the country requires it; but when it falls in London, where it is not wanted, when it drops on their own umbrellas, and interferes with their business or pleasure, they ungrate fully bestow bad language on it, longing for a pavement unsullied by mud, and even dwelling almost lovingly on the recollection. of the flying dust that calls for the mild shower-bath of the water-cart.

But in few parts of the great city, do the effects of a thorough wet day tell more gloomily than in the squares of Lincoln's Inn. In the more busy thoroughfares, lined as they are on either side with thrivinglooking shops, the very passing to and fro of the ant-like population gives such an appearance of life and animation, that the fall of the rain ceases to have so depressing an influence over the senses; but in the neighbourhood of the law courts, and in the Fields,' open and airy though they be, there is an imposing quiet, and an absence of busy out-door' life, that makes the

localities where lawyers vegetate, gloomy enough to all but those who take their learned pastime therein. Defend us, then, we say, from the dignified dullness (on at rainy day) of Lincoln's Inn.

But we must now turn from the general view of that dismal region, and concentrate our observation on one spot, namely, the archway that forms one of the entrances to Lincoln's Inn Fields, on the western side.

Under its shelter (if shelter it could be deemed) stood a woman, poorly clad, and shivering. For many hours during that dreary February day, had she been wandering abroad; and the wet wind pierced her scanty garments through and through. She had been hurrying homewards (for she had an attic somewhere, an attic with unpapered walls and fireless grate) when the rain suddenly increasing in violence, forced her to seek the dubious shelter of the archway. From that cold and wind-visited refuge she, with her thinly covered shoulders leaning

against the brickwork of the arch, watched the world without in listless fashion, as though her thoughts were far away.

Hired vehicles, driven by moist men in reeking garments, and dragged by horses whose 'go' was nearly over, and whose panting sides were shining with sweat and raindrops, passed her constantly. In those vehicles sat men with grave and anxious faces; men who had given money for speed that they might the sooner listen to an opinion, or look into the copy of a will.

And besides these, stepping on in haste, and without a sideward glance, were bedraggled females sent on household errands, while small boys hastened on with porterpots in hand, and all these passed the weary woman by, and heeded her not.

For an hour she had stood there, and still the rain continued to fall on the dim window-panes, grim with the accumulated dirt of ages. Windows they were that looked as though all the storms of the

sky, and all the water from the buckets of every housemaid under it would be alike ineffectual to cleanse them from their stains. And still as she stood there the heavy raindrops pattered down, and the bleak wind spared her not.

When Helen was driven ignominiously from Darrow House, she determined (and steadily kept her resolution) never again to expose herself to the bitter mortification of detection.

She had resolved that in her dealings with her neighbour she would be both honest and just, answering to the spirit as well as to the letter the questions asked her; and so doing, she would (she felt) have confidence, knowing that her own heart would not condemn her. Helen had heard it said, nay, she had even written the axiom in her copy-book when she was a little child, that 'Honesty is the best policy;' she believed in the saying, God help her, when she told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, to the good

'motherly lady' who advertised for a housekeeper, and to the really excellent head of a seminary for young gentlemen, where a matron was required. She was not quite sure that the old-fashioned and well-sounding truism was not a popular fallacy, even though a third and a fourth effort at employment were doomed to a cruel disappointment. But when, after repeated trials, she found that, though supported by the good word and high recommendation of Archdeacon Morton, no one would accept of her services, then she did despair, and murmur, saying in the bitterness of her spirit, 'Am I never to be forgiven?'

Tens of hundreds of years ago a saying among many wise ones was written for the enlightenment of mankind, As long as a man doeth well for himself, men will speak well of him.' Human nature has not changed since those words were penned. We may even transpose them now, and let the text run thus, 'As long as a man speaketh well of