at last believed it was conquered, and that she cared for him only as a sister; but now that he would soon be indeed her brother, the terrible truth burst upon her, for now, alas! she saw too plainly what she had closed her eyes to before-that she still loved Harry Leslie as deeply, though not as passionately, as

ever.

Still, however, there was comfort; her secret was unknown, unsuspected; and Helen-her sweet Helen -would make so good a wife, and he, so noble, so religious-ch, how her heart gloried in that!-would be happy at last.

So there she sat, hour after hour, hidden in a large fauteuil, unconscious of the flight of time, until about midday she heard some one enter; but, thinking it was Helen, she took no notice, until suddenly the footsteps paused, and then she looked up. A gentleman with dark-tanned complexion and masses of curly brown hair, whiskers, and moustache, stood at a distant window. Nothing in the form or manner was familiar to Florence, who felt sure that she had never seen him before; yet what could bring him there? His side-face only was towards her, and with his eyes fixed on the ground, the stranger appeared plunged in a painful reverie.

At last he spoke, half aloud, as though communing with himself.

"Yes; it was in this very room, ten years ago; she sat here by this window;" and, advancing a few paces, he leaned against it. It was evident he had not yet seen his companion.

Florence trembled and turned pale, then murmured timidly"Mr. Leslie !"

"Mr. Leslie-Harry!"

He started at his own name, and turned round; a lady stood beside him. He passed his hands over his brow-was he asleep? he must have been: it could not be ten years since he had seen her last. There was the same broad brow and braided hair, the same tender hazel eyes. It was indeed Florence Neil, and -he saw it at a glance-she was his own Florence still. He expected to see her there, and had been told she was unaltered. Still the realisation of all he had heard and hoped unnerved him, and for a moment he could say nothing.

"Do you not know me? am I so much changed?" and the sweet voice trembled as it questioned.

"Changed!-changed!" he answered, as he turned upon her the whole light of his glorious eyes; "no, it is I who am changed. Oh, Florence, if I might—if I could tell you the change which these last years have 'made in me; if-but it is impossible."

"I know it already," she replied, as the hot blushes chased each other over her downcast face. "I know you have fought the good fight, and have conquered, and I say God bless you!"

She moved towards the door as if to leave him. Florence-Florence!" he had followed her and caught her hand; one word, and I will detain you no longer can you-do you-is it possible you love me still ?"

"Mr. Leslie," she exclaimed, almost indignantly, drawing back her hand, "you forget; you are my brother now."

"Brother!" repeated Harry, becoming ghastly

They told you truly. But if I have no lover, I have a sister—

Florence's meaning was not to be mistaken, and, hurt and astonished, Leslie sat down, and covering his face with his hands, seemed buried in thought.

Florence turned from him; there was a bitter pain in her heart, but her features were calm and placid, almost stony, in their self-command.

At last her companion spoke

"Florence-I beg your pardon, I must call you so this once-has Helen, your sister, I mean-has she-in short, I must pain you: what grounds are there for the supposition you hinted at just now?"

Angry and indignant was the glance the lady threw upon her interrogator.

"Mr. Leslie," she began, but she stopped suddenly; a new idea had struck her, and drawing Ernest's letter from her pocket she gave it to him, watching his countenance anxiously as he read. Leslie perused it without a word, and as he proceeded a faint smile dawned upon his face, until, when he came to the end, he fairly laughed aloud, saying, "Pray forgive me; but this is too absurd; what will Ernest imagine next?" Then, as he met her surprised glance, "Can you not see-do you not understand, that although I did go to see Helen, it was but to consult her, and ask news of you? But for her assurance that your heart was not otherwise engaged, I should not have come here to-day. And now-

It was too much; the reaction from sorrow to such joy, the bliss of finding that he loved her still, after all these years, as deeply, as intensely as ever, was more than she could bear, and bowing her head on her hands, she wept unrestrainedly.

"Florence, dear one," and Leslie passed his arm around her waist, and tenderly drawing her head down upon his shoulder, strove to soothe the emotion she seemed powerless to control.

"Dear Florence, let us thank God for this."

"I will, I do! Oh, Harry! Harry! this is indeed happiness!" and she raised her loving, tearful eyes to his face.

It was at this moment that Ernest Neil entered the room, and his amazement may be well imagined when he saw the man, who he had fancied was his younger sister's suitor, holding their calm, grave senior in his arms, and pressing kiss after kiss on her lips and forehead.

But his love and respect for both Leslie and Florence were real and well-founded, so that, when he heard the story, his joy was only exceeded by theirs, and a shade of deep, true feeling crossed his brow, as, placing Florence's hand in that of her lover's, he murmured a blessing upon both, and hurriedly left the room.

Upon their after-fate we cannot dwell. But can we doubt that a love which had withstood so long a separation, based as it was now upon a higher, holier hope, should sustain and strengthen each through life's troubled and dangerous path, and lead them onward and upward towards the haven of rest?

FEMALE INFLUENCE. A married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one, chiefly because his spirits are soothed and retrieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding that although all abroad be darkness and humiliation, yet there is a little world of love at home over which he is a monarch.

HISTORICAL.

QUEEN ELIZABETH'S RING.

THE second Earl of Essex, who was introduced at the Court of Elizabeth in his seventeenth year, soon became a favourite of the Queen. He accompanied Leicester in his expedition to the Low Countries in 1585, and greatly distinguished himself at the battle of Zutphen. On returning to Court he was made Master of the Horse and Knight of the Garter, and on Leicester's death he occupied the foremost place in the royal favour. It is said that, on some occasion, Elizabeth presented him with a ring, which he was to send to her at any extremity, and claim the aid or pardon which he had been promised along with the gift. But the course of friendship between the earl and his royal mistress was not destined to run smooth. By joining, without her permission, in the expedition to reinstate Don Antonio on the throne of Portugal, he incurred the displeasure of Elizabeth, and offended her still more by his marriage with the widow of Sir Philip Sidney. Through the artifice of enemies, who envied his position at Court, the earl was sent to Ireland as lord-lieutenant, and his manner of conducting the affairs of this difficult post was so unfortunate, that on returning hastily to London, contrary to the positive order of the Queen, he was made a prisoner, and summoned to give an account of himself to the Council. He was accused of forsaking his charge in Ireland without leave; of making knights there, contrary to the express commands of the Queen; of writing presumptuous letters to Her Majesty; and hastily entering her bedchamber when she sat with her hair all about her face in the hands of her tire-woman. On the third day after his examination by the Council he was committed to the custody of the Lord-Keeper Bacon. In June, 1600, he was put upon his trial before a court of eighteen commissioners, and the result was that he was condemned to forfeit all the offices which he held by patent from the Crown, and to remain a prisoner at the royal pleasure. In August he was released from custody, but informed that he must not appear at Court. Denied access to the Queen, he vainly attempted to create an insurrection, for the purpose of forcing Cecil, Raleigh, and his other enemies from office. Essex was committed to the Tower, arraigned before a commission of twenty-five peers, and condemned to be executed. In the sad and trying period between his condemnation and the carrying out of the sentence, he remembered the ring which the Queen had presented to him in more auspicious times, and the promise that accompanied the gift. Thinking there was still a possibility of moving Elizabeth's heart in his favour, he contrived to send the ring to his cousin, Lady Scrope, with a request that he should have it conveyed to the Queen. But the message-boy, by an unfortunate mistake, delivered it into the hands of Lady Scrope's sister, the Countess of Nottingham. It happened that the husband of the countess was one of the greatest enemies of Essex, and on her telling him about the ring, he insisted that she should retain it, and keep the message that accompanied it a secret. Expecting the arrival of the token, the giving of which she also remembered, Elizabeth delayed the execution, the warrant for which she had once revoked, sending Edward Carey, a kinsman of the hapless earl, to prevent it from being carried out. Essex, on his part, impatiently awaited the result of his message, and deemed the Queen inexorable when no word came to him from the palace. On the morning of the 25th of February, 1601, the earl was led out to execution in the court of the Tower, and his head was severed at

three strokes from his body. He was buried in the Tower Chapel, near the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Arundel.

Some time after, when the Countess of Nottingham, who had kept the ring, was on her death-bed, her conscience compelled her to send for the Queen, and reveal the fact, imploring her pardon; but, instead of pardon, Elizabeth shook the dying woman in her bed, and said, "God may forgive you, but I never This is the historical scene represented in the accompanying illustration.

can!"

WEARY OF LIFE.

ON such a night as lovers choose for quiet wanderings by brook-sides and in shady lanes-a night when lonely sailors, far out at sea, leaning over the vessel's side, think of loved ones who dream of them at home -a night when poachers meet in deserted roads to sally forth together upon their illegal pursuit-on such a night occurred a circumstance which has affected the whole subsequent course of my life. I was about twelve years old, or scarcely that; but those twelve years had been as eventful and as full of sorrowful experience as any child need ever know. I had learned too early to be sad. Too soon had my boyish frolics been tinged with pensiveness; too soon had the shadow fallen across the path. I was the eldest of my father's children. My father was a man of talent, and might have been as successful as he was clever. There had been brilliant and flattering passages in his life; but their brilliancy had been more than he could bear, and his sudden fortune had driven away the thought of caution and of prudence. In the day of his success he had made one or two false steps, upon which the envious were but too ready to lay hold and charge against him. This, coming as it did from those whom he had treated as his friends, was more than his high spirit could brook; and in his anger and his disappointment he degenerated into excess, and things were done then which ruined his self-respect. To drown his shame and the reproaches of his conscience, he resorted to drink, and his downward course began. Year by year his prospects faded, his friends deserted him, his foes exulted, his habits gained upon him, and his degradation deepened. My mother was a woman of a loving heart and gentle spirit. For a long time she sought to reclaim him by every means which her anxious heart could suggest; and when all her efforts failed, she prayed to Heaven for strength to endure her trouble, and strove to bear her lot without a murmur. her disappointed hopes, her unreturned affection, and the ill-usage she received from him to whom she had given her life, told upon her health. I was her only confidant. She made no others; for her grief was too sacred to be revealed to those who could not share it. The younger children could not understand her feelings; and thus I became the recipient of all her cares, her troubles, her hopes, and her fears. months rolled away, and matters had but grown worse, I had longed to be able, in some way, to make my mother's sad life more tolerable; but my youth and inexperience were obstacles which could not be overcome, and I was compelled to witness what I could not avert. My mother's pale cheek grew paler, her sad voice became sadder, and every day the unwelcome thought was forced upon me, that my dearest earthly friend was not long for life. My helplessness, and what I considered my uselessness, became my great troubles. If I could have done anything to

But

As

alleviate my mother's sorrow, I should have been comparatively happy; but that was, as I thought, out of the question while my father shut his eyes to the misery at home. He either could not or would not see the necessity for exertion on his own part, or on the part of others, to drive that misery away. In that home, unknown alike to neighbours and to passers-by, gaunt Poverty intruded its terrible visage. Few in that little town even suspected how matters stood with us; for my father was a literary man, and, as such, he must appear to be a gentleman. We lived in a respectable house, and, so far as we were seen, were obliged to keep up an appearance." But, except my father, I was the only one who could leave the house in the daylight; for our clothes were all faded and worn with long usage and careful mending. Food was scarce, and such as we had was obtained upon credit from small shopkeepers in the neighbourhood. Want had been followed by sickness. My mother was very ill, and yet was compelled to wait upon more than one sick child, and to attend to such necessary household offices as no one else in the house could perform. At the time of which I have spoken, some new trouble1 cannot now remember what it was-had befallen us. Whether my father had indulged in some further excesses, and we had heard of his disgrace; or whether a distress upon our little stock of poor furniture had been made; or whether my mother's illness had become worse, I do not know; but some such sorrow had made me more than usually sad. I had left the house-probably upon some errand-and was passing slowly through the quiet streets, in the dim moonlight, at a late hour of that autumn night. I stopped near the canal, at that part of it where the barges discharged, or took in, goods. The heavy shadows of the high warehouses on either side fell gloomily upon the water, and all was still. Not a sound was heard around as I crept silently to the edge of the quay. At this moment, as I write, I can recollect the strange, mysterious feeling which came over me. I wondered how people felt, who threw themselves into rivers and were drowned. I think I hear again the wonderings of my childish heart. I thought that I should like to die, for it could not be worse in the next worldin which I had been taught to believe-than I had found it in this. I thought that, if it were true that God knew all things, and if He saw me then, He could not be angry with me if I sought to leave my troubles and come home to Him; for I knew not then the noble heroism of suffering, and the blessings which it brings. I fancied it would be better for me to be out of the way, for I was of no use to my mother, and I could not bear to see her suffer when I was unable to assist her. Then there came another thought, and that decided me-it was, that if I were to die, and to die so, it might arouse my father out of his carelessness, and he would perhaps think more of those who would be left behind, and exert himself to make them happy. I crept nearer to the water, I looked at it, down below my feet, and wondered if it were deep. I remembered all I had heard about people throwing themselves off bridges and disappearing before they could be rescued, and about bodies being found floating upon rivers and thrown upon their banks, cold and dead; and I wondered where my body would be found, and who would carry the news to my mother. Then I looked around, to make sure that no one saw me, and I prepared to jump in. I offered up a prayer to God, that he would remember my mother and take care of her, and that He would reclaim my father, and I committed myself to Him. A moment after, I stood close to the edge of the canal, and, thinking that I had done for ever with the world, I drew myself up, collected my strength

and hushed my breath, and was about to make the last leap, when a new thought occurred to me. It was this: "What about my mother, when she hears I am dead ?" I halted, and that thought saved my life. Had another moment passed, there would have been a splash in the water, and some day a child's body would have been found, without a trace of the sorrow which had led its possessor to seek a watery grave; and the coroner's jury would have returned a verdict of "Found drowned." But I could not do it while I thought of that gentle sufferer, whose heart would bleed for the loss of the child in whom she had confided so much. I could have sat down there and cried, for I was but a child. I looked at the water again, and I turned away with a shudder. "No," I said; "I'll go home" and I went home--slowly and thoughtfully, asking myself strange questions of that unknown futurity to which I had been so near. I reached the house and closed the outer door; and as I went up the bare, uncarpeted stairs, I could not avoid the thought that, if I had had my own way, I might have been carried up those same stairs a corpse, bringing but a new sorrow, heavier than all, to my already sorrow-burdened mother. I found her in the room where we usually lived, sitting by the scanty fire, with my little brother, a sickly child, on the floor at her feet. Her face was very pale, and she was more than usually weak; but she welcomed me with a smile, and I thanked that God, of whom I had been thinking a little while before, for the thought that had kept me from an end so premature and sad. And many a time since then I have had reason to thank Him again and again. From that night I had a new purpose-to share my mother's sorrows. seemed no longer an idle thing to live, for I could hear her troubles and soothe her cares. And now, after many years, as I write these lines, my mother sits near me, with a brighter eye and a happier mien. The cause of sorrow is not yet removed, but its effects have been lessened; and my heart breaks out afresh in gratitude to that good Spirit who made the thought of my mother's loneliness the means of bringing me back to reason and to life.

It

HOW THE JAPANESE RESTORE FADED FLOWERS.After a bouquet is drooping beyond all remedies of fresh water, the Japanese can bring it back to all its first glory by a very simple and seemingly most destructive operation. A recent visitor to Japan says: -"I had received some days ago a delightful bundle of flowers from a Japanese acquaintance. They continued to live in all their beauty for nearly two weeks, when at last they faded. Just as I was about to have them thrown away the same gentleman (Japanese gentleman) came to see me. I showed him the faded flowers, and told him that, though lasting a long time, they had now become useless. 'Oh, no,' said he, only put the ends of the stems into the fire, and they will be as good as before.' I was incredulous; so he took them himself, and held the stems' ends in the fire until they were charred. This was in the morning; at evening they were again looking fresh and vigorous, and have continued so for another week. What may be the true agent in this reviving process I am unable to determine fully; whether it be the heat driving once more the last juices into every leaflet and vein, or whether it be the bountiful supply of carbon furnished by the charring. I am inclined, however, to the latter cause, as the full effect was not produced until some eight hours afterwards, and as it seems that if the heat was the principal agent, it must have been sooner followed by visible changes."

A BRUSH WITH THE INDIANS.

THEY continued riding 1ound us for several minutes, and I told my companion on no account to fire, unless compelled to do so in self-defence; but, at the time I was speaking, one of them rode forward with his lance pointed towards us, and M. Moustier, being the nearest to him, shot him down; he fell from his horse without a groan. Expecting what was to follow, I called to my companion to dismount immediately, at the same time springing from my own saddle to the ground; but before M. Moustier had done the same, the Indians began throwing their bolas, and although only starlight, they threw his horse, which, falling on his leg, held him securely to the ground. He begged me to shoot him, and not leave him to the cruelties of the savages; but, speaking a few words to reassure him, I cut the thongs of the bolas which were round the horse's fore legs, when he stood up, and I handed him to M. Moustier, who was also liberated; then, getting my own horse ranged alongside the other, we placed ourselves between the two. The Indians then dashed forward to us, but our horses being now quieter, we aimed and fired beneath their necks; two of the Indians fell from their horses wounded, yelling fearfully; the rest fell back, and commenced throwing their bolas. Some of these, first striking the horses' backs, making them early unmanageable, flew over to our shoulders, which we afterwards found quite black from the blows; but every time an Indian came within sure lange we fired, and nearly every time killed or wounded him. This continued some little time, until a dozen of their number lay on the ground-some dead, and others wounded, uttering horrid crieswhen they drew off some distance, and, after a short consultation, four of their number remained on their horses to guard us, and the rest dismounted to look after those on the ground. Thinking it was now our best chance to clear off, we proceeded to mount; and before the savages could reach us, were in our saddles ; but, in the hurry, my revolver fell from my belt to the ground, and having to dismount to regain it, before I could rise again, I received a thrust from a spear in the calf of my left leg. The pain was intense, but I got into my saddle, and then received another thrust in my right thigh. M. Moustier turned and shot down the Indian who had wounded me, but at the same moment was speared in the neck by another of the party. He called out that he was fainting; but, reminding him of his fate if he should, 1 induced him to set off as fast as the horses would go. Turning at the same time, I fired my last shot amongst our three remaining foes, which, although doing no damage, caused them to desist from pursuit. Had they followed us, we should have been easily taken, having no more cartridges left, and their horses were much better than ours." Illustrated Travels."

SPRING.

NATURE awakes from Winter's sleep,
And decorates the plain;

From the green leaves the violets peep,
The primrose smiles again.

The sunshine tells of joy and Spring,
And, basking in its rays,
We bless the Universal King,

And sing the song of praise;

Hoping that when the hour shall come
That bids our souls take wing,
They may escape from wintry gloom
To everlasting Spring.

Gleanings from Many Minds.

GRATITUDE.-There is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind than gratitude. It is accompanied with such inward satisfaction, that the duty is sufficiently rewarded by the performance. It is not, like the practice of many other virtues, difficult and painful, but attended with so much pleasure, that—were there no positive command which enjoined it, nor any recompense laid up for it hereafter-a generous mind would indulge in it for the natural gratification that accompanies it.

THERE is certainly an innate tendency of the human mind to trust in Providence-a natural feeling inclining the conscious, upright heart to repose on the thought that no harm ought to come to those who are willing to do to others as they would have others do to them. "If an earnest, honest aspiration after truth and justice," says one, "will not save a man, surely there is no hope of salvation;" and another innocent, inexperienced soul whispers, "I would give all men their dues-surely none will rob me!" What a beautiful faith in justice, in the good and the true, and in human nature, is here expressed! But, alas! it is but too frequently the unsophisticated language of the inexperienced. The youth who goes forth with such noble principles and generous sentiments to cope with the scheming world, soon learns that he but wears his heart on his sleeve for daws to peck at. Then he turns to the lesson of the Cross, and discovers that justice and mercy have no place in the world. For the righteous there is only the crown of thorns and the sweet hope of the future.

WRITING AND READING.-The great leading dis tinction between writing and speaking is, that more time is allowed for the one than the other; hence, different faculties are required for, and different objects obtained by each. He is properly the best speaker who can collect together the greatest number of opposite ideas at a moment's warning; he is properly the best writer who can give utterance to the greatest quantity of valuable knowledge in the whole course of his life.

CHARITY IN JUDGMENT.-Never let it be forgotten that there is scarcely a single moral action of a single human being of which other men have such a knowledge-its ultimate grounds, its surrounding incidents, and the real determining causes of its merits as to warrant their pronouncing a conclusive judgment.

STRENGTH.-Strength does not consist only in the more or the less. There are different sorts of strength, as well as different degrees. The strength of marble to resist; the strength of steel to oppose; the strength of the fine gold, which you can twist round your finger, but which can bear the force of innumerable pounds without breaking.

THE testimony of those who doubt the least is not unusually that which ought most to be doubted.

DELICATE APPETITES.-The daily allowance to the maids of honour attached to the Court during the reign of Henry VIII., was a gallon of ale for breakfast and a chine of beef; a piece of beef and a gallon of beer for dinner; in the afternoon a gallon of ale and a maniple of bread; and for supper a mess of porridge, a piece of mutton, and a gallon of ale; after supper, half a gallon of wine and bread. If the Court beauties at that time needed three or four gallons of ale daily, Falstaff's craving for sack at an earlier period need not be wondered at.