ELLEN GRAY was pretty; there is no doubt of it; and to say that I loved her would be saying no more than every one might say on whom the light of her bright eye shone. - Up there in the country where we lived, there was none of that stiff formality, and no rules of conventional etiquette that govern society here in the city, and the heart had full play in childhood and youth. Our young people acted as they felt; and as they were usually happy, they seemed to enjoy themselves when they came together for an evening visit, or set off on a winter's sleigh-ride. But if there was one more buoyant and joyous than the rest, it was Ellen. Her heart was always in her face; light, ardent, pure, and blessed herself, a stream of love and blessedness flowed ever from her warm soul, as from a perennial fountain.

She was ten years younger than I, and was therefore a little girl when I was grown to man's estate, and my heart was fixed before Ellen came on the stage. But everybody loved Ellen Gray, and I loved her with the rest; and why sh not? There was no more harm

in loving her than in loving a fairy or a picture of an angel. The heart would go out after one who loved every one; and hence the universal admiration which this sweet girl received as she passed on from childhood among the years that are known as the teens. Her father was dead, and her mother was poor, and Ellen was an only child; and if a slight feeling of pity was mingled with the feelings which moved the heart when Ellen Gray was near you, it served only to deepen the attachment with which this child was regarded. But before the death of her father, Ellen had enjoyed as good opportunities for instruction as that region of country afforded, and she had improved them all. Quick, ready, and ardent in pursuit of anything on which her mind was set, she had made rapid and solid advancement in learning, so that there was no young lady of her age who was equal to her.

Ellen's mother had struggled hard, after she was left a widow, to provide the means of support for herself and her daughter. How tenderly that mother and that child loved! It

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was a sight to bless the eye to look in upon their cottage; you could not say which was the more dependent; the mother lived for the daughter, and the daughter was happy only as she was the solace and support of her on whose breast in infancy she leaned. And the sweet smile of the daughter lighted that cottage as a star that never set. The mother rejoiced in it, and felt gratitude she could not speak in the possession of a treasure that no wealth, in her poverty, could buy.

But the mother's health was feeble, and her labors were of course hardly sufficient to maintain herself, and Ellen's industry must add to the common store. This was cheerfully rendered; and for many years past, even when Ellen was not a mere child, she had delighted to spend her mornings and evenings in helping her mother, performing those light domestic duties which a child may easily discharge, if so disposed, and which lighten the load of a mother's cares, and leave her more leisure and strength for the more profitable employments on which she depended for daily bread. Now, let not any refined and sensitive reader in the city suppose that Ellen and her mother were the less respectable, or the less respected by the best society in the town of Lillinton, because they worked for a living. The fact is, they would not have been esteemed had they been willing to be dependent so long as they could take care of themselves. There was not a lady in Lillinton more beloved than Mrs. Gray. She was at the head of many of the movements in the parish for the promotion of this and that object of Christian benevolence; she was often looked up to for advice, and her example was as powerful as that of any other lady, except the minister's wife. In the best circles, that is, among the wealthiest and most intelligent people of the town, Ellen Gray was the brightest ornament; her company was sought; and a party was dull that lacked the light of Ellen's smile and the ring of her joyous voice. It was the mother's wish that Ellen should mingle much with her young friends. Mrs. Gray did not wish her daughter to be confined to her side continually; and she would urge her often, when Ellen would prefer to stay with her, to go out and be happy, and make others happy, as she shared the pleasures of society. But home was the dearest spot to both mother and daughter. Neither of them could have been happy elsewhere, unless the separation was the call of duty. It was

therefore a terrible trial to faith and love when the conviction slowly pressed itself upon the mind of both mother and daughter that it was necessary for Ellen to go abroad, and assume labors and responsibilities for which she seemed to be unfitted. But it had often been suggested to Ellen by those to whom she looked for counsel, that her education qualified her to give instruction to others, and that as a teacher she could provide a comfortable support for herself and her mother, and relieve the feeble Mrs. Gray from those labors to which she was now more and more inadequate. The thought of thus contributing to the comfort of her mother was enough to rouse the soul of this ardent girl to any sacrifice. She would undertake anything to make life's path smoother and life's load lighter for the mother she loved; and the only inquiry now to be made was, where to find a situation in which to engage as a teacher. She first sought in her own neighborhood for a school, but none could be found that was not already supplied; and then the city was visited by the minister of the parish, who took a lively interest in the family, and an effort was made to obtain employment in one of the many schools in the great metropolis. Nothing being met with that answered the desired purpose, the worthy minister was advised to advertise in the newspapers for a situation, and he yielded to the suggestion.

It was represented to him that there was a great demand for female teachers at the south, and if the young lady in whom he was interested was willing to go thither and take the charge of children in a private family, she could find a situation pleasant and desirable, and far less laborious than the care of a school. The advertisement soon appeared in the usual form, and the result was that in less than a month Mr. Jones had several applications for the young lady, all of them from the south; and the most eligible being selected, it was determined that she should accept it, and as soon as a suitable opportunity should offer, that Ellen Gray should go and enter upon her new relations in a distant part of the land.

It would be useless to speak of the painfulness of that parting. Ellen had the strong support of one who feels that she is doing right; it was filial piety-a daughter's love that led her to make the sacrifices involved; and great they certainly were. But the mother, how could she sustain the trial? There were kind friends who promised to be

still kinder, and Ellen whispered that she would return at the end of a year; and a few years of service in her new vocation would give them the means of living always together, in more ease and comfort than they had enjoyed before.

She went. It was a new world, and a strange world, and a world she did not love, on which Ellen entered when the low but spacious mansion of a southern planter became the scene of her labors. Her new friends were kind in their way, and did what they thought was enough to make their governess happy. But what did they know of the means to make Ellen Gray happy? It was love that Ellen wanted; and in the luxuries with which she was surrounded, and to which she had never been accustomed in her own cherished home, she sighed often and deeply for the hills and the hearts she had left in the frozen north.

Her charge was that of two girls, twelve and nine years old, and they were delighted with their new teacher. They hated the cross French governess, who had tormented them

with her music and parley vous, and it was joy to them to have so sweet tempered and lovely a girl as Ellen Gray to be their companion and guide. Months, a few months, passed wearily by, and the sense of loneliness wore slightly away, when George Douglass, the son of Mr. Douglass, in whose family Ellen is now domesticated, was announced upon his return from college. It was nothing strange that he should be smitten with the winning loveliness of this new inmate of his father's house, and that he should wonder that one so gifted with beauty and wit should be compelled to toil in the drudgery of teaching among strangers.

It will give a sad turn to this story, and one that I would not give to it, if it were not to record the dangers of youth and innocence, to say that George Douglass at college had not been cured of the vices contracted in still earlier life. Years of unbridled indulgence away from home had only served to pamper his depraved appetites and inflame his heart; while the associations and pursuits of his educational course had expanded his mind, improved his manners, and made him a more attractive and dangerous companion. He came home to be admired, caressed, and courted; the pride of parents who had spoiled him in childhood, who were blind to his faults, and praised him for those dashing and prodigal habits that made him offensive to others. But

this was the character in which he appeared before the world. He had not been at home a week before he learned that Ellen Gray was a lovelier woman than he had ever trifled with; and her modest worth, while it commanded his respect, assured him that if he would win her regard, he must appear to be all that he was not, and conceal all that he was.

Her

Among the young men at the north, and in the retired country parish where Ellen had lived, who looked upon the fair girl with admiration, there was not one who ventured to think of her as within his reach purity, dignity, and grace shed a lustre over her character, which dazzled the eye, and rendered her the object of a lofty worship. None had ever approached her with a word of flattery, or whispered in her ear the tale of secret love. This was the lesson she first learned from George Douglass. It was his artful tongue that first told her of her beauty, that, he said, had stolen his heart, and his voice first breathed the words of love into her unsuspecting ear.

Yet well did George Douglass know that Ellen Gray would not, with the consent of his parents, ever be his wife; nor did he seek her as his own choice. A poor, portionless governess was not the girl for the proud youth with a plantation and three or four hundred slaves in prospect. But he whispered love in Ellen's ear, and the sound was new to her, and fell on her heart, and she loved him and gave her heart to him. She believed him; and as she had never been deceived, she knew not the wickedness of the world, nor the dangers that lay in her path.

George told her that his parents were opposed to their plan; and his mother soon gave the trembling Ellen to understand, that if she had any designs upon her son she would soon leave the house. Ellen assured the proud mother that she had no designs upon her son; he had told her that he loved her, and she loved him in return; but rather than interfere with his happiness or the peace of his family, she would return to her own home in the far north, and George should be to her as if he had never known her.

This was the first impulse of the generous heart of Ellen Gray. Yet she did not know herself; she did not know how strong were the ties that already bound her to the first and only heart that she had ever loved; and when George proposed to her that night that they should fly to the nearest city, and be married

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It was a mere trick of the wretch to get her into his power. The marriage was a sham, in which one of his college companions impiously personated the man of God; and after a few weeks of travel, in which Ellen began to discover the vices of one whom she had supposed to be stainless as herself, George made an excuse to leave her, while he should go home and seek the forgiveness of his parents, and effect a reconciliation.

She never saw him again. Deserted in a strange city, and left in absolute want, she woke to the comprehension of the awful deception which had been practised upon her, and she sunk under the discovery. Nor would she seek comfort from friends of whose love she might be sure, in the village of her childhood. She thought of the mother whom she loved as no child but Ellen Gray could love, and the burning tears of penitence and shame fell in streams at the memory of those days of peace and bliss

when she was a happy girl in her mother's cot-days to come back never to the lone, crushed heart of the deserted one in a friendless land.

Poor Ellen Gray! What has become of thee I know not. The grey hairs of thy mother are rapidly going down with sorrow to the grave. The letter to the minister informing him of thy ruin, was gently communicated to thy mother, and the blessedness of the grace of God in sustaining the heart under the bitterest cup that was ever put to a mother's lip, was never more sweetly displayed than in enabling her to bear up under that dreadful blow.

Ellen is probably ere this in some Potter's field, in the grave of an outcast!

What is the use of telling such a tale as this? The answer is easy, if any one is foolish enough to ask it. It illustrates the deceitfulness of the human heart, the dangers to which unsuspecting innocence is exposed, especially where the affections are liable to be trifled with. This is not the only instance which has come to the writer's knowledge of cruel deception and ruin under similar circumstances, and he writes it for the good of those who may read. Let him that is wise consider.

PAUSE ere the "invisible finger of Time" shall turn the leaf, and spread out before thee another yet unwritten page of thy existence. One moment pause, while the bloom of youth lingers for a little on thy cheek, and thine eye still beams with something of its early lustre. Meekly, and with trembling, invoke the spirit of the Past, that, profiting by its stern yet gentle teachings, and "strong in faith assured," thou mayest be ready to meet the revelations of the "viewless fated Future." The spell is woven, the magic word is breathed, and the curtain, drawn aside by hands invisible to human sight, but clearly discernible by the spirit's eye, reveals the Past! Bright, sunny days of childhood, I am with ye once again; playmates, companions, I mingle in your joyous throng; I hear your merry shout; I see your smile, whose faces now look sadly upward from beneath the coffin lid! With

you once more I climb the slippery rock, to weave a garland for our queen of May; or leap the dangerous brook, to cull the sweet primrose that blushed to see itself reflected in the stream below. Now, hand in hand, we steal to yonder shady spot, to gather precious school-room gifts-the fragrant lilac, with the gaudy marigold and daffodil, spring's earliest garden trophies. Frail flowers, ye quickly faded! So did my days of childhood pass away. Would they had yielded to Heaven as sweet a perfume as that borne to me, after a lapse of twenty years, from the memory of these, my withered blossoms! Well may sacred lips utter the injunction, “Consider the lilies of the field," for, alas! do not these mute creatures of His handiwork, whose very breath is praise, send up to their Maker a more grateful fragrance than that exhaled from the early days of many whom he created in his own

who infant brows he pressed anon staldy? Years pass on! axe aan died, a shade of thought is the amusements of childhood while yet the vertant hii-side eath the sports of which it was so late boost, and the n sy ba á st hears the , as were,

memory" has now presented to thy view. And faithful is the mirror of the past to reveal the fearful record of neglected cuty, slighted privilege, obligations unacknowledged, talents perverted, time misimproved! More fleeting than the visions of childhood and youth will be the seasons of future life that yet remain. A.ready, in the bitterness of disappointment, hast thou oft exclaimed,

I've seen my hopes, like flancers, die, that fade in their early bloom;

My run that rose in a cloudless sky, I've seen go down in gloom;

And a Hut more withering, deadlier far, my

sten, ken soul has known,