that Mrs. Rivers and her daughters were seated at the window of Mrs. Wood's second floor front room, looking vacantly down into the still busy street, and reflecting that they had nothing "to put them o'er the morn." The room was dark, for they had no money to buy food, much less candles; but as they preferred hunger to cold, there was a little bit of fire in the grate; for it was in the month of October, and the evenings were chilly. . Sadly and silently they sat, for their hearts were depressed even below complaint; penniless, forlorn, and forsaken-forsaken by all but the faithful and humble Elias, who guessed their extremity, and could not aid them; and the equally faithful Russell, from whom they had so carefully concealed their situation, that he had no suspicion of it. He had succeeded in effecting Mr. Rivers' liberation, not by paying his debts, but by satisfying the creditors. that detaining him was useless, as he had no property to give them, except it were the small annuity belonging to his wife, which, as it was the only means of subsistence his family had, he was determined she should never sacrifice; and Mr. Rivers also entered into an obligation, that if he lived to inherit the East

lake estates, to which he was the heir at law, not only should their debts be discharged with interest, but a certain bonus should be given over and above to each creditor, in consideration of his present forbearance.

The captive was no sooner free, than he left London upon some expedition, the object of which he did not explain to his wife, further than by saying that he trusted it would be productive of something that would make them more comfortable; and in order to furnish him with means for the journey, she had stripped herself of every shilling she could spare; and, indeed, more than she could spare, without great inconvenience; but as the period for receiving her quarter's dividend was approaching, she had ventured to be more liberal than she otherwise would.

The rent was due, and Mrs. Wood gave no credit, and their last shilling was gone, when, on the preceding Thursday, Mrs. Rivers, on applying for her fifty pounds, had found the house of the agent shut, and been informed that he had effected his escape to America. What was to be done? Mr. Rivers was still absent-where, they knew not, for he had not written to them since his departure—a cir

cumstance that did not surprise them, for in those days of dear postage, letters were too great luxuries for the poor. To confide in Russell, was to ask for aid; and, besides that their delicacy revolted from the exposure, they knew he was himself so poor, that he could not have assisted them without personal inconvenience; and they had so anxiously concealed themselves from the eyes of all their former acquaintance, refusing even to admit Charles Danby, Ellen's former lover, who had found them out, that every link was snapped, and they were as much alone in the world, as if they had never had any. Mr. Rivers had no connexions but the Eastlake family, with whom, for years, he had had no communication; and Mrs. Rivers had nobody with whom she could claim relationship but an uncle, a hard old man, who had never forgiven her for marrying a gambler-an offence he had punished by striking her name out of his will.

It was near ten o'clock, but being Saturday night, the shops were still open, and busy with the working-people and the poor, who, having received their scanty wages, were hastening to lay in their little store of provisions for the morrow; but how much poorer in their poverty

was the once affluent and happy family! They were poorer by all the differences of their education, of their early habits, of their cultivated minds, of their refinement, of the wants which the others knew not, and could never feel, and of the shame and delicacy which deprived them of all the resources which the less sensitive resorted to in their need. How much more forlorn they were than these! With the loss of their wealth, the world had fallen from them, and they were alone; the others had their families, their friends, their familiars, their gossips. There is a woman. coming out of Dixon's shop-she looks very poor; in one hand she has three red herrings, and she has just been buying a couple of small tallow candles, sixteen to the pound, which are hanging by the wick, to the fore-finger of the other. But, see, she stops to speak to that other woman, who, leading a little girl by the hand, has just come up, carrying a bit of meat on a skewer; and another comes out of the chandler's shop, with a loaf of bread, and a small slice of cheese, and joins them. They shake their heads, and she with the herrings, holds up her fore-finger, and discourses volubly. Perhaps they are discussing the hardness of

But

the times, complaining of the dearness of provisions, and lamenting the daily increasing difficulties of supporting a family. they can discuss, they can complain, they can lament. They have their hearers and sympathizers to whom they can talk of their distresses, and who are equally glad to relieve themselves, by talking of their own. They are not ashamed of exposing their necessitous condition, for they never were acquainted with anything better; their taste is not offended by it; their pride is not wounded by it; their senses are not shocked by the sights and smells around them; and if they can but get food enough to satisfy their hunger, no delicacies or disgusts stand in the way of its relish. They have fallen from no height, have lost no station; and their associates, and equals in birth and bearing, are in no better circumstances than themselves. They have little care for the future; as the days past have, somehow or other, provided for themselves, so, they expect, will the days to come; and they are unacquainted with that dark dread that would peer into the cloud that overhangs the wretch accursed with forethought. And how much of the sting of poverty do all these differences