and with cheerful alacrity Mrs. Jackson began those clinging garments. There was no need of to prepare for her husband's return; the hearth words. nicely swept, the easy-chair in its cosiest corner, the dressing-gown thrown over it, and the slippers, embroidered by her own hand, basking in the fire-light. Through a half-open door the neat tea-table was seen, and Archie, with his soft curls dancing to his restless motion, was busied in assisting, or rather delaying a tidy servant girl in its arrangement. Nothing could be more cheerful or more home-like, and Mrs. Jackson cast a look of satisfaction over all, as she sat down at the window to catch the first glimpse of the returning husband and father. Slowly the twilight deepened over the already silent streets. Then lights flashed from the opposite windows, and a glare for the moment filled the room as a torch was applied to the street-lamp on the corner. It was very strange that Mr. Jackson did not come! Another half-hour passed, the room was quite dark, for she would not have the lamp lighted until he should arrive. Then Archie began fretting for his supper, and, at last, she was obliged to leave her watch to quiet the impatient child. Again the clock struck slowly and distinctly; every stroke sounded like a knell. An undefined superstitious fear crept over her-oh! there was a step at last. But it was not he; only a message from some friendly neighbour. Eight-nine o'clock struck. Archie had been quietly sleeping an hour or two;; still she was alone, and undefined terror began! to shape itself. Then she tried to smile at her own fears; he had found business to detain him-perhaps he had met a friend. She tried to play, but closed the instrument ere the melody was half completed; and so she sat, at last, cowering over the fire that now burned dimly, while the minutes passed like years. Through that long, fearful night, hope and despair came alternately to those faithful attendants. Not for an instant could the wife be persuaded to leave the room. She chafed the rigid hands, she pressed the death-like form closely to her, as if her own beating throbbing heart could inspire it with new life. Still those marble lids unclosed not, and no breath stirred the wan lips. Speak to me, my husband, once more! One smile-one pressure of the hand!" But there came no answer to those wailing cries. Then the first struggling beam of the new day stole into the room. The fire had gone out, the lamps flickered coldly, and a more terrible pallor settled upon that still pale face. A woman's voice said, "There is no hope! Dead!-dead!-my husband is dead!" And then came a fearful burst of sobs and agonized wailing, that rent the very heart of the kind man who tried in vain to comfort her. He had little consolation to offer; she had spoken truly— there was no hope. CHAP. III. - "Tossing through the restless night, Sleep banished from her pillow, and her brain Yearning and praying for the blessed light."' From the deep stupor of despair that followed, even the quick tread and anxious inquiries of those that came to proffer assistance and sympathy at first failed to rouse her. The terrible news spread like wildfire through the town, and an hour after daybreak, a little crowd was gaA sound broke the stillness; there was a thered before the door to know if such fearful carriage coming rapidly up the street-what tidings could be true. There they learned, from could it mean? It paused before the door of a Dr. Chester, that Mr. Jackson, being detained physician residing near them, and then at their much later than usual, had attempted to cross a A stranger sprang upon the pavement-narrow plank thrown over a part of the basin another and then she saw they were lifting out a helpless, rigid form. own. The truth came to her heart with a shock she felt it all; but the scream that rose to her lips found no utterance, only in a low moan as she motioned them to bear their burden into that once cheerful parlour. She felt the hand of their family physician upon her shoulder; but she had knelt beside the sofa, and had found the heart that once thrilled so warmly. There was no pulse-not even a low flutter. Yes!-yes!faint as a wounded bird's, the life-pulse thrilled to her hand; then, for the first time, she spoke. She looked up to the pitying eye of the friend who bent over her, and murmured formed by the stream just below the factory, to save going round by the larger bridge. It was quite dark, and missing a step, he was precipitated into the ice-cold pool. His involuntary cry brought speedy assistance; but ere he could be rescued, the chill and the struggle had exhausted him, and though life was not quite extinct, he seemed rapidly sinking. No medical assistance being at hand, and the overseer of the works absent, the men who rescued him made a few unsuccessful attempts to restore suspended animation, and then, in their terror, could think of no alternative but hurrying into the town. Had proper assistance been at once obtained, the fatal catastrophe might, perhaps, have been averted; but by the time his home was reached life was ebbing fast, and aid was all in vain. For the first time since his recollection, little Archie awoke, and did not find his mother near him. His gentle call of "mamma-mamma!" had no response: frightened, he knew not why, he slipt from his crib and crept softly into the understood what ought to have been done!" next room. There was a gentleman standing "Don't you think if Dr. Chester could have near his mamma, who was lying upon the bed seen him at first, he might have been alive moaning, now and then, but with her eyes now?" "Are you sure that everything was tried? closed, as if asleep. "Where is my papa?" I've heard that people have come to hours after said the little fellow timidly. The gentleman the doctor had given them up." And when all did not answer him, but lifted him to the side this was met with a calm sad coldness that many of his mother, and motioned him to awake her. called indifference, the good people wondered "Wake up, dear mamma, tell me where my how she could feel "so resigned." father is," sobbed the child, now terribly fright- They little knew what an effort that very ened at the unusual sight. At first, Mrs. Jack-calmness cost. That more than once a shriek son did not seem to know who had spoken, but had risen to those untrembling lips as some as she felt those little arms clasping her neck, fearful recollection came; a shriek that would that soft cheek nestling by her own, she pressed have betrayed all the pent-up agony of that her child convulsively to her heart, and mur-lonely, lonely heart; but was checked and muredstifled even when bursting forth. They had "My fatherless little one, God help us both!" | not seen her sobbing like a child when first she The kind physician stole softly away; his object was accomplished, for he felt that if once roused, there was no danger but the strong mind and the mother's heart would rise above her sorrow. Nor was he mistaken. From that moment a calmness that would have been fearful to less resolute natures, seemed to take possession of her. She entered once more upon the duties of actual life, that must be performed even though the heart is breaking. In a small household there is much that only its mistress can properly direct; and in the country there are inany things connected with an event like that just recorded, which cannot be performed by hirelings, as in the city, where even death is made a source of traffic and of gain. Much assistance was proffered, but she rejected all save such as was absolutely necessary. Dr. Chester was her adviser, and through him she made every necessary arrangement for the burial. met the few friends to whom her proud nature had yielded all love and confidence; nor did they know how often, during the long sleepless nights, she pressed her child with a grasp of fear close and closer to her heart, while her lips murmured prayers for strength and fortitude, or sobbed, brokenly, the name of him who no longer could return her tenderness. "A stranger in a strange land" alone knows the fullness of desolation, when those who made that exile home have been taken. Miserable comforters are ye all," is the heart's involuntary language, as it yearns for a mother's kiss, a sister's tenderness. And so this outward calmness would have passed away, could Marian's arms have been twined about her. Orphaned from childhood, they had loved each other with a deep devotion, and now in her loneliness there came an almost fearful longing to hear that sister's gentle voice. Archie, with his childish grief, and smiles that Weak minds, who shrink from responsibility, came in its very midst, was her greatest consoor those residing where custom forbids such afear-lation. His father's brow, his gleaming smile, ful task, little know how much minute agony is spared them. They can retire to the room recently gladdened by the presence of the lost one, and weep in silence over their sorrow. They watch, perhaps, by the still, cold form, but know not whose hand has arrayed it for the bridal of the grave, or by whom it shall be consigned to that last resting-place. A man, pompous in the habitual sadness he must needs assume, passes here and there about the house with a tread so softened that it has become almost stealthy. It is he who arranges everything: the undertaker, whose very presence even in a crowded street, brings a chill to those whom the death of friends has made terribly familiar with his solemn bearing. Far different was the task of her so suddenly widowed. The most minute detail passed before her notice; she was not even left to watch alone beside her dead. Visitors from curiosity, and those who came to sympathize truly, were constantly thronging in to question, to advise, and to console. Again, and again, each harrowing circumstance was recounted and commented on. More than once she was tortured by well meant, but really unkind regrets, asIf there had only been some one there who at times but increased her pain, and again she would say, "Arthur, you cannot be taken from me wholly while your son shall live." Strange as it seemed to some, she rarely entered the room where lay that lifeless form. The rigid outlines, the fearful pallor, brought back every event of the fearful night, never to be erased from her memory. She felt that all strength would desert her, that she should go mad if she dwelt upon these things, and so turned back even when her hand was upon the door. For the sake of her child, she had resolved to welcome life, even when death would have been preferable; and so she struggled onward, sick at heart and desolate. She knew that all would be over ere her sister could reach her, and she felt that it would require all her fortitude to pass through the terrible ordeal alone. Several of the neighbours had dropped in the evening before the day appointed for the funeral. They were sitting in almost unbroken silence, though now and then a whispered comment upon the weather was exchanged in that " sick-room voice" that is so peculiarly annoying. Mrs. Harden, who had been most constant in her attendance, sat near Mrs. Jackson; and Mrs. Smith, emboldened by the peculiar circumstances of the case, had accompanied her, though there had been no previous acquaintance. Dr. Chester's kind little wife glided about the room, and accompanied many, whom a vulgar curiosity had drawn thither, to the room that was so soon to be vacant—a custom sanctioned by habit in country neighbourhoods, that, of all others, most barbarous, and can but harrow the hearts of the survivors. Mrs. Jackson felt this deeply, as the strange voices and muffled steps fell upon her ear; and she longed to pray them all to leave her, to allow her at least the consolation of solitude. Suddenly a voice, that came like the memory of a dream, startled her. She glanced towards the open door, and in a moment, with outstretched arms, she had flown by them all, and was clasped to the heart of one just entering the doorway. "My poor Annie!" was all that reached the ears of the astonished spectators; then, for the first time, they heard an utterance of the sorrow so hidden from them. Mrs. Jackson was sobbing wildly upon the breast of the stranger; and then he lifted her, as he would have borne a child, to the next room, for she had fainted. Mrs. Harden seized a vinaigrette, and hurried after them; but Mrs. Chester and the stranger were already chafing the cold hands; and oh! how ghastly was that pale face as the long, dark hair fell unloosed about it! "Poor creature!" said Mrs. Harden, touched with something like genuine compassion, and then, as the swoon passed, she heard Mrs. Jackson murmur, "Where is Edward? I am sure he was here." Mrs. Chester motioned for Mrs. Harden to follow her, and she was obliged to leave before her curiosity was satisfied as to Mr. Jackson's emotion at the sight of one whom they had never seen before. "It must be Mrs. Jackson's brother," said Mrs. Chester, as they waited for a moment in the passage, to see if their aid would again be needed. Mrs. Harden seized upon the idea in triumph, and returning to the parlor, it was soon whispered about that Mr. Jackson's brother had come to attend the funeral. One by one the neighbours went away, as they found Mrs. Jackson did not return, and nothing further could be learned; but Mrs. Harden went in and kissed the sufferer "good night "-a kiss from which Mrs. Jackson shrank, although she tried to smile kindly at so unusual an evidence of interest. They sat in silence for some minutes after her departure, and then Mrs. Jackson said, "Will you not go with me to look upon him now? I am stronger, and I think I could bear it with you near me." marble brow, and its coldness chilled her very soul; and now, for the first time, her tenderness met with no return. The brother clasped her trembling form, and in a deep voice, said, "God and the spirit of our lost one bear me witness, Annie, I will watch over you and your | child as over my own life!" She had severed one curl from those that lay caressingly about the dear face-pressed her hand for an instant over the cold brow, and as she passed from the room, leaning upon a strong arm, she felt that she had bidden a last farewell to him who had made the sunshine of life's morning. CHAP. IV. They were sitting alone scarce a week after the funeral, the widow and her husband's brother. "The widow !" how she had started as she heard the term applied to herself that day! Archie's large, wondering eyes were at length closed in a sweet sleep. Poor little fellow! he had grown weary of asking "Why papa did not wake?" and "why a great lady like mamma should cry?" He had never seen his mother shed tears before, and had always been taught that his own were unmanly. But though he would now and then burst out into a passionate fit of weeping, when told that "papa would never kiss him again," the novelty of anything around speedily hushed his sorrow. Not so with his mother. She now began faintly to realize that a life-long separation was menced. A reaction from her strange com. posure seemed to be at hand: but it was not so. Her strong nature had regained its habitual self-control; and her brother wondered at, and admired, what so many might have misunderstood. com At length the silence became almost painful, and by way of commencing a conversation, Edward said, That was a very lady-like woman who passed me at the door this afternoon." "Yes," replied Mrs. Jackson, with a gleam almost like pleasure lighting up her face. "I have known her but a very little while. She is the wife of a clergyman recently come among us, or minister, I should perhaps say, as they belong to the Congregationalist denomination. Our own rector has left us, and his successor will not be here for some months. Mrs. Townsend and her husband have both been very kind to me." "It was he who officiated at the funeral, was it not?-a tall, sad-looking man? I think he has learned sympathy by sorrow." There was another long pause; the brother was evidently wishing to speak upon a topic he seemed to fear introducing. "I must return this week, Annie, did I tell So silently they entered the chamber of death, and tears gushed to the eyes of that strong, proud man, as he saw the face of his brother, so changed since their large parting. Mrs. Jack-you?" he said at length. son looked imploringly up to him; her face was tearless now, but the agony of expression was unutterable. She had bent down to kiss that "Must it be so soon? I had hoped you could stay until Marian came, at least," "And she will be here ?" "Yes-I was surprised this afternoon to find how thoroughly he comprehended every point He says if we can retain it till spring a purchaser might easily be found, and you would lose little or nothing. But the trouble is, there must be a responsible head of the establishment till then." "Could not you assume the responsibility?" "Nominally I could." "And I can take it in reality." "You, Annie?" said her brother, with a start of astonishment. I do not understand you." "It is no sudden resolution," replied Mrs. Jackson, thoughtfully. "From the moment I saw those poor people join in that sad procession, I have been wishing I could do something for them." "But you know nothing of business." "You forget I am something of a bookkeeper, and that Arthur often consulted me in his arrangements. I think, with a little application, and with Mr. Stone's assistance, I could arrange all necessary matters." "It is a wild scheme, Annie. Would it not be better to take a more natural course, even though at a sacrifice of some property?" "And of the comforts of all the operatives ?" Although her brother was at first fairly staggered at the proposal, he was not proof against the many arguments in favour of her scheme, which she now rapidly brought before him. It had rapidly matured by her quick, sagacious mind, and he was astonished to see how readily she entered into all the difficulties of the case. "And finally," said she, as she closed her explanation, "you have promised to be here as often as your own business will allow, and you can advise me upon all important points." "But it is so unprecedented, Annie." "Rare, perhaps, but not without precedent. Do you not remember that my favourite, Madame Guyon, was her husband's executor, and arranged all the troublesome law-suits in which he had been involved? I could point you to many other instances, not so illustrious, perhaps, but quite as worthy." Edward sat for some time in deep thought. He could but contrast the thoughtful countenance before him, with the timid, girlish face, so beautiful at his brother's bridal; and his heart grew sad at the change a few years had wrought. Suddenly she came softly towards him, and put her hand upon his shoulder. "I fear you misunderstand me: you think me cold, worldly-must I say avaricious?" and her eyes sought his own reproachingly. "Ah, no, my sister; it is you who have mistaken me. I appreciate all you would do. You would have Arthur's son enter the world depen dent upon none. You forget your own sorrow in the thought of what might befall the families of those poor men. But I fear you mistake your own strength; you should be free from all care now." "Will not the necessity for action be strength in itself? I shall have no time for those maddening recollections. Believe me, it will be best so." There had been a heavy fall of snow during the afternoon, and a carriage had reached the door almost without sound. There were footsteps in the hall as she ceased speaking, and ere she could rise from her seat, Marian's arms were about her neck, and Marian's tears were mingled with her own. The sad presentiment had been most mournfully fulfilled-the sisters had met in sorrow. ROBIN OF REDES DA L E. (Adapted from a Chronicle said to have been kept by John Crackenthorpe, Hospitaller of St. Leonard's, 1467-8.) BY MARIA NORRIS. Our Warden is a man with too little spirit | for his position. Judging myself calmly, and without presumption, I wot I would have done better than he. Aye, I would make all Yorkshire ring, if any but opposed my will. Why prate about meekness and peace? Let my foes be meek; if they give up to me, there shall be peace; but I trow I would fight for the least barleycorn any would despoil me of, or this good hospital of St. Leonards. A pest of our cook! He hath spoiled the best haunch to-day that ever smoked before a king; and the Warden called that a trifle, and smiled, and bade us remember 'tis for our soul's I have been to Newcastle to overlook the lading of our hospital's little ship "The Holy Cross." She is bound for Rochelle, and will carry thither salt, a little cloth, some wax, and three breviaries done in this hospital of St. Leonard's, finely illuminated, and sent as presents for our brethren there, in return for the soul-kindling wine they lately gave us. By the heart of King Alfred, they are welcome to the breviaries, an' they let us keep the wine! I had a small settlement with the master of the cross, I trow, touching the missing box of oranges, ordered from Spain for the especial delectation of us, the hospitallers. He swore he knew nought of them, and impertinently bade me search his bill of lading, for that there were no oranges there. "I care not for thy bills, thou false knave!" cried I. "I am certain the oranges should be here; and their cost shall be raised out of thy wage, a little at the time." With that he fell a-chiding most wofully, and hath appealed to the Warden, who supporteth him, and saith oranges were spoken about, but not ordered. Is that discipline? The King's marriage with Elizabeth Woodville giveth little content to many; and the coin of the realm is pitifully depreciated. Only last year (1466) two new gold coins were struck, called angels and angelots, instead of the old noble and half-noble. These angels and angelots the King bade to pass for six shillings and eightpence and three shillings and fourpence respectively. But instead of one hundred and eight grains, the angel contains only eighty grains. What a state of things! And the Woodvilles raising their heads above the rest of the nobles, and so many aliens and strangers interfering with our trade; and latterly the Yorkshiremen denying the hospital claims of a thrave of corn from every ploughed land, which hath been ours without disputation ever since the days of King Athelstane, whose soul may God preserve! Like Athens and Rome, and all great states of antiquity, England hath reached the culminating point of luxury and refinement. Her decline is already beginning. The people are so presumptuous! The merchant's wife will be called " Madam," and wear scarlet, only the King hath forbidden her the use of scarlet; also he hath cut short the preposterous tails of their gowns, and will allow them furs only on holidays, and bids them wear short curches or hoods, such as be common in Flanders and England. My spirit waxeth hot that the Yorkshiremen deny us the thrave of corn; but the Warden will take matters calmly, instead of levying it by distress. I met Joan Hilyard, distant cousin to Robin of Redesdale, this morning-a pretty, freshcheeked, hearty maiden of seventeen or thereabout. She was leading the kine to the pasture land in Stillforth Hollow; so I stopped her, and patted her cheek, and inquired of her father and mother. She answered civilly, and I cautioned her against the company of Robin, which I know she affects a good deal. Oh, to see the cheek fire, and the dark blue eyes kindle sparks ! She bade me be wist, and called me saucy hospitaller, and said that Redesdale Robin was a better man than any of the brethren of St. Leonard's. "He feels for the poor," quoth she; "but you grind and overreach them-he never yet provoked a blush from any maiden in all Yorkshire or Northumberland, and Durham to boot; but you, Master Crackenthorpe, know that many a time you have patted my cheek, or kissed my fingers, or kept my hand a prisoner; while I hated you for it, but dared not complain lest you should persuade the Warden to levy the hospital corn from my father by distress." "Oh, oh," I answered very mildly, "is it so? I am called a choleric man, pretty Joan! but nought from you can anger me. You must learn to respect your superiors, though, or Robin of Redesdale may suffer for your lack of courtesy !" So I left her; but looking afterwards from the hill-top into the Hollow, saw the kine straying where they would, and Joan weeping on the bosom of Redesdale Robin. To think that my mere touch should anger her! and what taste to prefer Robin to me! Our Warden hath been but half a man for some little time. I always mistrust a man's health when he begins to eat charily of good things-when he waters his wine, spares his spices, and leaves good beef for a mess of stewed mutton. Standing next in rotation, therefore, I have been zealous to keep up my character, and have striven not to show my peppery temper. The Warden deceased at three in the morning. After an hour or two I called the brethren together, and bade them not grieve; we must all come to the same state, &c. Then I shut myself in the Warden's room, and opened his secretary or cabinet, and comforted myself with reading the accounts of our flourishing community, and with some good Malvesy wine, and a spiced cake or so, sent to the late Warden by Joan Hilyard herself. Little did she think the Warden never touched them, and that I shall eat them all! The Warden's funeral was a quiet scene: silly old Bourne was crying all the time, and saith he longs to lay down beside his friend. All seemed sad. I don't think they will make so much ado when I die: but that won't matter at all. Going down the Bilberry Lane, this morning, I met Redesdale Robin; his breast bared to the winds, his coal-black hair uncovered, and a stick in his hand as usual. He passed me without a good-day, so I called "Robin! Robin !" He turned back sullenly, with a "What now?" "It would become you to give good-day to the Warden, Robin of Redesdale. Your contumacious conduct is not unrecked of; your own little holding is from St. Leonard's, and your kinsman Hilyard owes as much hospital corn as would lie in the great grange yonder by the hall, |