“But Lizzie, you used to learn so much and always were so good at lessons with Miss Marston, and I used to be so troublesome to poor Mamma," he answered, bursting into tears at the recollection of the loved mother they had so recently lost.

"And she always forgave you, my darling," said his sister, tenderly kissing his wet cheeks, "and called you her dear good child! You found lessons tiresome and difficult; and I liked them, even when I was quite a little girl."

"Then why, Lizzie, do you keep on learning, learning, from morning till night? You know Mr. Lyston said you ought not to read so much."

"Yes dear, he did; but he had not been told that I should have to be a governess; and a great deal of study is needed, to make me able to teach the kind of children I should like to live with,"

"Live with? Then are we not going to stay in this pretty house together, dear Lizzie? Is not this our very own home?"

"It was, love," said his sister, trying to speak cheerfully; “but richer people will soon be coming to live here, for we cannot afford to remain. Some day," she added, smiling, "when I have done teaching little girls, and you have made a great deal of money, we may perhaps be able to live here together again. But that cannot be for many years—till you have grown up a clever man; so you must try and learn all that you can at school, and be very industrious."

"Oh, I cannot bear to go away; we have been so happy here; haven't we, Lizzie ?" "Very happy, dear, till Papa died; and then Mamma was so ill, and everything seemed changed; and now that she has gone too! I do not much care to stay."

"But you like the garden and the flowers, and Dumple and Beauty-don't you, Lizzie?"

"Yes, dear, indeed I do," said the poor girl, with a sigh. She could not explain to her little brother, ten years her junior, how sorely she needed other companionship than his, to make Woodside Hall, with all its beauties, the home that it once was to her.

She was but eighteen, and had been brought up surrounded with every luxury and comfort which wealth could purchase; and now all must be given up. A new, untried life lay before her -a life of trial and patient endurance, which she scarcely had the courage to contemplate, and from which she knew there was no escape. Her father, Mr. Mortimer, was reputed to be a man of large fortune. He had purchased a long lease of Woodside, immediately after his marriage, and had yearly expended immense sums in beautifying, altering, and, as he considered, improving the property. His wife, a woman of inexpensive habits and simple tastes, occasionally remonstrated with him on this unnecessary outlay; but he was not a man disposed to enter into business matters with her, and, as she could do nothing to prevent it, she was forced to submit, being kept in total igno

rance of his real income, derived from his very profitable business as a cloth-manufacturer.

"I never grudge you anything you want, iny love, for yourself or the children; spend what you like in the house, but leave all out-door affairs to me. The garden is my hobby, and it would be strange if I might not devote some of my hardly-earned money to it!"

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Some, surely, my dear husband; but think of our children's future, and don't be too extravagant now!"

"Never fear, my love; they are too young to begin to save for, yet; but at my death Lizzie will be an heiress, and her brother a match for the proudest beauty in the county!"

Death, however, came to Mr. Mortimer sooner than he had calculated upon. He was going through his factory with some foreigners, who were interested in the working of a new machine upon "improved principles," when, owing to the carelessness of one of the workmen, an accident occurred, and Mr. Mortimer was so seriously injured by the falling of a crane that he expired a few hours afterwards.

The shock was too great for his poor wife; she never left her bed from the day of the funeral, and, dying two months subsequently, was fortunately spared the knowledge that she would leave her children not only orphans, but penniless; their only surviving relative being her brother, George Aldwyn, a lawyer, with a good London practice, but not wealthy enough to do very much for them, even should he be so disposed.

Uncle George had taken the entire management of their affairs into his hands. He had known nothing of his brother-in-law's true position, but had never doubted his being, as others represented, a man of large property, state of things; that he had expended every and now, for the first time, discovered the real penny of his income-living up to it, but, fortunately not beyond it-so that there were no outstanding debts to pay; and his children were the only sufferers by his culpable improvidence. Everyone naturally condemned his recklessness, but no one could bring forward any personal claims against the late master of Woodside Hall.

For this pretty spot Mr. Aldwyn determined to find a tenant as soon as possible, cherishing at the same time a hope that when he should have "made his fortune," he might perhaps be able, in some way, to restore his sister's children to their early home. This hope was certainly rather a visionary one; but the good lawyer, having once entertained it, could not banish it altogether, either from his head or his heart. Meanwhile, he must work all the harder, and give the orphans a home with him in London. Lizzie had resolved upon doing something for her own support, as soon as she heard how utterly destitute they had been left; and Uncle George did not dissuade her from her determination. He admired the spirit of the young girl, and thought it better that she should at once enter upon a course of life which would place her

"Where are you going? to the summer-house, Lizzie? Do you not like the wood best? Oh yes, and the dear old maple-tree; let us go there; the ground is so soft and mossy."

To them we will now return, still sitting by the open window in Lizzie's pretty little study-half library, half boudoir-a room commanding a lovely view over the distant hills, and a very inviting peep at the gayest part of the flowergarden.

The door stood ajar, for it was a sultry afternoon, and a breath of air was a luxury; and facing it, a few paces further on, was another open door leading into the conservatory, now well filled with choice flowers, whose fragrance blended harmoniously with that of the starry jasmine above the study window.

Lizzie had fallen into a reverie after Ernest's last remark, which lasted almost as long a time as I have taken to describe the circumstances in which they were now placed; at length her brother broke the silence by the half-whispered enquiry-"When am I to go to school, Lizzie?" "I do not quite know yet, dear; we will talk about that with Uncle George. I dare say he will find time to see us next week; but it is of no use thinking of school to-day, love. Come, you shall help me put away this desk; the books can be left, and we will find some shady little nook out-of-doors, to sit down in; it is too warm for walking till the sun goes down."

Ernest jumped up joyfully, and asked Lizzie if she would tell him a story whilst they rested. "If you like I will read you some of the little tales I have been translating from the German. I have told you all I can remember, over and over again, and these are quite new.'

"I should like them very much, sister; and I won't be impatient any more when you are writing, if you must do it," he added, with a sigh at the recollection of the long hours his sister now devoted every day to her pen and her books. "And will you promise to read all the stories out to me, when you have put them into English ?"

"Any that would amuse you I will, dear." "I wish I could be clever too," said Ernest, sadly. "I shall never be able to learn German, though: the letters make my eyes ache to look at them."

"Never is a long day, Ernest dear; perhaps when you are as old as I am you will have learned Latin and Greek, and a great deal more, which I shall not be able to do."

“Latin and Greek? Oh! dear!" sighed poor Ernest, who certainly was anything but a bookworm, and much preferred a canter on his pony

"Yes, I think we could not have a nicer place for story-telling; and we shall not go there very often now," said Lizzie, half-sadly.

They were soon established under the beautiful tree which stood near the entrance to the wood skirting one side of the pleasure-grounds, and giving its name to the Hall.

"Now for the stories, Lizzie."

"They are very simple ones, Ernest, because I cannot read difficult German yet; but I think you will like them. The first is called "The Branch of Cherry-blossom :"

"A little boy named Julius was walking with his father and sister along a pretty countryroad: suddenly he stopped, looking about him right and left, as though seeking for something which he expected to find in that neighbourhood. Tell me, dear Papa,' said he at length, was it not here that we saw that beautiful tree in blossom, which I admired so much? I can't help thinking it must have been here. Oh, Lotty, if you had but seen it, I am sure you would have done as I did, and begged Papa to give it us. It was like a great nosegay of flowers: we could have divided them between us, and made wreaths and garlands enough for the whole village. But Papa would not give it to me then-perhaps he will let us both have it now, though?"

"I promised to show it to you once more, and now I will keep my word,' was his father's answer.

"Julius expressed great pleasure at the idea of again seeing the beautiful nosegay which he had so much admired. He ran on a long way in advance of his father, and looked about with his eyes wide open, and at last he stood lost in astonishment before the well-known tree, upon which, however, instead of the expected bloom, splendid bunches of cherries were now to be seen. 'Oh, what beautiful cherries!' exclaimed he.

"My child,' rejoined his father, the cherries would not have given you so much pleasure today, if we had broken off the blossoms, as you wished. Learn from these cherries,' added he, that we ought to be willing to deny ourselves a passing enjoyment that we may secure an abiding one. Now can you understand my object in obliging you to devote some hours to study, which you would sooner, perhaps, spend in play? I am striving to enable you, one day, to take an honourable position amongst your fellow-creatures. Youth is the bloom of life, and he who tends it not carefully, can reap no fruit from the future.'

"Having enjoyed some of the delicious cherries, they walked on together a little farther, when all at once a beautiful lime-tree, whose shady branches extended far over the high road, attracted Julius's attention.

"Well, really that is a very useless tree !' "And why so?' inquired his father. "Because it does not bear any fruit,' answered the child.

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'And yet its wood is of use,' said his father. People turn it into boards, and warm their rooms with logs of it.'

"That may be,' continued Julius; 'but would it not be better placed in a forest? A fruit-tree in this place would be much more refreshing for travellers passing by.'

"His father was silent. It was very warm; the sunbeams were scorching. The little boy, who had been perpetually running about hither and thither all the time, was very heated and tired. Let us rest a little while, though,' said he, laying himself down upon the soft turf, greatly enjoying the coolness of the far-spreading shadow cast by the unfruitful tree. Oh, how refreshing this is!" he exclaimed.

"So, then, after all, this tree is not quite so useless as you thought at first!' observed his father. Learn from this, my boy, that nothing useless comes from the hands of our Creator; and remember, too, that people may often be very useful without being very rich. This tree can give us no fruit, but it lends us its shade: and thus, too, the poor man, who has it not in his power to give money to the needy, may nevertheless have frequent opportunities of conferring a benefit upon his suffering brethren.'

"That is a pleasant thought for us," said Lizzie, cheerfully, as she folded up her manuscript. "We will not forget it, Ernest. Do you like my little stories?"

"Yes, sister; and I will try and think of Julius and the cherries, when I learn my lesson. But now read me something else.

"Not now, dear: there are some ladies coming towards us-people to look at the house, I suppose," said she, rising hastily, and advancing reluctantly to the garden-gate, through which two elegantly-dressed ladies had just passed.

Lizzie's heart beat quickly, for she had often been exposed to unnecessary annoyance from the curiosity and impertinence of those who came, duly furnished with "cards to ew," and insisted upon a minute inspection of every nook and corner of her much-loved home. Her anxiety was, however, speedily terminated, as she found the strangers were very dear friends, whom she had not seen for a long while. They had left England before her parents died, in consequence of the severe illness of an only brother, who was now quite restored to health, and had returned with them but a week previously.

"We would have come to see you before, dear Lizzie," said Miss Grahame, who was a year or two older than her friend; "but this law business has kept us in town, for you must know the Chancery-suit, which has been taking up your Uncle's time, and preventing his visit to you, has been of the greatest consequence to us !"

"Indeed!" said Lizzie, "he did not tell me anything about it."

Because he knew you would be so disappointed if it did not terminate in our favour; and the issue was quite uncertain." "And now?"

"It is all, happily, over; and we are rich people," said Fanny, the younger sister.

"What a pleasant thing for you, dears! I am so glad-so very glad!" said Lizzie, who, in her friend's good fortune, forgot the blight which had come over her own prospects.

"We knew you would be, and Mamma made us come over to you at once with the news, because we have a plan in our heads which we want to talk over. Oh! Lizzie, we are all so very, very sorry for you!"

Miss Grahame was the speaker. Her sister could only grasp Lizzie's hand, and then she stooped down to kiss little Ernest, and hide the tears which she could not prevent coming into her eyes.

Mrs. Grahame and Mrs. Mortimer had been old schoolfellows, and fast friends ever since. Their children had been thrown much together; for Mrs. Grahame's married life had not opened so prosperously as Mrs. Mortimer's; and the latter had often had the little girls for months at a time in her house when their parents were in difficulties, which their presence would have enhanced rather than diminished. Horace Grahame had been on the foundation of the grammarschool in the neighbourhood, and was then so frequent a visitor to the Mortimers that he had learned to look upon Woodside Hall as almost shock to them all when they first heard of the as much his home as Lizzie's. It was a great sorrow that had befallen their early friends. "Let them live with us, dear Mamma," pleaded the girls; miserable, now, without either father or mother!" 'poor Lizzie must be so

Lizzie would agree to this arrangement; and, But "Uncle George" did not think that perhaps, he was a little selfish in his hope that, for the present at all events, his young niece would fall into his views, and be contented to share his London home with him-and little Ernest.

| The girls tried hard to persuade Lizzie to give up the horrid idea of teaching, and Horace halflaughingly proposed her being governess to his sisters; but all to no purpose. She felt able and willing to work, and resolutely refused to turn aside from the path in which she believed her duty lay. Ernest would need her sisterly care in the great world to which he was soon, in a measure, to be introduced; and her uncle, too, could not be altogether overlooked. He was her dear mother's only brother, had been a kind friend to them, and had promised to be so still; and so she would not think of any situation that should separate her from them, and, after a while, found one as a weekly governess in a family living not very far from her uncle's house in Tavistock-street, where her services were likely to be appreciated and suitably remunerated.

And what became of Woodside Hall, and Ernest's pretty little pony, and Lizzie's Arabian "Beauty"?

They are taken good care of, I am sure; for the Grahames are now living in Lizzie's old home, and they will not suffer anything to be neglected which she has loved.

It is many years now since the sad day when Uncle George fetched the orphans from their childhood's home, and Lizzie has been working hard and bravely for herself and Ernest, and he has not been idle: indeed he is soon going to India, where he has a very good chance of making a fortune.

Uncle George is not a rich man; but he is getting tired of business, and of living in London; so I think it probable that he will take up his residence in the little cottage which Horace Grahame has lately had built on the Woodside estate, and persuade Lizzie to give up teaching and live quietly with him, till perhaps a day may come when she will ask him to live with her, in a larger house of her own; which may be hers again if she at length says "Yes" to the old friend who has long ago asked her to be his wife, and refuses to look out for any other mistress to Woodside Hall. Y. S. N.

Our knowledge of Ostend extends no farther than from the port to the douane, and furthermore to the railway station close at hand. According to Murray, our ignorance has not occasioned us much loss. But though we have not seen Ostend, we have smelt it; and that is enough; for we landed from the packet at low water, in a Flemish pilot-boat; and if all the smells of Cologne had concentrated in the thick and slab and stagnant-looking element through which we were rowed to shore, the effect olfactory could not have been more pestiferous. The Thames, at ebb-tide, is mild in comparison! It was a pleasant change, therefore, to find ourselves, after a short and civillyconducted search of luggage, in a comfortable cushioned second-class carriage, traversing—at a parliamentary train pace in England, but which is an ordinary one in Belgium the rich alluvial plains, through which runs the thirteen miles and a-half of railway between Ostend and Bruges.

The fresh morning air, the cool green of the waving corn, the scent of bean-fields in blossom somewhat far off, the soft blue of the flax in the bell, with here and there a home-like village, with white walls and red roofs set in a frame of linden and chestnut-trees, and long rows of elm and beech sheltering the roads between them, and lines of willows and alders tracing the banks of the canals, served to refresh and-in spite of the monotony of high cultivation and flatness such as becomes a country every acre of which is said to support three men-interest us till our arrival at the ancient capital of West Flanders, the medieval city of the Golden Fleece, into which all Europe poured its

Philipe le Bon originated the order of the Golden Fleece at Bruges in 1430, to commemorate the perfection of the woollen manufactures in that city.

argosies previous to the times of Philippe le Bel, and thenceforth to those of the Kaisir Maximilian. We drove across the Grande Place to the narrow street, into which the "Fleur de Blé" (Longfellow's "Fleur de Blé") is situated, just as all the clocks in all the churchtowers struck six, and the silvery carillon in the belfry of Le Tour des Halles chimed out its recognition of the hour.

Early as it was, the streets seemed fuller of life than at any subsequent period of the day; but after a night on ship-board, we were glad to choose our bedrooms, and seek the refreshment of a bath and rest.

Some hours later, after a pleasant breakfast in the salle-à-manger of the clean and quiet inn, we found ourselves in the deserted grassgrown, and but for the church-bells and the chimes, comparatively silent market-place of the once-important city. Now one almost hears the sound of his own footfalls on the pointed pavement; and the clatter of a peasant's sabots, or the grounding of a sentinel's fire-lock, beneath the pent-house at the side of the old brown belfry, where the guard-room is situated, is heard all over the vacant square, to the gloom of which the stately proportions of the surrounding houses, with their steep roofs and gable-ends, pranked with sculptured flowers and bas-reliefs, reminiscent of Spanish dominance, not a little contributes. Yet it was pleasant, standing there in the market-place of Bruges, with the shadow of the tall Gothic belfry darkening a space about us, and its musical bells hundreds of feet in the air, every little while breaking forth into resonant showers of sweet chimes, the effect of which would, perhaps, tions had not raised our expectations beyond have been yet more delicious, if poetical descripthe reality; or perhaps it was due to the force of a first impression, that the remembrance of the

wild and changeful melody of the chimes of the | auld kirk at Amsterdam anticipated for us the poet's description.

What stormy gatherings, what stately pageantry, what singular phases of social, religious, and political history had this old marketplace been the scene of, from the distant period when the kings of France named the Foresters of Flanders' to its government, till the incoming of the swart and cruel Spaniards in the sixteenth century, and the final extinguishment of the free cities of the Hanseatic league in the toykingdom of the Netherlands !

Hither came Baudoin of the Iron Arm, with the fair Judith of France, after having made good his right to the soubriquet by her abduction from the court of Charles the Bold in the absence of her father, who was just then administering monarchial correction, after the fashion of those times, to his rebellious subjects in Normandy. But if Oudegherst's description* of Bras de Fer be true, we fear the incomparably beautiful princess required but little force to ride the road to Bruges, with this same brown-skinned, marvellously strong and agile warrior, who, to a tall and handsome person, added fine horsemanship, and was an amiable and eloquent speaker.

Here, too, passed by the youthful pair in a triumphant procession, when, years afterwards, the persuasions of the great lords, and the force of Baudoin's character, induced the King of France to forgive the marriage; and two legates were sent by Pope Nicholas to take off the curse of the church, which, to speak truly, had hitherto appeared to rest lightly enough upon the consciences of the excommunicated couple. Here, also, in 1113, another Baudoin (Baldwin) à la Hache (Baldwin of the battle-axe, or hatchet) -these Counts of Flanders had by no means pleasant appellations-conferred the rights of citizenship upon the inhabitants of Bruges, and proclaimed the establishment of tribunals of justice, the inflexible character of which was subsequently illustrated in a terrible fashion on this very site by another Count, when the Chevalier Pierre, Seigneur of Ostchamp, having robbed a poor peasant-woman of two cows, was brought before him, and having confessed to the crime, had all his goods confiscated, and was cast into a cauldron of boiling water in the middle of the market-place, and in the presence of all the people of Bruges-an infliction, we read, which acted very healthfully on the fears of the rapacious gentry around, and enabled the poor people of the country to keep their own.

Here the first fairs were annually held which formed the nucleus of the after-trade and commerce of the city, which, by the middle of the eleventh century-long previous to the prosperity of Ghent or Antwerp-had become a place of considerable importance.

Early in the thirteenth century rose up the Tour des Halles-the type of the civil liberty of

* Oudegherst Chroniques et Annales de Flandres.

the people, and the interpreter of their commercial rights. Its iron tongue called them together, and warned them on all emergences, and under its roof they met to discuss all matters connected with their commerce, and transact the business of the modern Bourse; for at Bruges, as elsewhere, trade had led to social freedom, and every attempt on the part of the Counts of Flanders to curtail their privileges was met by the sturdy merchants and craftsmen with a resolute spirit of resistance; and on every occasion of attempted encroachment, forth came the townsmen from the narrow streets by twos and threes, each with a strong steel bassinette on his head, a staff tipped with iron in his hand, and a formidable knife at his girdle, to club their dissatisfactions in the market-place.

Here, where we are now standing, congregated the merchants of Venice and Lombardy, with swart sea-captains from Constantinople and Genoa, and English wool-factors, the best market for whose commodity was Bruges, which had even then its companies of weavers and clothiers, and was famous for the beauty of its tapestry.

This, and much more, the primal wooden belfry overlooked; but it is the fate of belfries to be burnt. We know of no one, in any continental town whatever, that has not passed through fire to its present solidified state of architecture; and that of Bruges is no exception. Its flames, as from stately pharos, must have lit up all this wide space, and illuminated with its wild glare the multitudinous faces of the anxious burgomasters and citizens who beheld, in 1280, the destruction of the precious archives it contained, and the charter of the privileges bestowed on them by Philippe le Bel, for their having held the town against Guy de Dampierre. Hence the tall wooden tower crowned with the

golden dragon, of which some crusader had pillaged the church of St. Sophia, at Constantinople, and which was subsequently carried to Ghent by Philip Artevelde, lay in dust and ashes, where the present Tour des Halles overlooks the town, and many miles of the fertile plains in the midst of which Bruges is situated. Indeed, its prime purpose was that of a watch-tower; and a man kept constant ward upon its height, to signal the approach of public enemies, and of fire, the especial one of Belfries, who, in order to prove his vigilance, was obliged to sound his trumpet every hour-a custom that was again set up in 1521.

This usage is frequently alluded to in the pages of Sir John Froissart, as looking out from the topmost gallery of the ancient Vieuxbourg, the watchman caught the blaze of hostile banners, a wood of spears and glittering bassinettes approaching, or saw the white hoods thick strewn as daisies in the discous meadows upon the road from Ghent.

It sounded on that fair holiday morning, the anniversary of La fête du sang de notre Seigneur, when the flat meads heard and echoed the masses sung by the friars, who accompanied the free companies that Philip d'Artevelde led on to