to fit himself for that service to which he purposed to devote the energies of his life; and gay and volatile as was his sister, her attachment to him led him sometimes to hope that his own serious views had made some real impression upon her, from the very deep attention with which she would apparently listen to his gentle admonitions from time to time against her giving her whole affections to the dazzling vanities of the world. But in this hope he was painfully disappointed. Horatia Vivian married, and became the wife of a man with whom religion was only a profession, and a complete worldly man in all his tastes and habits. Painfully did her brother, Arthur Vivian, five years later elucidate this distressing truth, when, at the pressing invitation of the Earl and Countess of Hetherington, he took his wife to Alton Towers, the magnificent seat of his brother-in-law, Horatia's husband; and there, during a short visit he paid them (his duties as a clergyman not admitting of a longer absence from his parish), he saw those early hopes he had cherished of his sister's serious impressions had been wholly deceptive. The Countess of Hetherington's position, and great fortune, had, since her marriage, only drawn her more readily into the vortex of her own natural inclinations. It was not, therefore, to be expected that her brother's wife should be particularly agreeable to her, or that there could be the smallest approach to anything of sisterly feeling between them. How could there be? for they had

not one thought in common; and though Lady Hetherington acted most admirably her part as her hostess, and contrived most cleverly to conceal her dislike of the choice her brother had made, when their visit was over, they parted almost the same strangers they were on meeting.

Mr. Vivian's rectory was situated in Cumberland, and Alton Towers, Lord Hetherington's property, in Staffordshire; they, consequently, very rarely, if ever, met.

The Hetheringtons were perpetually in London, seldom in the country; and though the invitations were at first many from Lady Hetherington to her brother and his wife, they were very rarely accepted by them. Very few, consequently, had been her Ladyship's opportunities for knowing Mrs. Arthur Vivian any better; she had seen her but once since Mr. Vivian's death, and now Lady Hetherington no longer disguised from herself that any rapprochement under such altered circumstances, with a person whose high religious profession had formerly made so disagreeable an impression upon her, would by no means be agreeable to her. These, therefore, were the real motives which made her ladyship defer her visit to Summerfield.

But we must now turn to other scenes, and take a glance at the school-room at Paington Abbey, where considerable excitement prevailed, from news having been duly conveyed to them by the same Mrs. Graham (who on former occasions had been similarly

employed), that the family were to prepare, without delay, for going to the Isle of Wight; and the Undercliff was selected, for its sheltered situation. and very mild climate, for Lady Fitzwilliam, whose state of health caused Sir James considerable uneasiness, and for whom her medical advisers had prescribed immediate change.

No sooner had the stately Mrs. Graham left the school-room, having delivered her orders, which she had that very day received from her master by post, than Marion joyfully exclaimed, "Oh, Anne, how very, very pleasant this news is for us! what a delightful change it will be for us all! Dear Miss Sinclair, are you not pleased?"

Anne was at this moment busily engaged at her globes, and did not immediately reply. Miss Sinclair was hearing little Edith her French lessons, which were just finished, and waited till she could dismiss her, to put by her books, to answer her enthusiastic pupil, Marion's, joyful exclamation.

"Yes, my dear," at length she replied, "I am glad for you all, and particularly on your mamma's account, as I think change of air will probably be very beneficial to her. For myself I care very little."

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Well, as for me," said Anne, "I am very sorry to leave home; I love Paington Abbey better than any other place in the world, and would never wish. to leave it. Don't you remember, Marian, how much we wished ourselves at home again when we

were in London this spring? Grosvenor Square was so dull, and we never walked in the streets."

"Yes," returned Marion, "London is a horrid place; but going to the sea-side is quite a different thing; Graham says so; and I do love the sea."

"And," rejoined Miss Sinclair, "the Isle of Wight is a most interesting place. Ventnor, should you go there, is particularly pleasant. There is a charming beach, where you find really valuable pebbles, and the prettiest sea-weeds. Of these some persons make very beautiful collections; and there are very fine crystals, called Isle of Wight diamonds. Then, the country is lovely! so I expect you will very much enjoy your visit there."

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'May I go and tell nurse that we are going away?" inquired little Edith.

"Not until my little girl has finished her work, and learned all her lessons for to-morrow. I am now ready for your Histoire Universelle, Anne," continued Miss Sinclair; "after which we will go out. To-morrow I propose visiting Mrs. Vivian, to tell her of our projected absence. The last day we must devote to packing up. Marion, take your work, my love, and sit with Edith in that window whilst we are reading."

Alas for Marion! her head was running entirely on the journey before her; and little Edith, in far too great a fidget to go and tell Budd all about it, to do, either of them, the task allotted as it should be done; so that when Miss Sinclair and Anne had

completed the hour's reading, Marion and Edith had the mortification of hearing that they must remain at home; the one to complete the task hardly begun, the other to undo what was done already so badly.

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'My dear children, I am sorry to leave you at home, both of you," said Miss Sinclair; "but it is all your own faults. You, Marion, I have constantly warned against the habit of wasting the time assigned you for your work; and Edith has been evidently thinking of something else, and taken no pains with hers, so that now you must abide the consequences."

So saying, Miss Sinclair left the school-room, followed by Anne. Edith's tears flowed fast over her work, as she began the tiresome unpicking; and Marion's countenance was likewise, for a few moments, overclouded; but her natural buoyancy of spirits returned at the sight of her young cousin's distress.

"Well, Edith," said she, "it is very true I have set you a very foolish example; and if I had only been more industrious, you would have been so too; but don't cry about it, that will do no good now, you will soon do it again; come, let us both set to work busily."

Thus, with many such encouraging words, Marion soothed little Edith; and at length the work was done; and Edith's arms, with grateful affection, were entwined around her cousin's neck, saying,

"Oh, dear, dear cousin Marion, you are always so kind!"

G