r of his deepest esteem and regard; was an ill-mannered churl to have her so rudely.

thought of those good resolutions he Ermed in his office on the day when he ad the texts on that book-mark which efore him. He thought of his perseverorts to carry out those resolutions, and access for a time, and of the hours of ness snd idleness which had resulted 2000 much pride and vain-glory. And he ed, again and again, that Clement were ̧, and he his brother, that they might of, and strengthen each other on the eto life.

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her sister, and her maiden aunt was in a perturbed and fluttering state, more impeding than assisting her neice. Laura, leaving the aunt to the care of her uncle, who quickly succeeded in allaying her fears, set herself to the task of attending to the invalid. presence soon restored quietness to the house; and by her gentleness and activity she seemed to re-assure Agnes, and, catching her spirit, Theophilus after a few hurried inquiries to Agnes, ins inctively betook himself out of the way, for an uneasy stroll on the beach.

Maggies' illness put an end to their schemes of travel for the present. She continued delirious for nearly three weeks, during which time Theophilus's affectionate heart grew weary of counting the long hours, and of seeing sad faces around him. He had little or nothing to do at his office, his substitute proving to be an excellent one, and accordingly he had ample time to mark the admirable qualities which Laura displayed in her selfappointed capacity of nurse to the invalid, and became wonderfully reconciled to the presence of his "unknown correspondent." Her eyes grew hollow and her face pale and thin with long watching, but she retained her calm, cheerful smile.

The service was soon over. Theophilus was dost sorry when the concluding hymn rupted his absorbing reflections. He left chapel with emotion, and sat down on a restone and watched the people as they The children looked shyly at the come stranger, and the young men and dens whispered inquiries to each other. ength when the place was almost deserted, old white-haired psstor came forth, and king wistfully at the young man, came th to greet him. Theophilus gave him his sad, and allowed himself to be led to the old Can's house as his guest. The good pastor the conversation skilfully, seeming to unerstand intuitively the best words to cheer he troubled soul of Theophilus, and took after dinner to the Sunday school, where be tasted some of the sweets of true Christian bour. After the school was dismissed the pastor took Theophilus by the hand, and dressing a few words of congratulation and quiry respecting his labours, invited him to is tea-table, at which, he said, his niece, to whom he introduced Theophilus, who had only unexpectedly arrived on a visit from London, would preside, He assented, without looking at the lady to whom he was introduced, and walked absently by the old d man's side till he reached his home. Seated at the tea-table, he dared te raise his eyes to the face of Mr. Herbert's niece, and to his surprise, recognized in her the vision of yes terday. She was slightly embarrassed in behaviour, and spoke timidly and low, but taking confidence when she perceived Theophilus was calm and collected, she joined cheerfully and intelligently in the conversation. She had left Brighton, fearing, lest her ୯ arrival had driven Theophilus away from his home, lest her presence, if she remained, would prolong his absence. A night's rest 13 and calm reflection put Theophilus into a more tranquil state of mind. He was ready in the morning to escort Laura on her return to Brighton, and invited the old man to accompany him. Arrived there, they found the household in a state of intense excitement. Throngh incautiously visiting some poor stricken people on the Sabbath, Maggie had caught a fever. Agnes was doing her best for

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Mr. Herbert had remained with them the last week of Maggie's illness, during which time he had favoured Theophilus with much of his Christian counsel and experience. On the day after he was gone, after Agnes, Laura, Aunt Susan, and Theophilus had partaken of their evening meal, Laura rose, and taking the family Bible, from which Mr. Herbert hal been wont to read during his visit, handed it to Theophilus, with the words

66

Who goes to rest, and doth not pray Maketh two nights to every day." Theophilus trembled as, for the first time for many years he opened the old book. Turning to the Gospels, he read of the loving deeds of Christ; of the rasing of the widow's son, and her joy in her second motherhood. They knelt, and Theophilus prayed. It was an unaccustomed task for him to pray aloud, and the words came stammeringly from his tongue. At length, after petitioning his Father to stretch out his hand in mercy upon his afflicted sister, he burst into tears, and sobbed like a child. His emotion was contagious, and they four remained on their knees weeping. But their sobs were checkel by Laura's clear, musical, alto voice, which took up Theophilus's petition just where he left it, and seemed, by the very sound of it to reassure and soothe the hearts of those around her.

Every evening after this, Theophilus voluntar ly took the Bible and conducted family worship, as it was when his mother was alive, when her dim, old eye used fondly to watch her handsome son, as he read the Word of God.

It was nearly six weeks before Maggie was able to quit her sick room, and yet another before Theophilus was able to take his favourite sister for a quiet stroll on the beach. Laura now talked of returning home to her lonely mother, but he would not hear of it, and insisted on rnnning up to town and fetching Mrs. Scott back with him. He had grown to love his unknown correspondent after all, although she was a woman, but felt himself (as true love often does) immeasurably her inferior. It is not a very pleasant position for a man to be in-to be in love with a woman whom he feels to be so much above him, that he can never hope to attain excellence enough to win her regard. Theophilus was not a conceited man, and this made him sometimes despond; yet his sanguine temperament gained the mastery, and he took heart. One evening, when a fresh and inviting October breeze was blowing, Theophilus and Laura strolled for a little while on the Parade, and watched the brilliant illumination of stars that overspread the vast expanse of waters, and gazed at the silvery moonbeams that floated on the throbbing bosom of the ocean. Both were possessed of a poet's sense of the beautiful, and the scene before them awakened many thoughts that were best expressed by

silence.

Theophilus was not usually so uneasy with this companion on his arm as he had been when entrapped by any of the Brighton maids, but to-night he was singularly awkward and shy. They walked on in silence, and he allowed Laura to be the first to break it. She had just commenced to remark, in her flutelike voice, on the beauty of the weather, when he suddenly interrupted her. True to her (woman's) instinct, she was silent and attentive in a moment.

"Laura," he said; (he usually called her Miss Scott) "you have been my correspondent for nearly a year, and I have learned to-to- respect, and to-to love you!"

It was out at last.

him, but," he added, with a sly look Laura,s blushing face, "she had to appro me by strategy, after all."

The wedding-day was fixed for the Firs December. Maggie, now fully recove returned with Laura to London, whither had been summoned to her younger sist who had sickened in her absence. Somel thongh he was not very sharp in femin business, Theophilus thought that much m stitching was being done by Agnes and assistants, than was necessary for his proaching sacrifice, as he persisted in calliar it, till Agnes, blushingly told him, one da that she had fixed the first of December the day for her wedding also. Theophil was quite astonished, and told her to co gratulate her future husband on having su a provokingly sly minx to take care Agnes added, hesitatingly, "We expe cousin Frank home soon, and then, yo know, Maggie,"

I don't want to hear any more!" exclaimer Theophilus, clapping his hands to his ear and running away to his office.

About a week before the memorable 1st Laura and her mother and sister took thei permanent abode in Brighton, in the cottag prepared for them by Theophilus. One even ing after he had left the office, a tall, beardec seafaring man called, asking for the editora The office boy, who recognized him as a youth who had left Brighton two years before, gazed on him in such intense astonishment that his eyebrows retreated quite up to the roots of his hair, and led him to Laura's cottage, leaving him there, while all the way! back again he was making mental notes of admiration with his eyebrows at the prodigious growth of the young man, and secretly resoluting to run off to sea the first opportunity, that he might become as gigantic. The young man turned out to be cousin Frank. Ho v Maggie flew into his arms then protested that his nasty beard pricked her, then put his head off with her hands, that she might look at his handsome sun-burnt face, declared she would not have him shave on any account

is needless for me to describe. And how the wedding day was put off, and the whole six of them walked courageously up to the altar on New Year's Day; how they spent a happy and useful Christmas, both before and after the wedding; how the poor blessed the young brides and the young bridegrooms, and wished them God's peace; how there was a struggle for the "first kiss from the bride" after the weddings, and how the husbands were successful in outwitting everybody; how the snow looked its whitest, the sky its clearest, the holly its brightest, and the miseltoe its greenest, all for the happiness of these three young couples requires an abler pen than mine to describe. And how Agnes's husband, a brisk, dapper little man, who kept a large hotel on the Parade, got the greatest

THE OLD

NEW YEAR.

BY GEORGE

IT WAS THE LAST NIGHT of the old year, and I sat by my fireside musing on the eventful past and dreaming of the shadowy future. Without, the sharp winds blew fierce and loud, and the snow, which fell heavily, drifted against the window.

Rapidly ebbing where the last hours of the year whose opening moments we had heard welcomed in by the chiming of the joy-bells, it seemed but a little while ago. In that brief interval, spring had come laughing as she unlocked the ice-imprisoned rills, and sent them singing on their way; she had touched the lark's wing, and sent him soaring to the skies, trilling his gushing melodies; she had dropped crocus buds upon the frosty earth, and tempted the snowdrops to rear their delicate young brows from beneath their cold white shrouds; and then she stepped forth with smiling eyes and clapping hands to greet the sunny summer tide, with a garland of rosebuds and lily bells in her hair. And summer came, brightening all nature with her glance; trees blossomed, and birds sang, and flowers budded in the sunlight of her smile; and then the green corn of summer was turned into the golden sheaves of autumn beneath the enchanting wands that the bright sun bent over them, mellow fiuits filled her horn, and her praises echoed in woodland and on crag, and in soft vales, as the welcome song of the harvest rung out right joyously to greet the precious grain gathered safely home. And then old winter, with his beard of icicles, and crown of laurel, succeeded all, announcing how soon the blithe year should pass away through the portals of the present, to mingle with the dim cycles that crowd the dusky halls of the long, forgotten past, laden with how heavy a freight of joys and sorrows, aspirations, opportunities, disappointments, sins and sufferings, smiles and tears.

As I sat thus musing, I was startled at the sight of an aged figure who stood beside me, holding out a trembling hand, and bidding

H. GIDDINS.

me a tearful 'Adieu.' Very majestic he looked, as his long white locks hung about his shoulders, and his snowy beard swept his breast, but very sorrowful withal; traces were there upon his furrowed cheek of a once cheerful youth, of a season when hope had glistened in those sorrowing eyes; but, alas, the spark of hope seemed to have been extinguished, and he looked (and the look made me sad) as though conscious he had been wronged, cruelly wronged. I entreated him to speak; he silently shook his head, and tears trickled down his aged cheeks. I implored, I besought him to stay; but, pointing forward, he intimated he must be going. Grieved at his grief, I asked its cause, whereupon he took from his bosom a roll which he opened, showing it to be closely written. I read it; it was a catalogue of his wrongs. As I tremblingly read the memento, I asked him if these wrongs might not be redressed; but he shook his head, and pointed further on, and still I read, more wrongs! more, many more wrongs! Records of wasted hours, and misspent moments; tear-blinded, I could read no further; I grew sick at heart-when, lo, he turned and summoned a legion of buried witnesses, who thronged around him, the ghosts of all his hours, save the last, which was even now rapidly declining. Loud and long, and grievous were their reproaches; many and frequent their tears: some came with records of squandered moments, some with unseized and unimproved opportunities, some with black and dire sins, and others with broken vows, and resolutions once so warmly made, so soon forgotten. Many of them told the blessings they had brought; how the seasons had dropped, with delicate fingers, rose leaves upon the dusty life-path; how sweet songs of hope and love had echoed ever and anon, how the blue sky had blossomed with smiling stars that looked down so lovingly, how friends had clustered about the hearthstone, and loving hearts beat sympathetic music; but, alas! how all had been

gotten, and never perfumed by the sweet cense of a fragant gratitude. Then some inted to empty seats, and hinted of sick ambers, and green grassy hillocks in far way churchyards. But how their lessons ad been disregarded, and in the loud wail of epining and unsubmissive sorrowing, their uft whispers had been unheard, and their oving vigils unnoticed and unimproved; and, as the aged being looked upon the motley Baltitude, he wept again. I turned away, nable to look longer upon their black cataLogue. I tried to stop my ears to their sorSowing reproaches. When I again looked, they had shifted the picture; now the scene was a blessed on, very bright and beautiful; byful, I asked its meaning, and a sore blight fell upon the brightness and the beauty when they answered in solemn tone, the picture was what I might have been. As the scene faded they rung again the bells that I had heard ringing in the first of these hours, but as I remembered my vows that I had then laid upon the altar of the year's first hour, the ringing of the bells seemed but the knelling of all my hopes,

But in a moment all were gone save my first visitor, who, too, was passing out, sad, silent, and solitary. He lingered on the threshold, and as I looked, a youth, very beautiful, with soft, beaming eyes, and smooth, fair brow, stepped forward. He, too, held a parchment, but it was spotless, as yet unwritten. I rose, and seizing the old man by the hand, let fall a tear upon it. I vowed to cheerish my new visitor, and fill only with bright characters his recording parchment, and while the tears fell from my eyes, the sunbeams from the brow of the younger one flashed upon them, and there arched over us a bow of hope, I looked towards my aged friend, hoping to receive a smile, but he was gone. Tnrning to him who was left, I found him tracing his first record, which one of hope.

I rose to vow him my constancy, but he, too, was gone. The scene faded, and waking from what had been but a dream, I found myself sitting by the fireside; the embers were dying out, the lamp burnt low and dim, and without, the merry bells were ringing in the new young year.