"But Minie, think you, we should tell her, well, which feelings, perhaps, are not often perthis wondrous tale? You shrank from the idea fectly attained; and therefore is it that we see of imparting it; you tell me as loosening every single women but too commonly frittering away tie which you so much loved. Do not think of existence. Still hoping, still seeking for that us, but answer as you wish yourself, my sister. eventful change in life-marriage-when all It shall be still, if you will, and for ever kept change has long been passed; and their endea a secret even from Minie." vours to be youthful, to neglect the duties of one station, in the hope of attracting for the other, loses them the esteem which a higher respect for themselves, and contentment with their lot, would unavoidably command. We hold all single women, who so know themselves and their duties, as to be revered and loved by all who call them relative and friend, in yet higher esteem and admiration than those happier ones, who have passed through life hand-in-hand with a beloved partner, fostered and fostering, blessing and blessed. For the wife, in all her struggles, all her pains, all her failings, all her virtues, has she not love to heal, to soothe, to shield, to encourage, to reward? For the single woman, where may she look, save to herself and to her God! How glorious the energy that snatches her from listlessness and trifling! How sainted the principle, that shielding her from self, and its host of petty miseries and ills, bids her live for others in whom she has no wife nor mother's "No Frank, no," was her instant answer; "let there be no secret between us, brother and sister as we are, which must be kept from one whom you have made my sister still. No, I can bear it now. We will tell it all as soon as she has strength for the excitement. No tie will be loosed now; nothing which can bring one thought of pain. Had there been no cause for you to hear it, then indeed I had never breathed the truth to mortal ear; for remember I am Florence Leslie still. I acknowledge no other parents than those whose name I bear. Keep these strange and painful records from the world, dear Frank. None lives save ourselves whom they can in aught interest or avail, and therefore no injustice can be done by their concealment. Let Minie indeed know all, but tell it to none else. Oh! wondrously indeed has my adopted mother's prayer been answered. Dearest Frank, how may we sufficiently bless God!" claim. Yet to make a heroine sink into this, to endow her with no brighter destiny, would call down on the writer the charge of incompletegentleness and injustice. In vain have we urged that to one like Florence Leslie, the good performed, the misery averted, the happiness created by her acts of self-denial and devotedness, would be sufficient recompense. CHAPTER LVI. AND LAST. Had we listened to our own wishes, reader, our task had ended with the concluding words of the previous chapter, even though the fortunes of our heroine might have appeared unfinished-marriage or death being the general climax with which biography of all kinds, be it historical or imaginary, concludes. It was our own earnest wish to have proved that a heroine might be happily disposed of without either one of these alternatives. But facts disposed themselves otherwise. That to a character like Florence, the life of a single woman would have been as happy, and as worthy of respect, admiration, and love, as the very warmest of her well-wishers could desire we well believe; for we are not of the number of those who think that marriage, even a very happy one, affords the only chance of insuring felicity and her proper station to woman. We believe that it depends mostly on women themselves to secure their own happiness, and the respect and love of others, and that they can do this as single women as well as by becoming wives. We do not deny that the task is difficult. To conquer the pain of loneliness and desolation, to subdue the natural yearnings for some nearer and dearer ties than merely those of blood, which, alas! but too often cool as years roll on, and our homes are severed like our interests; and those on whom the single woman would pour forth her warmest affections, give back but little in return, for they have dearer ties; that to be content with this, to make objects of affection and interest, requires an energy-a strength of purpose, and, above all, a deep clinging sense of His cherishing love, whom we cannot love too "But why would you have had Florence suffer thus, and meet with no reward?" We think we hear some readers ask. No reward! Oh! is there none in the privileges just enumerated? None, in a life of virtue and its attendant faith, in a lovelier life above? And even if there were none, we would not inculcate the false doctrine that suffering must be followed by temporal recompense. It is a wrong, a misleading belief to look to this world for the reward of good; a mistaken moral to insist that the adherence to the good, the sacrifice of self, the endeavour to realize the perfectibility of virtue, must find its recompense here below, or the economy of Divine justice is imperfect. Recompense there is, as incomparably above the deserts of even the most perfect upon earth, as the Gracious Bestower is above those on whom it is bestowed. But it comes not wholly in this world; we must look upward to receive it; and therefore do we urge that the moral of that tale is false, which would crown a life of trial with the dazzling lustre of earthly joy. Not that our mortal course is desolate. If our readers have felt with Florence, they have traced love gleaming up through all, and must acknowledge with her, that she had her reward even in this world. The "silver lining" was beneath the thundercloud, and the darkest misery brought forth joy. Yet loving as she did, how was it possible that she could ever be happy or associate with the object of that love, discovering him to be, father's long-hoarded wealth on Miss Leslie, her brother? The most probable thing was, that she should go mad. Not so, captious critic! We are not of the tornado school, and can quite believe, though a woman can never love twice, as she has loved once, there is no occasion for death or madness to be her cure. Nay, we are sufficiently unromantic to believe, that passion may actually be conquered, and that by securing the happiness of those she loved, Florence went the surest way to work, and absolutely did conquer it, although at the cost of her own health and happiness, before the truth was known. We further allege, that as nearly two years elapsed between the discovery of the misery she had so narrowly escaped and her seeing Frank again, it was quite possible for her, when they did meet, to regard him only as the brother, which, by his marriage with Minie, she had before tutored her mind and heart to consider him. The horror which had seized her when the truth was first revealed, had, indeed, been such as to terrify Lady St. Maur for her returning health, but her strong mind had conquered; and some time before they left Italy, every painful feeling had merged into quietness and confidence, gratitude and joy. She no longer shunned his image or his memory. Her very horror of what might have been, and her constant gratitude that the deep misery had been turned aside, ever prevented the recurrence of any thought which could disturb her peace. But did Frank himself ever know at what cost to Florence he had been saved from a doom, at the very thought of which he shuddered? Not from the lips of Florence. Neither he nor Minie, while they blessed her as humanly speaking-not alone the creator, but the preserver of their joy, ever knew how painfully the first had been purchased. If a thought of the truth did ever flash across the mind of Frank, as when he recollected former suspicions of unhappiness it might naturally have done, it was suppressed so quickly that it could never take defined form, much less expressed word; and he believed with his wife, that Florence's injured health and drooping spirits originated in her fatal secret alone. Minie's varied emotions at the tale she heard, we leave to the imaginations of our readers. Suffice it that Florence never had reason to regret that it had been imparted. Sisters, bound by no common affection, they had been from infancy, and such, even through long years of marriage and maternity, they changelessly remained. It is the fashion, we believe, in the concluding chapters of a tale, as in the last scene of a drama, to bring all the dramatis persone on the boards together. As, however, our characters are almost all disposed of, either in narrative or conversation, we must eschew the common mode, and briefly as may be, dismiss those that remain. To the world, the tale we have related, was never known, never even rumoured. That the young Viscount insisted on settling half of his was, from his character, no very great matter of surprise. The sacrifice she had made for him, was cause sufficient, and so after the subject had been gossiped, exaggerated, and treated in every variety of light, it was dismissed to make room for those other matters of moment to the great, scandal-loving, busy-body world. To one other person alone, in addition to those whom we have named, was the eventful tenor of Miss Leslie's life revealed. It was a lovely summer evening, rather more than two years after Lord Glenvylle's death, that two persons were sitting in one of the pretty little parlours of Amersley, opening on a retired part of the park. They had, it appeared by the lady's attire, been walking, but as their conversation deepened in interest, the repose and solitude of that little boudoir had been unconsciously sought, as less liable to interruption than either garden or park. The lady had thrown aside her bonnet, and as she sat, her face upturned to the gentleman, he standing beside her, though the features disclosed no positive beauty, they were such as arrest irresistibly, particularly when beaming as they were at that moment. Though the period of girlhood had merged into the epoch of woman's loveliest maturity, when one degree nearer thirty than twenty, she smiles all the truth and freshness of early youth, with those calmer, more finished graces which have come not to pass away, but to deepen and endure. One glance on that open brow, that full dark eye, that finely chiselled mouth, will suffice for her recognition by all those whose interest in Florence Leslie has sketched her image in their minds. To the Florence of our first chapter, she bore indeed little outward resemblance, save such as the opening flower does to the early rose-bud. But even as the full-blown rose reveals the luscious scent and glowing beauty which the bud contained, although in part concealed; so did her character, as it now shone forth, confirm and perfect the promise of its bud. The timid, shrinking girl, was now the dignified though still retiring woman. The high and truthful sentiments which had formerly been spoken tremblingly, as scarcely daring to find expression, lest scorners should mock, or the more experienced should pity, were now avowed calmly, unostentatiously, as they had been acted upon in the many trials of her life. The heart which had throbbed and quivered at the faintest word of kindness, and which a silken thread had led, if held by a loving hand, now rested on itself meekly and truthfully, contented with the love it gave, and the love it received. Living for others, indeed still; but feeling to the full that such existence was only living for her purer self. Her companion appeared some two or three years her senior, tall and finely formed. A high polish and elegance of tone and manner marked at once the English gentleman, and there was, too, an honest frankness in all he said, which rendered it impossible to mistake his pro fession; but both their characters-as he stood leaning over the arm of the couch where Florence sat-had so evidently merged into the anxious lover, that they may be passed over with very little notice." Florence had been speaking long and earnestly, evidently narrating circumstances or feelings, to which Sir Ronald Elliot listened, scarcely breathing lest he should lose a word, though much of which she told him he already knew. Yourself alone I loved, aye, worshipped; for the deep sanctity your uncomplaining sorrow flung around you, permitted little of mere earthly passion to mingle with my love. What to me that you had resigned your heritage for the happiness of others, save that the very deed first woke me to the consciousness how unchangeably I loved! In the brief visit I paid to England, eighteen months ago, I looked on you again, and hope grew stronger, yet still I "You know all now," she said in conclusion, feared to commit my fate to words. I dared not "more than any being on earth knows except ask you to be mine, lest even hope should be Lord and Lady St. Maur, more than I ever for ever banished by your refusal. Again we believed could pass my lips again. Yet acting met, I know not what bolder feeling awoke nobly, generously, as you have done by me, it within me. You did not entirely reject attenis your due. I neither could nor would have tion; you did not refuse my companionship and become your wife, with any one circumstance sympathy. You spoke to me more than once untold. Of course had not all love been pre- as to one whose character was not wholly beviously subdued; the very fact of discovering neath your confidence and regard. Florence, who it was with whom in perfect ignorance and my beloved, it was from these little things I innocence my affections had become twined, gathered hope, for I knew I felt such conduct must have banished the passion for ever, even could not proceed from one who is truth itself if to do so had caused my death, which, per- did she intend me to speak in vain. Forgive haps, had it not been conquered, must inevitably me that I did not interrupt you when you spoke, have ensued. But though five years have by avowing I knew all before. Your confidence, elapsed since then, and all love has passed your truth, were too precious to be so checked. away as entirely as if it had never been, save They told me that the esteem, the affection I that I now shrink from its thought with such pined for were my own, or you had not thus shuddering that I dare not, if I could, feel such spoken; that as a friend, a husband, dearest emotion again; how may I hope or believe Florence, that confidence, that affection would that a heart which has lost the sunny freshness bless me still. One thing only you told me of youth's first feelings, will bestow on you that I did not know before; till this very day, the happiness, which you tell me can exist nay this very hour, I knew not that the mys but with its possession? Do not hesitate to tery of your birth had been dispersed, your real speak those sentiments which my unvarnished parentage made known. I can guess wherefore narration may have excited. You cannot have St. Maur withheld the truth, and I owe him the known the facts before, and therefore have I so sincerest gratitude for so doing. I could almost hesitated to accept the attentions you have la- wish it had not been so, that I might prove how vished on me during the last few months. I little such thoughts could weigh with me." longed for you to know the truth, believing that if known you must cease to value a heart which can give so poor a return for all the devotedness of yours." "So poor a return!" he answered, passion ately. Florence, call you truth, confidence, esteem, affection, however calm and unimpassioned from a heart like yours, but poor return? Oh dearer, more precious to me thus revealed than the first and freshest love of the loveliest on earth. You know not how for the last five years, aye, from the first evening I beheld you sitting in your deep sorrow in this very room at Ida's feet, I have borne your image with me, whereever you have been-though how might I annoy you with attentions, with words of love, when your thoughts were all fixed on other things. No, Florence, no. Lord St. Maur penetrated my secret, and to save me from the danger of unrequited love, he told me almost all you have revealed, save the name of him you loved; and yet I loved, aye, hopeless as it seemed." "All! you knew all even the doubt upon my birth and yet you would have made me yours!" "Yes, dearest! and those things they told me to diminish love increased it tenfold. What was to me the doubt upon your birth? "I do not heed such proof, dear Ronald, or rather you have proved it," replied Florence, with one of those bright glistening smiles that sometimes returned to her lip like the reflection of other days, and she made no resistance to the change in Elliot's position from standing to sitting by her side, with one arm most daringly thrown round her waist. | 66 Yes, dearest Ronald!" she replied, simply and frankly, and her clear, truthful eyes shrunk not beneath his. "Six months ago I thought my destiny fixed, and thanked God for its calm and quiet joys; but with you, shielded by a love like yours, I feel, and have felt, perhaps, for the last month, that had I a heart worthy of the love you gave, I might be happier still. But there is one person to be consulted," she added, with a gay smile, perceiving, though Elliot was too much engrossed to do so, Lord and Lady St. Maur coming up the path to the glass door. "Not Minie, because she will be too happy to think I have a chance of being happy as herself; nor Frank, for the same reason; and I believe, could he choose a brother, he would have chosen you; not Lord St. Maur, but his and our Ida, who has vowed vengeance on any man who would rob her of one whom she flatteringly terms so useful a friend as myself. Go and use your eloquence with her, dear Ronald, for wed without her consent I cannot." "I have no fear," was his joyous reply, springing from the side of Florence to that of the Countess, almost with a bound, and in a very few minutes they were all within the room. The Earl, grasping the Captain's hand with a most sympathizing pressure, and Lady St. Maur holding Florence in a warm embrace, whispering such affectionate congratulation that it almost brought forth tears. "Yes, I will give her to you, Ronald," she said, "for your love does deserve her; and as your wife, I shall not only keep a friend, but gain a relative. If any one had prophesied this years ago, that my lowly flower of St. John's was to become cousin and dearest friend to that same Lady Ida Villiers, from whom the simple girl then almost shrank in awe because she was an Earl's daughter, and who afterwards suffered all kinds of sorrow rather than claim a friend in one she so foolishly loved, because rank and fortune came between us-if any one had prophesied this, I say, who would have believed it ?" "And if any one were to read my tale, dearest Ida, would they not scoff and say that to friendship like yours the world affords no parallel; that it is pretty to read of, but is never found? That one of your rank must have neglected, if she did not forget, one lowly as myself; that in the world, fashion not feeling must guide, and therefore none of your rank and station could be as you have been. Oh! you know not how your friendship aided in making me as I am. The world sees but the surface of life; it knows not what little things may influence and guide, and how much female friendship in general so scorned and scoffed at-may be the invisible means of strengthening in virtue, comforting in sorrow, and without once interfering with any nearer or dearer tie-may heighten inexpressibly the happiness and well-doing of each." THE MARRIAGE OF INTEREST. BY MRS. ABDY. Oh! why does the bride weep sadly Her joyous attendant train; The priest has approached the altar, What darkens the young bride's spirit, On her sweet and touching beauty, Of the splendour of her lot, And she seems as she heard them not. Has the bride no smile of pleasure For the youths and maidens bright Where the moon's faint beam reposes, And where lamps of pure pale amber Are gleaming through shrines of roses; There her sisters haste soon after, And greet her with gay caress; But they cease from their merry laughter At the sight of her deep distress. Lo, the bridegroom now draws near her; His features and form to scan. For that old and feeble man. Unmeet for the step of a lover His tottering gait appears; And his hair is silvered over With the frost of many years. Yet she smiled on his fond petition When his passion at first he told; For she pictured, in proud ambition, His castles, his lands, his gold. She has won them all, but o'er her Comes the sense of their bitter cost; She turns from the scene before her, And she pines for her freedom lost. Like a victim, in trembling terror She weeps o'er her flowery ties; Alas! 'tis her own rash error Has ordained the sacrifice. I cannot compassion render, Young bride, to thy sighs, thy tears: Go, live in thy dear-bought splendour, Through the lapse of repentant years; With thy cold bright fetters laden, Go, shine in unhonoured state, While each meek and artless maiden Shall condemn and shun thy fate; And shrink from the light, vain folly That could basely to Mammon bow, And plight in God's temple holy A loveless and sordid vow. claims me still, To gaze with him in rapt delight upon some murm'ring And I would have him deeply skill'd in Music's ev'ry rill strain ; scorn, Or veiling it in Pity's dew like the sweet flower at I'VE FLORENCE. WATCHED THE SUNBEAMS BY GEORGINA C. MUNRO. I've watched the sunbeams dying O'er the ocean's tranquil breast. I touch the chords with trembling finger, The distant village gay; But yet my heart is sorrowful, |