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Albany within an hour after leaving Mr. Scantleberry's establishment; and she fell on her knees before Mr. Algernon Mossby, and besought him to save her from utter ruin and destruction. Mr. Mossby behaved with thorough gallantry. He admitted that eight hundred pounds was a very large sum, but he thought, he said, that he could at once oblige her with a cheque for the amount. For all security he merely required her note of hand, payable on demand for the sum of eight hundred pounds and for "value received."

"That is enough, my dear Mrs. Mellor," said Mr. Algernon Mossby, as he handed her the cheque and locked up the promissory note in his cash-box. "I will make my demand all in good time. That little scrap of writing is quite sufficient to ruin your reputation if produced; and I have no doubt, that ere I produce it we shall have arrived at a very satisfactory understanding. Allow me to conduct you to the door; the staircase is rather dark."

Half-distraught she hastened to Mr. Scantleberry's, stopping on her way at the bank to get the cheque cashed. She had still the fifty pounds which the Dutchwoman had advanced to her on the previous day; and with the eight hundred lent to her by Mr. Algernon Mossby, she felt that one great peril was at least surmounted. Mr. Scantleberry seemed somewhat surprised to see her; but on her producing the loan-bond and the requisite money, handed her over the diamonds. She hurried then to Madame Schumakers in Foley Street, who was delighted to see her; the more so, she said, as she was starting for Rotterdam that very evening.

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"False, madam; you may take them to any lapidary-to any judge of precious stones in London, and he will tell you that they are not worth ten pounds. There has been some very ugly mistake here." And with a low bow Mr. Scantleberry retired into his back office. She found herself, she knew not how, in the street. She was now utterly, entirely ruined. She had no diamonds at all, either in pledge or in her own possession; and the accursed Mr. Algernon Mossby of the Albany held her note of hand for eight hundred pounds "for value received." She would go home, she thought, and kill herself.

"No, my darling," said Surbiton P. Mellor that night, when she had thrown herself at his feet, and with passionate tears and outcries confessed all; "you are not ruined; no harm has come to you at all, or to me either, for the matter of that. I have merely been reading you a little lesson, to cure you of your one fault-extravagance. The diamonds I gave you on your birthday were false. I knew that, sooner or later, they would come into the possession of that Dutch beldame Schumakers; I found the hag out, and took her into my pay; I intrusted to her the real diamonds, which she To her Mrs. Mellor handed the sum of gave you as imitation ones. They were the four hundred and fifty pounds, and received real stones we pawned, and the sham ones her jewel-case and her own diamonds. Now which you afterwards vainly endeavoured to she felt relieved. She would hasten back to pledge. As to Mr. Algernon Mossby, he is Mr. Scantleberry's, re-pawn her diamonds, and my very good friend and agent to command. then give Mossby back half his money. He Here is your note of hand; and it may relieve would surely wait for the rest. It was four in your mind to know, that I was concealed in the afternoon ere she reached Beaufort Build- the next room throughout your interview with ings, and in a few half-incoherent words ex- that obliging gentleman in the Albany. He plained that, through unforeseen events, she will come no more to this house, and he has was compelled to renew the transaction of the five hundred good reasons for holding his previous day. The pawnbroker bowed, observed tongue. Now, then, come and give me a kiss, that such things frequently happened in the and to-morrow morning I'll give you your real way of business, and proceeded to examine the diamonds and your sham ones too. Only, jewels-merely, he observed, as a matter of under any circumstances, don't take either the form. Mrs. Mellor felt perfectly at ease as he genuine or the spurious ones to Foley Street, weighed and tested them; in this, at least, to Beaufort Buildings, or to the Albany." there was no fraud, she thought.

The cure was efficacious and complete. Mrs.

Suddenly the pawnbroker fixed upon her Surbiton P. Mellor has since made considerable a searching glance.

"These are not the stones you brought me yesterday, madam," he said.

additions to her jewel-case; but she has ceased to raise money either on the hypothecation of her personal effects or on notes of hand.

HOME AT LAST.

Sister Mary, come and sit
Here beside me in the bay
Of the window-ruby-lit

With the last gleams of the day.

Steeped in crimson through and through,
Glow the battlements of vapour;
While above them, in the blue,
Hesper lights his tiny taper.

Look! the rook flies westward, darling,
Flapping slowly overhead;

See, in dusky clouds the starling
Whirring to the willow bed.
Through the lakes of mist, that lie
Breast-deep in the fields below,
Underneath the darkening sky,
Home the weary reapers go.
Peace and rest at length have come,
All the day's long toil is past;

And each heart is whispering "Home-
Home at last!"

Mary! in your great gray eyes
I can see the long-represt
Grief, whose earnest look denies
That to-night each heart's at rest.
Twelve long years ago you parted -
He to India went alone;

STANZAS.

Young and strong and hopeful-hearted—
"Oh he would not long be gone."
Twelve long years have lingered by;
Youth, and strength, and hope have fled,
Life beneath an Indian sky

Withers limb and whitens head;
But his faith has never faltered,
Time his noble heart has spared;
Yet, dear, he is sadly altered-
So he writes me. Be prepared!

I have news-good news! He says-
In this hurried note and short-
That his ship, ere many days,
Will be anchored safe in port.
Courage-soon, dear, will he come-
Those few days will fly so fast;
Yes! he's coming, Mary Home-
Home at last.

.

Idle words!-yet strangely fit!
In a vessel leagues away,
In the cabin, ruby-lit

By the last gleams of the day,
Calm and still the loved one lies;
Never tear of joy or sorrow
Shall unseal those heavy eyes-
They will ope to no to-morow.
Folded hands upon a breast
Where no feverish pulses flutter,
Speak of an unbroken rest,

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Yet He was patient-slow to wrath,

Though every day provoked
By selfish, pining discontent,
Acceptance cold or negligent,
And promises revoked.

And still the same rich feast was spread
For my insensate heart.-
Not always so I woke again,
To join Creation's rapturous strain,
"O Lord, how good Thou art!"

The clouds drew up, the shadows fled,
The glorious sun broke out,
And love, and hope, and gratitude
Dispell'd that miserable mood

Of darkness and of doubt.

CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.

THE RUSTIC WREATH.

little distance, whilst a young girl, resting from the labour of reaping, was twisting a rustic wreath-enamelled corn-flowers, brilliant poppies, snow-white lily-bines, and light fragile harebells, mingled with tufts of the richest wheat-ears-around its hat.

There was something in the tender youthfulness of these two innocent creatures, in the pretty, though somewhat fantastic, occupation of the girl, the fresh wild flowers, the ripe and swelling corn, that harmonized with the season and the hour, and conjured up memories of "Dis and Proserpine," and of all that is gorgeous and graceful in old mythology-of the lovely Lavinia of our own poet, and of that finest pastoral in the world, the far lovelier Ruth. But these fanciful associations soon vanished before the real sympathy excited by the actors of the scene, both of whom were known to me, and both objects of a sincere and lively interest.

The young girl, Dora Creswell, was the

[Mary Russell Mitford, born at Alresford, Hamp-orphan niece of one of the wealthiest yeomen shire, 16th December, 1786; died at Swallowfield, near Reading, 10th January, 1855. The extravagance of her father, Dr. Mitford, dissipated a considerable fortune which her mother had possessed, and also made away with £20,000 which Miss Mitford, at the age of ten, had obtained as a prize in a lottery. It was the pecuniary difficulties of her family which suggested to her the idea of authorship as a profession, and in 1806 she began her literary career with a volume of Miscellaneous Verse, which was favourably received everywhere except in the Quarterly. In the succeeding year she made a more ambitious venture, and issued Christina, or the Maid of the South Seas, a narrative poem founded on the romantic incidents which followed the mutiny of the Bunty. Her genius and persevering energy achieved the greatest success in poetry, drama, and fiction.

Of

her plays the most notable are, Julian, a Tragedy, first performed in 1823 with Macready in the part of hero; Th Foscari, a Tragedy, 18:6; Rienzi, 1828; and Charles the First. But of all her works the most widely appreciated is Our Village: Sketches of Rural Character and Scenery. The first of these sketches appeared in the Lady's Magazine, 1819; they were subsequently collected, and with the additions made to them from year to year formed five volumes-the first having been published in 1824, the last in 1832. In the Noctes, Christopher North speaks of Miss Mitford as "that charming painter of rural life;" and the Shepherd says, "Oh, sir, but that leddy has a fine and bauld hand, either at a sketch or finished picture." Her Recollections of a Literary Life (1852) form a work full of useful memoranda about books, places, and people. Bentley and Son have recently published in three volumes a life of Miss Mitford, "told by herself in letters to her friends." It is edited by the Rev. A. G. L'Estrange, and has an introductory memoir by the late Rev. William Harness,

her literary executor.]

I had taken refuge in a harvest-field belonging to my good neighbour, Farmer Creswell: a beautiful child lay on the ground, at some

in our part of the world, the only child of his only brother; and, having lost both her parents whilst still an infant, had been reared by her widowed uncle as fondly and carefully as his own son Walter. He said that he loved her quite as well, perhaps he loved her better; for, although it were impossible for a father not to be proud of the bold, handsome youth, who at eighteen had a man's strength and a man's stature, was the best ringer, the best cricketer, and the best shot in the county, yet the fair Dora, who, nearly ten years younger, was at once his handmaid, his housekeeper, his plaything, and his companion, was evidently the very apple of his eye. Our good farmer vaunted her accomplishments, as men of his class are wont to boast of a high-bred horse or a favourite grayhound. She could make a shirt and a pudding, darn stockings, rear poultry, keep accounts, and read the newspaper: was as famous for gooseberry wine as Mrs. Primrose, and could compound a syllabub with any dairy-woman in the county. There was not such a handy little creature anywhere; so thoughtful and trusty about the house, and yet, out of doors, as gay as a lark, and as wild as the wind-nobody was like his Dora. So said and so thought Farmer Creswell; and, before Dora was ten years old, he had resolved that, in due time, she should marry his son Walter, and had informed both parties of his

intention.

Now, Farmer Creswell's intentions were well known to be as unchangeable as the laws of the Medes and Persians. He was a fair speci

men of an English yeoman, a tall, square-built, left her a desolate and penniless widow, unmuscular man, stout and active, with a reso-owned and unassisted by the stern parent, on lute countenance, a keen eye, and an intelli- whose unrelenting temper neither the death of gent smile: his temper was boisterous and his son nor the birth of his grandson seemed irascible, generous and kind to those whom he to make the slightest impression. But for the loved, but quick to take offence, and slow to general sympathy excited by the deplorable pardon, expecting and exacting implicit obe- situation, and blameless deportment, of the dience from all about him. With all Dora's widowed bride, she and her infant must have good gifts, the sweet and yielding nature of taken refuge in the workhouse. The whole the gentle and submissive little girl was un- neighbourhood was zealous to relieve and to doubtedly the chief cause of her uncle's par- serve them; but their most liberal benefactress, tiality. Above all, he was obstinate in the their most devoted friend, was poor Dora. very highest degree, had never been known to Considering her uncle's partiality to herself as yield a point or change a resolution; and the the primary cause of all this misery, she felt fault was the more inveterate because he called like a guilty creature; and casting off at once it firmness, and accounted it a virtue. For her native timidity and habitual submission, the rest, he was a person of excellent principle she had repeatedly braved his anger by the and perfect integrity; clear-headed, prudent, most earnest supplications for mercy and for and sagacious; fond of agricultural experi- pardon; and when this proved unavailing, she ments, and pursuing them cautiously and suc- tried to mitigate their distresses by all the cessfully; a good farmer, and a good man. assistance that her small means would admit. Every shilling of her pocket-money she expended on her dear cousins; worked for them, begged for them, and transferred to them every present that was made to herself, from the silk frock to a penny tartlet. Everything that was her own she gave, but nothing of her uncle's; for, though sorely tempted to transfer some of the plenty around her to those whose claim seemed so just, and whose need was so urgent, Dora felt that she was trusted, and that she must prove herself trustworthy.

His son, Walter, who was, in person, a handsome likeness of his father, resembled him also in many points of character; was equally obstinate, and far more fiery, hot, and bold. He loved his pretty cousin much as he would have loved a favourite sister, and might, very possibly, if let alone, have become attached to her as his father wished: but to be dictated to, to be chained down to a distant engagement; to hold himself bound to a mere child-the very idea was absurd-and restraining, with difficulty, an abrupt denial, he walked down into the village, predisposed, out of sheer contradiction, to fall in love with the first young woman who should come in his way-and he did fall in love accordingly.

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Such was the posture of affairs at the time of my encounter with Dora and little Walter in the harvest field: the rest will be best told in the course of our dialogue:

“And so, madam, I cannot bear to see my dear cousin Mary so sick and so melancholy; and the dear, dear child, that a king might be proud of-only look at him!" exclaimed Dora, interrupting herself, as the beautiful child, sitting on the ground, in all the placid dignity of infancy, looked up at me, and smiled in my face. "Only look at him!" continued she, "and think of that dear boy and his dear mother living on charity, and they my uncle's lawful heirs, whilst I, that have no right whatsoever, no claim, none at all, I that, compared to them, am but a far-off kinswoman, the mere creature of his bounty, should revel in comfort and in plenty, and they starving! I cannot bear it, and I will not. And then the wrong that he is doing himself; he that is really so good and kind, to be called a hard

Mary Hay, the object of his ill-fated passion, was the daughter of the respectable mistress of a small endowed school at the other side of the parish. She was a delicate, interesting creature, with a slight drooping figure, and a fair, downcast face like a snow-drop, forming such a contrast with her gay and gallant wooer, as Love, in his vagaries, is often pleased to bring together. The courtship was secret and tedious, and prolonged from months to years; for Mary shrank from the painful contest which she knew that an avowal of their attachment would occasion. At length her mother died, and, deprived of a home and maintenance, she reluctantly consented to a private marriage. An immediate discovery ensued, and was followed by all the evils, and more than all, that her worst fears had anti-hearted tyrant by the whole country side. cipated. Her husband was turned from the house of his father, and, in less than three months, his death, by an inflammatory fever,

And he is unhappy himself, too; I know that he is. So tired as he comes home, he will walk about his room half the night; and often,

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child should be frightened! Be sure, Walter, that you don't cry!" said Dora in great alarm. "Gan-papa's fowers!" replied the smiling boy, holding up his hat; and his young protectress was comforted.

At this moment the farmer was heard whistling to his dog in a neighbouring field; and, fearful that my presence might injure the cause, I departed, my thoughts full of the noble little girl and her generous purpose.

I had promised to call the next afternoon to learn her success; and passing the harvestfield in my way, found a group assembled there which instantly dissipated my anxiety. On the very spot where we had parted, I saw the good farmer himself, in his Sunday-clothes, tossing little Walter in the air; the child laughing and screaming with delight, and his grandfather apparently quite as much delighted as himself; a pale, slender young woman, in deep mourning, stood looking at their gambols with an air of intense thankfulness; and Dora, the cause and the sharer of all this happiness, was loitering behind, playing with the flowers Walter's hat, which she was holding in her hand. Catching my eye, the sweet girl came to me instantly.

"I see how it is, my dear Dora, and I give you joy, from the bottom of my heart. "Little Walter behaved well, then?" "Oh, he behaved like an angel!" "Did he say Gan-papa's fowers?" 'Nobody spoke a word. The moment the child took off his hat and looked up, the truth seemed to flash on my uncle and to melt his heart at once; the boy is so like his father. He knew him instantly, and caught him up in his arms and hugged him, just as he is hugging him now."

“No, ma'am ; I look for my uncle here every minute, and this is the best place to ask a favour in, for the very sight of the great crop puts him in good humour; not so much on account of the profits, but because the land never bore half so much before, and it's all owing to his management in dressing and drill-in ing. I came reaping here to-day on purpose to please him: for though he says he does not wish me to work in the fields, I know he likes it; and here he shall see little Walter. Do you think he can resist him, ma'am?" continued Dora, leaning over her infant cousin with the grace and fondness of a young Madonna; "do you think he can resist him, poor child, so helpless, so harmless; his own blood too, and so like his father? No heart could be hard enough to hold out, and I am sure that his will not. Only,"-pursued Dora, relapsing into her girlish tone and attitude, as a cold fear crossed her enthusiastic hope"only I'm half afraid that Walter will cry. It's strange, when one wants anything to behave particularly well, how sure it is to be naughty; my pets especially. I remember when my Lady Countess came on purpose to see our white peacock that we got in a present from India, the obstinate bird ran away behind a bean-stack, and would not spread his train, to show the dead white spots on his glossy white feathers, all we could do. Her ladyship was quite angry. And my red and yellow Marvel of Peru, which used to blow at four in the afternoon as regular as the clock struck, was not open at five the other day when dear Miss Julia came to paint it, though the sun was shining as bright as it does now. Walter should scream and cry, for my uncle does sometimes look so stern-and then it's Saturday, and he has such a beard! If the

If

"And the beard, Dora?"

"Why, that seemed to take the child's fancy : he put up his little hands and stroked it; and laughed in his grandfather's face, and flung his chubby arms round his neck, and held out his sweet mouth to be kissed;—and, oh! how my uncle did kiss him! I thought he would never have done; and then he sat down on a wheat-sheaf and cried; and I cried too. Very strange, that one should cry for happiness!" added Dora, as some large drops fell on the rustic wreath which she was adjusting round Walter's hat: "very strange," repeated she, looking up, with a bright smile, and brushing away the tears from her rosy cheeks, with a bunch of corn-flowers-"very strange that I should cry when I am the happiest creature alive; for Mary and Walter are to live with us; and my dear uncle, instead of being angry

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