and there, and with a woman's usual tact and delicacy, softened down some of the rugged remarks in her brother's composition. But it was Mrs. Mayne, not Harriett, who was greedy to share in success. Harriett still sat quietly by, Mrs. Romilly rather wondering at the seriousness of that lady's half-averted face. Harriett had still more cause to wonder when the handsome face was turned slowly towards her, and she perceived that the brilliant eyes were softened and tearful.

"As I have been watching the people going out," said Mrs. Romilly, "I have been wondering if any of them are, or ever will be, as good as the man we have just heard of. Do you think it possible?"

"Which do you mean, Mrs. Romilly, the exalted life or the exalted heart?"

"I don't know; both, I suppose. They always go together, do they not?"

"Not always," replied Harriett, thoughtfully; "many, whose hearts are as much

on fire as Bunyan's, pass through life without exhibiting such zeal. You see, it is easier for enthusiastic dispositions to be fanatics than to be quiet, consistent Christians."

"Which do you consider the best, Miss Mayne ?"

"The most difficult, certainly the quiet lives."

"Ah! that's just it. I feel it impossible to be good unless I gave all my money to endow a hospital, and became a sister of charity. I agree with Sevelli: it's no use attempting to lead a holy life in the world; there are too many temptations. He says

the world, the flesh, and the devil are too much for any one; the only chance you have is to go into a convent, then you leave the world and the flesh outside, and have only the devil to manage."

"Mr. Sevelli is a very amusing man," replied Harriett; "but I hope he does not call that religion ?”

"What, then, is real religion?

course you know."

Of

"Indeed, Mrs. Romilly, I must refer you to your Bible for that." And Harriett stepped down from the platform to speak to Mrs. Gresham and her daughter, who had been beckoning to her for the last few minutes. Leaving Mrs. Romilly still sitting, and meditating over the perplexing question, whether it were possible to be good.

Harriett had been a little hard on poor Mrs. Romilly, who, with all her frivolity, was in earnest just now; but, somehow, every time the widow turned her handsome face to Harriett, the latter experienced a strange sensation of annoyance and dislike.

Robert Mayne's words had not been addressed to those on the platform; but, nevertheless, his fervour had awakened one heart there to vague yearnings after better things. Mrs. Romilly was very impressionable; she was often made uncomfort

able at church if the clergyman happened to be at all eloquent. She did not know why she felt so wretched, so utterly dissatisfied with herself; but she did, and would be cross in consequence all Sunday afternoon, and obliged to get an interesting novel to read to banish tormenting thoughts! To-night something had stirred in her soul, and asserted its starving condition more powerfully than ever. Poor Beatrice Romilly! Indulgent, worldly parents, flattering, fickle friends, and a rich husband; had done their best to deaden all that was pure, unselfish, and loving in her nature. But her nature was originally excellent, and her heart very elastic, so the unfortunate tuition that would have utterly ruined another character, left hers only marred. Providence never leaves any one in the midst of pernicious example and utter worldliness without giving them one or two sharp lessons. Beatrice's was this: she fell terribly in love. It was It was well for

the young, capricious beauty, that in her first season she met her cousin, Henry Talbot; it was well that amid the adulations of all others, he alone never praised her; it was well that the only heart she cared to possess, no attractions of hers could win. They met on the pleasant, familiar ground of cousinship, to laugh and talk together, to rail at each other and all the world beside. Talbot was just then smarting under a severe disappointment; he had immersed himself in the gaiety of London to try and blunt something of the sharpness of his misery. Society was soon bitterness in his

made conscious of the

heart by the bitterness of his ridicule. Old and young, men and women, came under the lash of his stinging tongue; he hated the world, and he made it feel his hate. Beatrice laughed and loved him; she did not see how he sneered at all sentiment and love, how he despised the women who sought him for his position or himself;