do, "but your money is safe enough, you may depend upon it: no one wants me for myself."

Oh, Miss Martin, Miss Martin! simple, truthtelling Miss Martin! did you speak the whole truth then? Did you from your heart believe that you could not be loved for yourself, and that Ferdinand was falsehood to the core? If so, why do you, now that Margaret is gone, and you are alone, ponder so long over the fire; and examine yourself so long at the glass; and read those verses he has copied out for you, so earnestly and attentively; and, having read, fold them into your pocket-book, to read again some other time? Say what you like, Miss Martin, —we have the highest respect for your sincerity, and so has Margaret Armadale,-but she does not quite ... nor do we !

believe you

It was long before Miss Armadale slept that night: her mind was full of thoughts, and as she recalled the events of the evening, she did not feel quite satisfied with her conduct. She had of late, under the tuition of the Vicar and Mary, and Dame Bernard, begun to weigh her own actions and motives more strictly than before; and by comparing them with the one true standard, had been proportionably lessened in her own estimation: judging of herself in this manner, she had feared she had been too hasty in her speech to Mrs. Strapper. "I should have considered," said Margaret, thinking aloud, "that she was old, and accustomed to be humoured, and to say what she pleased of any body, and that she could not know how

I

I should feel her paltry tattle. I was too hasty often am ... and yet to hear him so slandered-it maddened me! I did not think there was a being alive who could find a word to say against his character-dear, dear papa!" And at the mention of that once familiar word, now one of the sounds gone by, Margaret's eyes filled, and leaning her head on her hand, she sat how long she knew not-recalling old remembrances, and wringing her heart with hopeless yearning for that which could never be.

The old familiar features-the cheering smile-the manly, athletic form-the hand, so kind and generous -the tongue, so guileless and so true the partial indulgence that never could see her faults-the watchful attention that anticipated her every wish--the faithful bosom, where, happen what would, she would always have found a resting-place,--all those many, many cords of love, whereby her heart had been linked to her father's, and which death alone could have broken, seemed now to be breaking anew. Years had passed away, and scenes had changed, and re-changed, since he died in her arms; but now it appeared only like yesterday: as if that dreadful hour was acting over again, when she first pressed her hands to her burning brow, and said "I am an orphan!" Every event, every word of that agonizing period rose up in her memory:--yes, and many things before that time; walks with him by the sea-shore; hours of study together over his favourite authors; pro

phetic warnings that he had given her against the time when she might be left alone as now, but which in her thoughtlessness she had little heeded and, overwhelmed by the anguish of the retrospect, she laid her head on the table, and wept long and bitterly.

None of her friends, not even Miss Martin, who knew her best, fully comprehended the intense power of loving that formed a part of Margaret's nature. Her love for her father she had hoarded in her bosom as a secret treasure, too precious for vulgar eyes; and because her light spirit soon shook off any thing like depression, and would kindle into gladness if the sun only shone, many had an idea that her affections were as transient as her gloom. Little did they know how her heartstrings had twined and clung round the only being she had to love; nor, when that being was taken away, and an aching void left where he had been, how earnestly she longed for some one to take the broken idol's place, and accept the worship she had poured out on him! Mercifully for her she met with none: worshippers she found; and admirers she found;-gay, fashionable, even intellectual acquaintance, who welcomed her to their mansions, and made her a sharer of their festivities; but no one whom she could love: the yearning within was still unsatisfied, and in real loneliness of heart she turned to the Hand that chastened her; languidly at first, and in strict concealment; but still in sincerity, and as such did not turn in vain.

BB

Without a guide, without a teacher, surrounded by myriad temptations to frivolity and forgetfulness, it will only appear natural that Margaret's religious principles should be rather undefined; indeed, she was often bewildered about them herself; and, with a reverential love of all that was holy and good, was very apt to look upon them as unattainable, and content herself with admiring what she feared she could never follow. But never was a heart more willing to be taught; more generous, more noble in every sentiment and feeling; therefore it was that the Vicar's exhortations and Mary's example had such instantaneous effect; and that when she had discovered her new path of duty, she set herself so eagerly to walk in it. And as no sincere endeavour ever yet went without encouragement, she already reaped an earnest of hers in the still small voice of comfort that stole into her ears in this solitary hour of bitterness and regret. It reminded her of the Vicar's words: of the mansions he had described as prepared for God's beloved; of the world of eternal rest and peace where tears are never known: and, as she thought of these things, Margaret's mind grew calmer, and she closed her Christmas as is too seldom done, as she had never done so heartily before.

O Religion... star of the soul! it is in darkness that thou shinest best!

CHAPTER VIII.

"The heralds of her court are beggary,

And Want her chamberlain."

MILMAN.

HE late winter sun had not yet risen, nor had even begun to think about it, when Mary Leyden rose; and by the time his beams were playing on the frosted windows, she had already done a good two hours' work; nor did a single hour of that morning go by in which her active fingers had not left some trace of industrious ingenuity. For be it remem

bered, this was the day of their "children's party," the Vicar's own particular party; and as visitors, young or old, must be housed, amused, and fed, and Mary had but two maids, and an Irish charwoman, she was obliged to be half a dozen herself; not only ordering, and superintending, but actually sharing the labour: with a neat apron before her, and her pretty arms protected by a tidy pair of holland sleeves. Mr. Leyden, scholar and divine as he was, and in many respects above the imperfections of his fellow-men, in one little blindness descended to their level: he