ere she did so venture, can scarcely be described. her quiet sorrow did its work, and the last month

her hasty and trembling preparations, was breath- turned the well-known corner. Soon, by the ing hard, in sudden, heavy sleep. Even Clara's light of the wayside lamps, they distinguished inexperience could not mistake the symptoms, and, the small, formal-looking, red-brick house, with instead of making tea, she sat down and cried- its green door and trellised porch, its miniature how bitterly, none but those can tell who have front garden, some thirty feet square, with a believed in, and doated upon, and worshipped an straight gravel walk up the middle, and a circuimaginary divinity, and then suddenly discovered lar border on each side, in the centre of a plot of it to be weaker than ordinary human weakness. To Clara's pure and gentle eyes, this was grievous sin-and, with the painful charity of disappointed affection, she began to devise excuses for what she could not refuse to see; but, oh! the bitterness of the new, terrible truth, which made those excuses necessary!

The course of a great sorrow is common-place | charity and honest self-denial she forgave her the enough, a thing of every day. There is the wild bay-window, and reproached herself not a little incredulity and the unreal composure, half stupor, for her former censorious judgment. Every comhalf excitement; there is the struggle, more or less vehement, of the will against the adverse power which is laboring to subdue it; the defeat and the victory, the brave effort, the helpless surrender. There are prayers, such as that prayer which was once wrung from the agony of a great heart, and which is the voice of a new grief for all time. "Lord! thou hast permitted it, therefore I submit with all my strength."* There is the heavy weariness, and the aching resignation, and the utter weakness, and the deep solemn calm, and the holy strength, and the melancholy peace so sweet in the midst of bitterness, when the vision of heaven dawns upon those eyes which are too blind with tears to see any longer the beauty of earth; there is the slow, painful return to old habits and ways, the endeavor, now feeble, now vigorous, the gradual interrupted success, the shuddering recurrence of familiar images and associated sounds and the final closing up of a memory into the heart's inmost temple, where it dwells and lives forever, which the world calls forgetfulness, or at least recovery. And the mourner goes back again to the outer world and common life, like one who has had a fever and is in health again, though somewhat wan and feeble, and needing more than heretofore to be cared for and considered. Sorrows are the pulses of spiritual life; after each beat we pause only that we may gather strength for the next.

Mr. Capel's affairs were found to be in great confusion. It often happens that the men whom we have believed to be most cautious and least sanguine are the very men to engage in some sudden rash speculation which results in ruin. Such was the case now. He had embarked what little principal he possessed in a new railroad; the scheme failed, and his family found themselves literally penniless. The poor widow and little Annie were taken by Mrs. Dacre, whose very moderate income was taxed to its utmost to maintain them. A situation as pupil-teacher in a considerable school was found for Emily; Clara and George were, for the present, received at the vicarage. Mrs. Middleton was throughout Clara's chief support; her warm unselfish kindness amply atoned for any little deficiency in refinement. She insisted upon taking the poor dejected girl to her own home till a suitable position as governess could be found for her, and she interested herself most earnestly in the preliminary negotiations, taking special care that Clara should not " throw herself away in a hurry, which would be perfectly absurd, as the vicarage was open to her for any length of time, and she would not suffer her to leave it unless the prospect were thoroughly satisfactory." As Clara witnessed her life of busy

* This was the ejaculation repeatedly uttered by the unhappy Henrietta Maria, when she began to recover from the stupor into which she was thrown by the news of her royal husband's murder.

fort and help came from or through Mrs. Middleton; it was she who found the situation for Emily, and assisted Clara in arranging and carrying through the whole affair; it was she too who cheered George when his heart was heavy and his hopes were low, as giving up of course his intention of taking orders, he began the wearisome task of looking for employment. Aided by her, Clara began gradually to rally from her extreme depression, and to exert herself as heretofore. Her greatest present difficulty, the maintenance and destination of her two younger brothers, was relieved in an unlooked-for and mysterious manner. In the midst of her first despondency arrived a letter from the master with whom the boys were placed, acknowledging the receipt of a year's payment in advance for his pupils. On inquiry it was found that the sum had been sent in Mr. Capel's name; but all exertions to discover the source from which it came proved utterly futile. This bounty, come whence it might, came like manna in the desert; yet poor Clara was nearly as much inclined to murmur at it as were the Israelites of old. There was in her character a strength of natural pride, hitherto unsuspected by herself, mingling a bitterness with her gratitude, of which she felt deeply ashamed. The discipline which she was now undergoing was specially needful to her, and therefore, of course, specially painful; she had so loved to be all-sufficient in her family, to know secretly, however little she presumed upon it outwardly, that she was the prop, the guide, the guardian of them all. Now she found herself helpless, powerless, useless; one whom she had well-nigh despised was her supporter, one unknown was her benefactor. She herself was nothing!

It was Clara's birth-day; no one ventured to congratulate her, and she herself shrank from any allusion to the subject. When we are in much affliction it seems natural to put out the lights. They can but show others what we suffer, or force us to contemplate their tears. At breakfast, Clara received a note from a lady in the neighborhood, a stranger to her, who required a governess for her children, and requested an interview with Miss Capel. Twelve was the hour appointed, and the writer's residence was two miles distant from the vicarage; with many a good wish and many a salutary caution from Mrs. Middleton, who failed not to remind her, again and again, that she had promised not to conclude an engagement without previous consultation, Clara set forth on her soliitary walk. As she went, she thought anxiously about George; he was trying for a situation as mathematical tutor in a scholastic establishment, which had just been founded under somewhat peculiar circumstances. The founder was a man of large fortune, and eccentric habits; he had reserved to himself alone, the selection and appointment of the various professors, and it was said with your pupils. You will have perfect free

that he tried the patience of the applicants not a little, in the course of his investigation of their claims, moral, intellectual, and theological. George's college honors had been much in his favor, and Clara's hopes had been high till a few days before, when he received a letter which appeared to annoy him, and which he did not show her. He was a long while composing his reply, and after he had despatched it, he seemed more than usually low-spirited, and evaded all discussion of the subject with his anxious and vigilant

dom, and I hope you will be very comfortable. My housekeeper will settle the pecuniary arrangements with you."*

Miserable as Clara was, she yet shrank from the future indicated by these words. She remembered at a little fishing village on the seacoast to have seen a mule employed in carrying sand and sea-weed; the animal had a kind of wooden saddle fitted upon its back, and was sent to and fro between the carts waiting to be loaded and the water's edge, a distance of some eight hun

sister. It was not possible to her nature to seek dred yards. To and fro, across this measured

the confidence even of those she most loved, when they withheld it, so she wondered and grieved in silence; and many a fear, and many a prayer, passed through her heart, in the hours when her aching head rested on a pillow now unfamiliar

melancholy space, it trudged doggedly and patiently, pausing at the one end of its journey to receive its burthen, and at the other end to be relieved of it, and pausing for nothing else. Clara thought of the mule when Mrs. Bouverie described

with sleep. Thus, more than commonly anxious, her governess' day, and felt glad that she had and with the bitter memory of former birthdays pledged herself not to decide. She replied quistirring within her, she knocked at Mrs. Bou-etly and courteously that she would send a definverie's door, and was admitted into that lady's itive answer in the evening, as she was bound to presence.

consult a friend ere she finally determined. Mrs. Bouverie drew herself up, and Clara became aware that it was possible for her manners to assume an additional coldness; a fact which the strongest imagination could scarcely have conceived before experiencing it. However, Mrs. Bouverie piqued herself upon being always considerate, so she said with grim civility, "You will do what you think best, Miss Capel; and now I need detain you no longer."

Clara felt too sorrowful to be shy, otherwise the exceeding coldness of her reception might have daunted her a little. Mrs. Bouverie, a tall, lean, hard-featured woman, of fifty-six, with keen eyes, thin lips, and a general dryness of expression perfectly indescribable, slightly bowed, and, without rising, motioned her visitor to a seat. She uttered two civil sentences, which she had learned by rote, about its being a fine day, and a long walk; and then proceeded at once to business. She was one of those people who are as chary of small talk as though they were capable of conversation, and as niggard of courtesies as though they were ready with secret kindnesses. Now usual in him. Not a question did he ask as to the

When Clara reëntered the drawing-room at the vicarage, she found George alone. His face was flushed, and his manner perturbed; he started up, as she came in, with a nervous eagerness very un

it is all very well to be reserved when you have result of her expedition; he began at once upon got something to hide, but it is really too provok- a totally different topic. "My dearest Clara, I ing to see people so careful to lock up empty caskets, and seal blank envelopes. It is an imposition upon society, and ought not to be tolerated.

We will not weary the reader with the oft-repeated scene of hiring a governess. Suffice it to say, that Mrs. Bouverie having inquired into Clara's qualifications, and examined her testimonials with apparent satisfaction, proceeded to sum up her own requisitions in the following man

ner:

am so glad you are returned. This is a matter of the greatest importance. Read this letter; you will soon learn how much depends upon you; and I am happy, indeed, that it is upon you that it depends." He placed an open letter in her hands as he spoke, and Clara read as follows :Brampton, April 17.

"You will have six pupils, Miss Capel, between the ages of seven and fourteen; you will have the exclusive charge of their education in English and French, and the two elder girls will learn German. The music-master attends once a steps I may resolve upon taking. I have, there

week, and you will be present at the lessons, and

will very carefully watch-I am particular about this-the practising of each of your pupils daily. Drawing and fancy-work you will of course teach yourself. You will breakfast and dine early with your pupils, and walk with them for two hours a day; and at eight o'clock, when the younger girls go to bed, I shall expect the pleasure of your company at my tea-table. I always like music in the evening, and shall hope to hear you play and sing

DEAR SIR-I am most anxious, in circumstances which it must be allowed are somewhat difficult, to act with all the consideration towards yourself which is compatible with justice, and with a strict adherence to that determination with which I have already acquainted you. Common fairness requires that you should be the first person to learn the fore, to inform you, that, not considering your explanation of the very painful reports alluded to in my last, perctly satisfactory, I have written to Mr. Middleton, (who, besides being the clergyman of your parish, is an old and highly respected acquaintance of my own,) to say that if he is ready to vouch for your freedom from this pernicious habit, I am ready on my part to appoint you to the vacant professorship. I have the honor to remain, yours sincerely, RICHARD BROOKES.

Clara looked up wonderingly and full of in- | brain, and ring dizzily in her ears. She held her quiry. Her brother had scarcely patience to wait forehead with her hand, and stood still, wondering till she had finished the letter. "Now, Clara," if any woe could go beyond what she then felt, exclaimed he, "it all depends upon you. Mr. and feeling certain that if there were any such

Middleton's conscience, it seems, is very squeamish in these matters; he heartily wishes to serve me, I do believe, but it seems he has made a rule of never becoming responsible for any man on his own assertion merely. But if you will assure him that during the time you kept house for me, you had no reason to believe-in short, I suppose you guess what these confounded reports are. Old Brookes has been told that I drank, and it seems he has a vow not to give one of his professorships to any man on whom such an imputation rests. You have only to free me from it, and I am secure. These miserable reports refer to the time that we were together; and Mr. Middleton says that he will pledge himself for me if you will give him your assurance that he may do so. He is in his study. Go to him directly, there's a good girl, for it only wants an hour of post time."

The words were poured forth breathlessly; but Clara stood immovable, clasping her hands together with a look of misery. Then she ran to George's chair, and folding her arms about his neck covered his face with tears and kisses, as if to atone for the pain she was about to inflict. He half pushed her away, saying impatiently, "Come, come, what does this mean?"

sorrow she should be called upon to endure it. She longed for death, for imbecility, for madness; for anything that should obliterate consciousness and destroy the capacity for suffering.

"May I speak to you, dear Miss Capel?" said a gentle voice, at her side; "I have so long wished to see you. Surely, so old a friend as myself has some privilege." And Mr. Archer took her trembling hand in his, and then drew it within his arm, looking earnestly into her face, and adding, " You are ill-is anything fresh amiss? Can I serve you? Pray tell me."

Clara burst into an agony of weeping; and, as soon as she could speak, tried to put aside his questions, but he was not so to be baffled. He persevered till he had drawn from her the history of what had occurred, which she gave with the less reluctance that she knew him to be already aware of George's misconduct. Indeed, it was a hint received from Mr. Archer which had induced Mr. Capel to send Clara to his son. Incoherent and interrupted were her words, but her listener speedily apprehended their meaning. He soothed her with the utmost tenderness, and once more put hope into her desolate heart. He knew Mr. Brookes well, and had, indeed, recommended George to him; he would speak to George, and if he found him properly disposed, (of which he felt no doubt,) he would himself see Mr. Brookes, and endeavor to induce him to accept his (Mr. Archer's) surety for George's future steadiness and good conduct. He entertained no fears. Above all, never let Clara for one moment regret that she had done right in circumstances so painful. She had probably saved her brother, for this lesson would be one that he never could forget. Clara could scarcely express her gratitude. They walked together for some time in silence, her tears flowing quietly and relieving her overstrained nerves. last he spoke again: "Do you remember a conversation we had, some years ago, about Tennyson's Love and Duty?"

At

She looked up in surprise. Yes, she had not forgotten it.

George was furious; he affected incredulity, he tried entreaties, protestations, menaces, ridicule. She could not be in earnest. Would she ruin her own brother, because some once or twice she had seen him when he had been a little imprudent? And when he said this he positively believed that it was but once or twice, and that her scruples were as absurd as they were unkind. Clara wept to agony, but never wavered. It was, indeed, a martyrdom which had more than the bitterness of death. And this idolized brother parted from her at last with words which burned indelible traces upon her heart-she did not love him she was his enemy-she had ruined his prospects forever. She felt that she had alienated from her the only heart which she had believed to be entirely her own. She sat down in a kind of desperation, and wrote to Mrs. Bouverie, accepting the situation, and offering to come to her immediately. She did not like to send a servant with the note; she feared to be prevented from sending it at all if she delayed, and yet she felt that it was the only thing to be done. Inaction seemed impossible, and she hurried out with it herself. How she walked those two miles she did not know. Her head ached to distraction, and her thoughts were all bewildered; but she left the note, sealed her own fate, and then set forth again to the vicarage. " I shall be very unhappy, always, all my life," said she to herself; all this while for her charms, for her faults, for " but George will not care! George will not care!" her noble struggle against those faults, for her and the words seemed to strike heavily against her | self-conquest, for herself. He believed it impossi

"You said then," he pursued, "that no woman could feel sure that she was beloved till she was actually told it; and that it was selfishness in a man to keep silence, because, in order to avoid the possible humiliation of a refusal, or the pain of a scene of parting if separation were necessary, he might be depriving her (mark I only say might) of a certainty which-which-she might wish to possess. Clara ! all this while I have loved you!"

There was again a silence, Clara's face hidden in her hands. And so, not absolutely discouraged, Mr. Archer told his history. He had loved her idolized wife, recur to those days of self-deception her own character, which she verily believed to

tites cannot hang long undetermined they are the light reflected from it is called the Jovialist eager, and must have their quarry: if he forsake the shine, because Jupiter, or Jove, was the astrologiFountain of Living Waters, yet he cannot forsake cal or chemical representation of tin, of which metal his thirst, and therefore he lies under the necessity pewter chiefly consists."

and our expectations abate towards God, they do GREAT Nature she doth cloathe the Soul within not abate in themselves, but are only scattered A Fleshy Garment which the Fates do spin;

among undue and inferior objects. And this makes And when these Garments are grown old and bare, the connection infallible between indevotion and With sickness torn, Death takes them off with care,