to approach them for several minutes-he was so disturbed by tender feelings. But it behoved the physician to interfere. Gently he separated them, and said gravely, 66 It was a strange position! For a moment or two Edith could not help recalling the course of the morning's events. She had come from Torrington Hall that morning, anxious about her husband's meeting with his father, which was to have taken place; and which, as the reader knows, did take place the previous night. It had been arranged by David that she was to come alone to see his sisters, and be introduced to his father, if, as he hoped, time had softened his father's heart towards him. On her own account, Mrs. David Underwood was but little troubled about the meeting with her husband's relations. She was determined to make them like her, and she had never yet known a determination of that kind to fail. But there was one person in Milford whom she trembled, brave woman as she was, to think of meeting; whom she had determined not to meet that day, if by any womanly tacties she could avoid doing so. That person was Miriam Grey. It was not jealousy, nor envy, that prompted this avoidance; Edith, my dear, Miriam's life depends upon our her conscience acquitted her of both those ill-feelings; care and control of our feelings. Get her well, and and she was glad of it, now that she was alone with she shall weep as much as she likes. Now she must the gentle woman who had first won David's love.-be kept quite quiet." How different were the circumstances of this dreaded meeting from those she had sometimes imagined. She had pictured Miriam's beauty as something" too bright and good for human nature's daily food;”Raphael's Virgins and young saints were scarcely so pure, so lovely as her dream of Miriam Grey. She expected to be vanquished, won in a moment by the serene sweetness of her gaze to feel how far superior she was to women such as herself. The good Edith had a foolish habit of mistaking herself for one of a class of clever women, good for nothing but to make a noise in the world and do a great deal of small work there, which might just as well be left undone. Miriam Grey was in her imagination the personification of beauty and gentleness, and she almost felt ashamed to think how far inferior in those qualities, the glory and the crown of womanhood, she must appear in David's eyes. But now that she saw Miriam shorn of all that soft radiance, sick, fevered, restless, Edith would have made a considerable sacrifice to restore Miriam to her natural health and beauty, that (To be continued.) THE FRIENDS. THE introduction of this engraving, from a drawing by J. W. Wright, affords an opportunity of making a few remarks upon the history of water-colour painting, and the high position it has attained in this country of late years. Mr. Wright, for a considerable period, held the post of secretary to the Old Water-colour Society, whose annual exhibitions were for many years graced by his excellent drawings of subjects analogous to this, simple in character, pleasing in his method of treating them, and faithful as natural representations. Painting in water-colours is a comparatively modern invention, for though some of the old continental artists made drawings with the brush, or, to speak more professionally, with the camel hair pencil, they worked only in tints of ink or umber; it never seemed |