on her pillow, and dropt into a quiet slumber, and never woke any more."

Mrs. Davenant's voice was choked by sobs, and she burst into tears. She had vividly recalled to her own recollection that scene of sorrow, where her only sister breathed her last: the eighteen years that had since elapsed were annihilated, and she seemed again in the chamber of death.

Mr. Davenant rose from his seat, and walked about the room, calling up all the firmness of his mind to support him. Though less freely expressed, his feelings were as strong as those of Mrs. Davenant; but he schooled them into obedience, and strove to re-assure his wife. Mr. Massenburg could not be charged with opposition to his wife's dying wish, for he had never claimed his daughter during eighteen years; but whether this arose from indifference, or a sacred regard to that request, could only be seen in his own breast, where no mortal eye could

pierce. Mrs. Davenant, who was disposed to look upon all his actions with an unfavourable prejudice, urged, that had he felt any natural affection towards his offspring, he would have visited Yorkshire for the sake of seeing her; but then opposed to this, might be that feeling of repugnance, which the heart experiences in beholding scenes, where we have been accustomed to associate with those we loved, when those loved ones have departed.

Mr. Davenant was very unsuccessful in his attempts to console his wife; and after some time spent in the endeavour, he said, "We will go and see Mr. Laurence."

CHAPTER II.

How much to be prized and esteemed is a friend,
On whom we may always with safety depend;
Our joys, when extended, will always increase;
And griefs, when divided, are hushed into peace.
OLD SONG.

A QUARTER of a mile distant, bordering on the village of Cottingwith, stood the house of Mr. Laurence: it was a cottage, but not one of those which luxuriant fashion has so denominated; nor yet like its humbler namesake the abode of poverty: it stood a medium between these two extremes, being in fact a commodious house, and the residence of a man of moderate income. There was a garden in the front, in the

highest state of cultivation, in which many plants were flourishing unknown elsewhere in the neighbourhood. If Mr. Laurence had a pride, it was in his garden; he had even an affection for his flowers; but this pride and affection were quiet, pleasing, feelings that served to lend a gentle charm to a tranquil life, and stood opposed to the rougher passions of the soul. He had known and felt acutely the disappointment of the best affections of the heart; but he had borne up beneath the misery, as one who knows despair to be criminal; and though his earthly visions of felicity had passed away, yet he remembered that the Christian had surer and higher views, which could never fail: he had hoped to travel this life's road with a beloved companion, but when that hope was gone he still journeyed on, although not with a heart so buoyant, yet the path still led to Heaven, and the sorrow that darkened around its footsteps on his way but made

the distant prospect open more brightly before him.

He was too a minister of that religion which controls the thoughts as well as the actions: he knew that to practise the doctrines of Christianity which he preached, he must enjoy the good which he possessed rather than repine for what he had not: he knew in short that it was a duty to endeavour to be happy, and to excite the same feeling in others.

Mr. Laurence was reading when Mr. and Mrs. Davenant and Eliza entered the room where he was sitting, but immediately laid aside his book. His complexion was pale, but the features were at rest, and the expression of his countenance was benevolence and peace: the stamp of a good and kind man was impressed upon him.

The kind smile with which Mr. Laurence received his guests, changed into a look of alarmed interrogation; he saw there was a cloud over them, and