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propriety, and there's your aunt, she is willing to assist Mrs. Goodwin in the housekeeping, and—"

"Stop, stop !" said Edith, laughing. "How many people does it take to make you comfortable?"

"Just as many as there are here now; one less will make me miserable. Now, my dear,to be done with jesting. You are very young, and when you have taken the tonic I ordered a little longer, and get some color in your face, you will be by no means ugly. Well, as I was saying, being young and pretty, you will suffer from a thousand annoyances from contact with the people in—pardon me—your aunt's sphere of life. I see that you will suffer if I urge yon to stay here as my child; hut I do beg you will remain as my ward, boarder, any name you like. I will endeavor to put you in a way to earn your own living, but I hope you will let an old man's experience convince you that you are better here, protected by him, than thrown uuprotected and defenceless on your own resources. Think it over, my dear, and to-morrow we will talk of it again. In the meau time, here comes Mrs. Goodwin with a piece of chicken and a glass of wine, which I, your physician, do command you to eat and drink." And with this parting injunction the old doctor walked off.

It was hard for Edith to resist his kind invitation, but she felt that there she was in a false position. She owed it to her aunt to remain with her, and there was no place for her in the doctor's family, so she adhered to her first resolution. Although he grumbled, Dr. Grey did not again press the point; he found a quiet place for his proUyie, and then exerted himself to procure scholars in German and music. Many of Mrs. Lawrence's old friends, who knew of Edith's careful instruction, were glad to avail themselves of this opportunity to secure her services for their children, and she soon hail a full class of scholars for each day. Her aunt was easily persuaded to take the housekeeping cares of the little house which the doctor had rented in Edith's name, though Edie insisted upon also securing the services of a strong Irish girl.

It was no holiday life; unused to any demand upon her time, save for her own gratification, Edith found regular hours irksome, long walks wearisome, and idle pupils tiresome. Now began to he developed the strong mind which her gentle, quiet manner covered. No complaint passed her lips; resolutely, though quietly, she conquered the sedentary .habits

which she loved, yet she made her health a care, because she had experienced the effects of too great devotion to work. While she earnestly prayed for strength and guidance in her responsible life as teacher, she was drawing in herself new powers for the task before her. Every lesson to a pupil became, in the high character in which she regarded it. a lesson for herself in patience and care. All the higher attributes of her mind were developing under the pressure of sorrow and responsibility; and if her face had been lovely in her timid, trusting girlhood, it was now invested with the higher, nobler beauty of a working intellect adorned by a true Christian spirit.

Two regrets were ever present—she longed for her adopted mother's loving voice, and she wished most earnestly that Horace Arnold could know why he was sent from her. She writhed under the idea of his regarding her in the light of a coquette, yet she knew that she had betrayed her love, believing as she did in his. She did not wisli to see him, only to let him know that his confidence was not misplaced.

Four years passed away, and then c.mie a new sorrow: Aunt Ellen, her kind, affectionate aunt, died, and Edith felt that she was indeed alone in the world.

She was sitting in her own room one warm evening, somewhat wearied with her day's labor, and letting memory range over happy days, when her servant came in with a letter. It was directed, not to her name as she now bore it, hut to Miss Edith Lawrence, and her heart beat rapidly as she recognized the hand of her adopted mother. She opened it to read—

Edith, my child, for the last time I call you so, ere this meets your eye, you must pray for both mothers, for my soul will have passed away, even as the soul of her I would havn wronged. She is revenged, Edith, for in my long sickness I have wearied for my child's voice with a longing unutterable. I am dying now—they admit that at last; and one act of justice I will perform before I go. Horace Arnold has been here since I have, and until to-day I have allowed him to suppose ynu married and in the home of a more fortunate suitor. To-day I told him the whole truth, for I know all the noble conduct of the child I cast from me. Death breaks all barriers, and has melted even my pride, and in its presence I can beg Horace's forgiveness and yours. You will learn how I wronged him by supposing that your birth could alter his love. May ftod Wess you both! Edith, forgive your Motueb.

Dead! dead without one oaress, one spoken word to break the pang. Edith forgot even Horace in her first burst of sorrow. All the old love, the tender memories which separation had been powerless to dull, rushed over her heart, and she sobbed with uncontrollable emotion. The heavy grief of unalterable sorrow was not new to her; death had taken her dear ones before, but there was no love-tie like this broken. It was the only real mother of her life, the mother who had filled babyhood, childhood, girlhood with sweetest proofs of holy affection, and the thought that she had not been near her at the last, to soothe the dying hours, made Edith's grief still heavier.

An hour passed, and then she was roused from her abandonment to sorrow by the servant.

"The gentleman, Miss Campbell, can ye see him the night?—him as brought the letter."

She rose and went down stairs. Her heavy black dress, which she wore for her aunt, her red eyes, and sad face were all appropriate greetings to his news, though she thought not of that.

Horace was impatiently waiting for her; but there was no rapturous greeting, no love-talk; with tender yet respectful sympathy, he went forward to meet her.

"My poor Edith!" This was his greeting.

The sad heart bounded at his voice, and Edith

knew that rest for her sorrowful life was to he found in his care. Softly they spoke of the dead.

"She knew all, dearest," said Horace; "and knowing it she said that you were right. Th.it, had you acted as she wished, it would have destroyed her love, for she would always have feared that interest might win yon from her. Only her pride kept her silent, and she hoped that you would seek a reconciliation."

"Oh, if I had dreamed of that," said Edith, "how gladly I would have humbled myself to win her forgiveness!"

Mrs. Lawrence had left in her will only one token of love for Edith. An exquisite miniature, painted after she became ill in Paris, pl.e left to her "dear adopted child, Edith Campbell," that others might know she died loving her daughter still. She well knew that Edith s noble soul would be pained by any legacy of money, so she only left her the picture and the letter I have quoted.

Tried by affliction, and unscathed by the ordeal, Edith Arnold is a noble woman, generous in impulse, kind in heart, noble in soul, a woman who, when sorrow and trouble met her, fill not before the storm, but rose to meet it, not defiantly, but with a pure Christian heart as her shield.


WrtAT I write is the result of large experience, much thought, and close attention to the subject. It may seem trite—even needhjss—to those who have carefully stndied it as I have; but there arc, I presume to think, many to whom these "niNTs" cannot be but useful. Those who have practised little, or not considered much, will, I believe, thank me for them and profit by them.

The art of horsemanship does not consist merely in knowing how to mount, how to hold the reins, how to sit with security and grace, nor how to compel the horse to walk that canters or gallops at the will of the rider. All these are indispensable. But there is also to be acquired the art of drawing forth the willing obedience of the animal. This is to be obtained only by a kind, temperate, and uniform treatment, and by a thorough knowledge of his habits and instincts. How different is a ride on a well-kept, well-used horse, who feels that he carries a friend, from one on a broken-spirited

or timid creature, in whom ill-usage has produced many defects! In the former case, the exercise is as great a pleasure to the horse as to his rider. He sniffs the air, he pricks up his ears, he throws forward his feet with energy. Life has to him delights beyond his stall and his corn. The horse is naturally gentle, intelligent, and affectionate; but these qualities are not sufficiently stndied or appreciated. Ho is usually regarded merely as a means of health and pleasure, to his owner, and not often is either gratitnde, kindness, or sympathy extended to him in return.

Occasionally horses are found vicious and unmanageable; but defects of temper may generally be traced to the ill-treatment of some reckless master, some cruel trainer, or some ignorant groom. Even in these cases, mild, but firm treatment, may render him gentle and tractable.

Saiiuliso.—In saddling, the groom very frequently flings the saddle on the horse's back, and at once proceeds to tighten the girths to the extent required. This causes the animal great inconvenience, which he resents by throwing back his ears, and trying to bite or kick his tormentor; for which he is corrected in very strong language, if not by a blow, and his temper ruffled, to the discomfort of his rider. The horse, being accustomed to such rough treatment, endeavors, by puffing himself out, to lessen, in some degree, the distress experienced from this mode of saddling; and, in consequence, when the rider has been on the road some half hour, she finds her seat becomes loose and unsteady. Should the horse start or shy, and the rider be inexperienced, she may lose her balance (in which case the saddle will turn round), and be precipitated to the ground.

The humane and experienced groom will place the saddle lightly on the back of the horse, patting him kindly as he does so. Then, drawing up the girths to within two holes of the required tightness, will so leave it for a quarter of an hour. By this time, the saddle will be warm, when it may be tightened as much as necessary, without pain or discomfort to the animal, and, moreover, greatly lessening the chances of a wrung back or withers.

A lady's saddle should be placed more backward on the horse than a gentleman's, to keep the heavy weight of the iron as far (rom the withers as possible.

Mocxtiso, And Use Of The Reins.—In mounting, place the left foot in the hand of the groom, resting the right hand on the pommel of the saddle. Spring lightly, but surely, into the seat, neither throwing too much weight on the hand of the assistant, nor pulling at the saddle; both are ungraceful, and, after a little practice, unnecessary. Let the groom arrange the habit carefully between the foot and the stirrup. If well arranged at first, it ought to remain so during the ride. The habit should never be pinned under the foot; it is sure to tear the skirt, and prevent it falling gracefully and easily. Seat yourself rather backward on the saddle, taking care that the figure be erect, and the shoulders perfectly square ivfth your seat. Take the reins in the left hand. If you ride on the curb, raise that first, leaving the left rein outside the hand, or between the third and fourth fingers, the right side of the rein between the first and second fingers. Then raise the snaffle, leaving the left rein outside the hand, and the right with the curb, between the first and second fingers. Leave the snaffle looser than the curb, so as to hang gracefully in a festoon from the bit. Double all the four reins

together over the forefinger, placing the thumb firmly on them.

Should you prefer riding on the snaffle, which to an inexperienced rider is perhaps safer, and certainly, in such a case, preferable for the horse, reverse the instructions above given, taking up the snaffle first, etc.; keep the elbows close to the body, not in young-lady fashion, so as to form a triangle with the waist, by which rounding and stooping of the shoulders are produced, and all power over the horse lost. Tho hands should always be kept low, as near the saddle as possible. In guiding the horse by the rein, use the hand only from the wrist downwards. Never use the arms. If you wish your horse to move to the right, bend the hand slightly inwards towards the body, so as to tighten the right rein, and loosen the left. If you wish him to move to the left, depress your hand slightly, which will tighten the left rein and loosen the right. In both cases, keep tho wrist unmoved. It should be done by the hand alone, and imperceptibly—a slight balancing motion of the body, so slight as to be f it, not seen, should accompany the action of the hand.

The management of the reins is the greatest difficulty in horsemanship, and, by some persons, it is a difficulty never altogether overcome. Do not pull at a horse's mouth. Work the reins continually very gently and easily, but let there be no strain on him, or he will certainly learn to pull, and lose the graceful easy carriage of his head. A thorough-bred horse should have his mouth so light, that he may be ridden with a piece of packthread. But a bad rider may teach him to pull in a very few lessons. By working the mouth, I mean a light wavy motion of the hand, not tiring to the rider, and pleasing to the horse—to be acquired by practice and attention only.

The reins should never be required to assist the seat; I mean that perfect balance that enables the rider to do what she will, without interfering with the action of the horse. The perfect rider should be able to bend her body down to the stirrup on the left side, or down to the girth on the right, to throw her arms overhead, and yet her horse not swerve in the least. A lady who has a perfect seat may throw her stirrup aside, and her reins across her horse's neck, and yet be able to guide him by the mere balance of her body, whether in walking, cantering, trotting, or galloping. I had almost forgotten to mention the whip. It should bo carried in the right hand, and simply as an ornament. A good rider never requires it; a kind rider will never use it. The man who

strikes the willing creature that carries him through heat and cold, through rain and wind, in spite of fatigue or thirst, degrades himself by the act. A lady—a lady, uses the hand that holds the whip but to pat and encourage. "Poor fellow! Good horse!" will do more with the noble animal than the blow.

Cantering.—On first setting forth, the horse should be allowed to walk a short distance. Some riders gather up their reins hastily, and before they have secured them properly, allow the animal to trot or canter off. Such a proceeding is often productive of mischief, sometimes of accident. A lady's horse should canter with the right foot. The left produces a rough, unpleasant motion and ungraceful appearance. The whole body is jerked at every stride, i'hould the animal have been trained to canter with the left foot, a little perseverance will soon teach him better. Hold the rein so as to tighten it slightly on the left side of the mouth, touch (not hit) him gently on the right shoulder with the whip—sit well back in the saddle, so as not to throw weight on the shoulder. The horse will soon understand what is required of him. But if he does not, try again after an interval of a few minutes. Straighten the reins immediately he throws out the right foot. Pat and encourage him with kind words, but repeat the operation should he change his feet, which he may do before getting accustomed to his new step. The considerate rider will not compel him to canter too long at a time, for it is very fatiguing. That it is so, is easily proved by the fact that the steed of a lady too fond of cantering becomes weak in the forelegs, or what is commonly called "groggy."

Thottixo.—Trotting, if well performed, is very graceful, but is more difficult to acquire than cantering. The rider should sit slightly more forward than for cantering on, but not more forward than the centre of the seat, pressing the knee firmly against the saddle, and keeping the foot perfectly straight (rather turned in than out) in the stirrup. She must rise slightly with every step of the animal, taking care to keep the shoulders quite square with the horse. To lean over one side or the other, be the inclination ever so slight, or to bring forward one shoulder more than the other, has a very bad appearance. A good horsewoman will avoid the common error of leaning forward when trotting. It is not only very ungraceful, but in the attitude nearly all power is lost. The arms are comparatively useless. Should the horse stumble, the rider risks being thrown over his head. Her position

deprives her of the power of assisting her lion > to rise, whilst the additional weight thrown on his shoulders prevents him from helping himself. At all times, the broad part of the foot only should rest on the iron of the stirrup.

Sutino.—Should a horse shy, he does it generally from timidity. The common practice of forcing the horse to approach very near the object of alarm is a foolish and useless abuse of power. He should be encouraged by words and patting on the neck, and above all by the fearlessness of his rider. A horse soon learns to depend greatly on his mistress. Should she start, or feel timid, he perceives it immediately, and will prick up his ears and look about him for the cause. On the other hand, I have known many real dangers encountered with safety, through the rider having sufficient presence of mind to break out into a snatch of song (all horses like singing), which has diverted his attention from the object of fear.

Rearino.—Should a horse rear, lean the body forward, loosing the reins at the same moment; press both hands, if necessary, on the inane. Should, however, a horse rear so as to endanger the safety of the rider, loosen well the rein, pass the whip from the right hand to the left, double up the right hand into a list, and hit him between the ears. Show no fear, but trot on as though nothing had occurred. Turn his head towards home, and he will be certain to repeat his feat on a future occasion! The above is rarely necessary, and should only be done in a case of urgency.

A lady rode a spirited, thoroughbred horse. She had been ill for a short time, and the groom had been ordered to exercise him every day. Recovered from her indisposition,, the lady again mounted her favorite. She had not proceeded far on her ride before she encountered one of those high trucks often seen in country towns. At sight of this the horse reared fearfully. His rider pressed all her weight on him, and he descended, but only to rise still higher. As she cast up her eyes, she saw his forefeet pawing the air above her head. He stood so erect that she almost fell backwards. The bystanders screamed, the groom rode up: "Drop off! ma'am, oh! pray drop off!" he exclaimed, adding, in the excitement of the moment, a truth he might have concealed, "I always do." The lady fortunately preserved her presence of mind: she shifted her whip and struck the horse with all her force between the ears. He descended instantly. Then (it was the first and last time she ever struck him) she beat him with her whip, and rode on as though

nothing had happened. On inquiry, it was discovered that the groom had taken the horse out for exercise three times, had each time encountered a truck, and had each time dropped off behind when the horse reared, which he did at first through fear, but afterwards through "trickiness," for the purpose of getting home.

Kk Rixo.—Should a horse kick, take care to keep him well in hand. He cannot kick unless he throws his head down; and he cannot do that if the reins are not held carelessly loose. A practised rider can always tell when a horse is about to kick, by a peculiar motion of his body. It is instantaneous, but unmistakable. The twst-tempered horse may kick occasionally, from a rub of the saddle, or pressure on the withers. The animal should not be beaten, but the cause of his misconduct inquired into.

Dismounting.—The ride being over, the horse should stand in the stable with the girths loosened, but the saddle untouched on his back, for at least twenty minutes, until cool, when it maybe removed withnutincouvenience. Should the animal, if usually quiet, have misbehaved in any manner, the cause will generally appear as soon as the saddle is removed. Snatching the saddle from the horse's back while it is still heated, often produces swelling, particularly if the skin be at all irritated by friction. The saddle should be sponged and dried, either in the sun, or by the harness-room or kitchen fire, before being put away. This precaution prevents the stuffing from hardening. A humane rider will always attend to the lining of the saddle, for it wrung back must be sad pain. A horse will shrink from the slightest touch of a finger on the injured part: what must then be the torture of the weight of a saddle and rider? We owe much pleasure to our saddle-horse: should we not do all we can to preserve him from pain?

I cannot conclude without dwelling a little further on the power of kindness over the horse, I believe, from experience, that almost anything can, in time, be done by gentleness and consideration—not the consideration of weakness, usually termed "spoiling," but the consideration prompted by admiration and love for God's creatures, pity for helplessness, and that true generosity which should always accompany power. I once saw an instance that will exemplify what I say. A beautiful Irish mare, almost thoroughbred, had been ridden as a hunter, and afterwards by a lady. Being somewhat too high in her paces, it was intended to put her with another into harness. Immediately the coachman attached her to the carriage

(an open one), she threw herself down on the stones of the stable-yard; she was whipped up, and again attached to the carriage, and again threw herself down. While the second course of whipping was being administered, a compassionate housemaid ran into the drawing-room, and informed her mistress of what was going on. The lady immediately walked round through the garden, ordered the horse to be conveyed to the stable, and, on the following day, stood by the creature, feeding her with bread, and patting her silky neck while she was being attached to the carriage. Then, taking the reins in her own hand, slipping them through her fingers as she passed the animal, stroking and caressing her as she went, she drove out of the stable-yard to the great astonishment of the coachman. This creature in a few days became a perfectly trained carriage horse. She was, of course, awkward at first, but never obstinate.



'Tls a very dark and dreary day,

And the rain falling fast;
Tho gloomy sky hath a leaden dyo,

And the mist is driving past.

There 's a tree that looks at my window in,

A naked and leafless tree;
That looks, as it grieves for its summer leaves,

As sad as a tree can be.
For every twig and every branch

Is dripping with ceaseless tears;
And it stands alone, while the eold winds moan,

As it wept with the grief of years.
They gather and fall, and gather and fall.

The tear-drops evermore,
As they gather and fall in a human eye,

When the heart is with anguish sore.
Still the sad tree looks at my window in,

While the bleak March winds do blow; It staudeth there in the chilly air,

And rocks with its weight of wo. And they gather and fall, and gather and fall,

In my eyes the tear-drops fast— For the hopes that wither'd like autumn leaves,

And were whirl'd by the storm-wind past.
Ah, foolish tree, and-moro foolish heart,

To he crash'd by a low'ring day;
For the sun will lream with a loving gleam,

And the clouds will be furl'd away.
And the drops that fall from the stormy sky

Will sink in the naked earth;
And quaff'd by the tips of myriad lips,

Give hlossom and beauty birth.
And the tide of grief from the heart's deep fount

Will return in sweet soothin" tears; Still bringing back to its dry waste track

The bloom of its early years.

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