that we should lose sight of you amongst dark mists, and vapoury clouds; and I wish I had an angel's eloquence, that I might fill your soul with all holy aspirations, high thoughts, and blessed visions of eternal things, such as would make your home a paradise, and your door a portal of real blessings to the poor, and to all of us. Yes, Ella, we would gladly learn of you, as

well as love you. We would find in you, not only a fellowtraveller along the heavenly road, but a sister, and a kind supporter. You might be all this to us, Ella, and to many. Oh, be your better self, even so far as to determine to make the great decision. Examine your own heart. Behold what great, what lovely attributes God has given you, and then choose for Him who gave his life to save you; rather than for the world. This, Ella, will restore to your character, not the simplicity of childhood, but a true, a beautiful, an elevated simplicity, lowly and humble as regards yourself; but oh, how exalted, in comparison with anything which you can otherwise attain !"

Ella had no reply to make to these remonstrances. She had either too little, or too much to say; and tears would come instead of words.

"Another time," was all she could utter, as her hand was extended to take leave. Her head was turned away as she passed through the garden gate. Her friend stood gazing after her, until he saw the last flutter of her light dress, as she passed the corner of the hedge. He then breathed a deep sigh, retired into his own house, shut himself into his study, where no one was accustomed to intrude, and prayed. He could do that safely, as well as sincerely, for an old acquaintance like Ellafor the companion of his youth, all lovely as she was. He could pray for her, because he did so with a pure heart; and because that heart was preoccupied by an affection in which he found entire satisfaction and repose.

If Ella had desired to take home with her, as a subject for pleasant contemplation in her own cottage, another illustration of the word simplicity, more mature in its attributes,

than her friend had described as belonging to the condition of childhood, she could not well have found a lovelier picture, or one more true to the best signification of the word, than a group of figures which occupied the rustic scat within the avenue, and which she beheld at a short distance from her own path on returning home.

Mrs. Cawthorne, attracted by the loveliness of the morning, and the fond persuasions of her children, had been induced to join them in their little walk, at least so far as to the seat, her favourite resting-place. The fresh air wafted from the surrounding fields was fragrant with a thousand perfumes, but chiefly laden with the rich scent of the bean-flower; and the sky, so clear and blue, seemed filled with invisible music from innumerable larks, high up to "Heaven's gate singing;" while here and there, amid the boughs of the tall, thick trees, whose branches, interlacing, met above her head, might be heard the soft cooing of the wood-pigeon, with the sharper, shriller strain of many a songster, which peeped through the thick canopy of leaves at the pretty group below, and then flew away, as if startled by the laughter of the children, or the louder exultations of the nurse.

We have often wondered whether nurses-we mean the whole tribe of them, are really as fond of other people's children as they seem to be. It is a wonderful endowment of nature which they possess, if they are. That Mrs. Cawthorne's nurse was, there could be no manner of doubt. At any rate, the mother never doubted this very satisfactory and agreeable fact. No: she was, indeed, too simple-hearted for that; for as she herself never deceived, she saw no reason to suspect that any other person would. Beyond this, she devoutly believed that her own little cherubs were the most lovely, and the most to be beloved of any existing creatures on the face of the whole earth. No one would have robbed her of this belief, if they could; especially as she was so quiet and so unobtrusive with it, that it had scarcely any existence except in her own silent, soft, and peaceful thoughts. She asked no one whether it was

so, or not; still less did she try experiments and manœuvre, as some women will, in order to elicit a favourable opinion.

Half indolent, as Mrs. Cawthorne seemed, though never listlessly indolent, and still less unhappily, because her mind was always filled with a multitude of pleasant thoughts and feelings, she seated herself upon the garden chair, over the back of which the nurse was leaning, to watch the pleased expressions of the youngest child, her favourite, who sat upon the ground, clutching whole handsfull of green herbs, with here and there a flower. But the older child occupied a prouder, and, as it seemed, a more favoured place, with its arms clasping its mother's neck, regardless of all fine-lady ornaments of lace or ribbon, and only intent upon securing, as she seemed to think she did, that precious form within her hold, so that it could not rise, and walk away.

Ella had to pass so near, that she almost feared the rustling of her dress might disturb the happy group, and she was not in a mood for recognitions that morning. She only wanted to reach home, not to converse by the way; and she succeeded so far as to escape on the other side of the trees, by a narrow way which diverged in the direction of her cottage. The scene, however, simple as it was, made an impression upon her mind, at once deep and sad. "Happy mother! happy wife!" she said to herself, as soon as she had gained a stile from which she could look back to the rustic seat in the avenue, without a chance of being seen. She could still see the light dresses of the little party through the trees. She could still hear the merry laughter of the children, and the soft, cooing sounds of fondness from the mother and the nurse-softer even, and more musical, than the voice of the dove in the high trees.

"You deserve to be happy," said Ella, as she sighed, and turned away.

(Continued at p. 49.)