АТ ПОМЕ. round in no time. Annie tried to appear cheerful, and never mentioned her weakness in his hearing, but she would not leave Clare Hall; and when urged to seek a more genial clime she had ever a ready excuse for not leaving home. The woods had already heard the voice of spring. The rains were over and gone, and the time of the singing of birds was come ;--the budding trees and the opening flowers proclaimed the resurrection of the year. Nature flung aside her winding-sheet of snow and frost on her beautiful garments as she came forth from the secret chambers of her grave. There was hope in every green blade-promise in every opening bud. Summer was near-sweet, beautiful summer. Longing eyes were strained to catch her first approach; and the weak and the weary were listening through the brightening hours for her soft footfall. She was coming, leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills-already she was showing herself through the lattice. Sweet was her voice, comely her countenance-she was perfumed with myrrh and mignionette. How beautiful upon the mountains are thy feet, O, summer! The strong hail thee with delight, and the dying think it more sweet to fall asleep with the murmuring music of thy gentle breezes, and to go down to the grave lapped with the flowers strewn upon their narrow bed. It was early to die-in the summer of the year, in the summer time of life-but she never murmured, although she had laid many plans for the future, that might have been so bright and seeming fair. Annie remembered, and often thought of those she had left toiling behind in their dismal homes far from Clare Hall and its comforts; and she never forgot in her new found happiness those who, although poor and friendless like herself, lightened her cares with many kind words, and never grudged their precious moments to do a good turn to her in her sorrow. Annie never forgot the old times, nor the friends of her wintry days-for the poor are rich in charity, and kindliest hearts are oftenest found where misery sweeps the cold hearth-stone, and grim poverty sits in the elbow chair, and joys are scanty, and shifting sorrows are familiar friends. Mr. Lee is no philanthropist, but he recalled Biddy Noulan's dingy hovel with a shudder, and he shrunk from revisiting the scenes that had filled him with disgust. He marvelled how human beings could breathe such a pestiferous air and live. He had no idea that such abodes In all his disgraced our country unchallenged. wanderings he had never witnessed a spectacle so revolting to humanity as that dark, loathsome alley in Hoxton. Mr. Lee regretted he was not a public man that he might see into such a state of matters; and he loudly denounced those who, calling themselves christians, scrupled not to extract a rent out of the poor and wretched beings who were compelled to inhabit abodes into which the daylight seldom entered, and into which no wholesome breeze ever came. Fellow creatures as alive to the finer feelings which humanity better put on, boasts of; as capable of enjoying home-if they were taught with all its blessings and comforts, as the proud landlord who embellishes his noble mansion, and keeps aloof from the wretchedness he will do nothing to ameliorate, lest the balance be Men may short when the reckoning day comes. clamour and complain;-women may droop and fade, and babes may languish and die amid squalor and misery. The shadow of death may brood for aye over these devoted possessions; and the plague and the pestilence lurk daintily there, but the rent roll must not come short; and the ground rents, with the reversion of the property on some of their streets, actually belong to noble landlords. The reckoning day will come. Mr. Lee did not see how it could be accomplished as things were, although it was desirable the poor should have better homes; and the industrious poor, like Biddy Nowlan, a comfortable corner to come into He had intended when her day's toil was over. to consult Annie, but her ill-health and increasing weakness had quite driven his wise resolves out of his head. Annie had herself reminded him, and he declared if she would only brighten up and try a change for her health's sake, he would make arrangements for carrying out her projected scheme of improving, so far as their means would If Annie desired life, it was that she allow. might prove, whilst here, the instrument of doing good. But already she had earned the Master's well done. Her work was finished; but she left one behind who may tread in her footsteps, though happily under a kindlier sky, and work out her plans with a willing heart and earnest There was one of whom Annie thought, yet had never seen-Norah's friend, the Irish basket woman. Mr. Lee had forgotten all about poor Biddy but at his sister-in-law's request he under-will. took to find her, and if possible induce her to come to the vicinity of Clare Hall. Lily sug gested that Norah's kind friend should have the pretty little cottage at the gate; and her easy good natured uncle at once acceded to the proposal. Poor Biddy, little dreaming of the turn in fortune's wheel was quietly pursuing her old calling in London, standing over her orange basket in the busy market-place, or cheerfully trudging along the world's highways, lonely and unthought of with the ready smile on her lip and the bitther' sorrow in her heart. Her miserable dwelling, which could hardly be called a home seemed even more wretched, wanting Norah; and Biddy thought it looked forlorn and deserted, although on every side of her human beings herded in swarms, and crowded every nook and corner of the unwholesome alley. PART XLIV. THAT crowded dwelling place was to have one soul less to account for-Biddy Noulan was going away; she was exchanging her cheerless hovel for a comfortable home, and yet she left it with a feeling of sadness. There Norah had smiled and wept-there she had shared with her the scanty crust-and there she had died; and Biddy loved the place for its many associations. She was leaving her less fortunate neighbourswho, amid all their privations and poverty, had closely adhered to the kind-hearted Irishwoman. She would miss them: they would miss her- but how they missed her she never knew. Many a kind wish went with Biddy Noulan, for she was 2N2 the friend of all; and the children followed her sadly. Biddy was no less a favourite with her new friends when she came to pass the evening of her wintry life amongst a strange people. She was to return to her own country no more-her own were sleeping far away; Norah was with the angels; but the sunshine of Clare Hall gladdened her desolate heart-one whom Biddy came to love well; its gentle maiden with the star of joy on her brow, and the dew of childhood in her heart. All loved Lily well, and many a heart echoed the Irish woman's prayer. The angels walk before her all the days of her life, and bring her safe home at last. PART XLV. MRS. MORGAN heard of her son-in-law's untimely end with much greater composure than she would have listened to the most trifling accident to Sir Edward Gravely a twelvemonth ago. Her ambition was satisfied; but she had paid dearly for her vain desire to enroll herself amongst the aristocracy. It had been the ambition of poor Mrs. Morgan's life, and she believed her husband's gold would secure her a ready admission within the charmed circle. In this she was mistaken. Society was exclusive, and Mrs. Morgan still worshipped afar off; but her daughter she determined to sacrifice to her ambition; and richly dowered with youth, beauty, and gold, she came and triumphed. An aristocrat claimed her for his bride, and Mrs. Morgan, in the exultation of the moment, cared not for the cost, and she repented her folly too late. Sir Edward had fallen short of her fond imaginings. Lady Gravely was still young and beautiful, and might yet make a more comfortable, if a less splendid, alliance. Indeed, Mrs. Morgan sincerely hoped her daughter would, like herself, in future entertain less ambitious views; and leaving the aristocracy to themselves, choose a husband from amongst her equals. Lady Gravely could not mourn a husband who had so signally neglected and ill-treated her; but he was the father of the sickly babe whose life grew more precious as it seemed less certain, and a tear fell upon the waxen face of the unconscious slumberer. His aristocratic name was all he had left her, and the babe brought with it a heritage of poverty. Even in her child Lady Gravely was doomed to be disappointed. Sorrow and trial had humbled and improved her; she was no longer the haughty, arrogant Venetia of old times. Affliction had warmed those better feelings that in prosperity and power had been cold and dead in her heart. Her husband's estates and possessions were to pass away into a stranger's hand; but Lady Gravely had become reconciled to the loss in the gift of her child. Mrs. Morgan was speculating upon the future, and thinking how well Venetia became black, when her meditations were disturbed by the announcement of a visitor. Lady Gravely kept no company now, and Mrs. Morgan was rather put out at being caught in morning negligé, the more especially as the stranger had a decidedly aristocratic air. Mrs. Morgan's brief connexions with his aristocracy had enabled her to detect a gentleman at sight, or so Mrs. Morgan flattered herself. The visitor was for Lady Gravely, who was in the nursery, and Mrs. Morgan undertook the entertainment until her ladyship was at liberty. For once the aristocratic-loving lady was right. The visitor was a gentleman, and the heir-atlaw to Sir Edward Gravely. His attorney had just informed him of the fact of Lady Gravely's child being a daughter, and unable to succeed to the entailed estates which, by Sir Edward's death, had now become the property of this stranger. - And he had visited Kerry to see Lady Gravely and make any return in his power for her late husband's prodigality. The wife and child of Sir Edward Gravely could have no claim upon one whom he had injured and wronged in his lifetime - but Crichton took a noble revenge. He buried his wrongs with his batred, in the ocean, and sealed his forgiveness to the living, by deeds of charity. Lady Gravely and Crichton had never met, nor was she aware of his existence in her husband's lifetime. She met him calmly, and as one who had no claim to urge against rights which the law sanctioned; and she was content to return to her former retirement, with the babe who had dashed her high-built hopes-and in a mother's love forget a widow's woes. Towards her husband's failings Lady Gravely was prudently silent; but Mrs. Morgan took care to inform Sir Edward's heir of the baronet's unhandsome conduct towards herself and daughter, not omitting the abstraction of Lady Gravely's jewels. Crichton could not restore the jewels, but he resolved to repay them by a sum of two thousand pounds, which he settled upon Lady Gravely's infant daughter-together with the free possession during his life of a property in Ireland which belonged to the late Sir Edward in Kerry. Crichton differs in every respect from his deceased relative- for, whereas Sir Edward Gravely was characterised by extreme selfishness and utter heartlessness, his cousin is free-handed and generous. Lady Gravely could not but honour the man who dealt so nobly by her. But how much she owed him she never knew, for the story of his wrongs Crichton buried with the dead. His wife and child were once more restored to him, and death alone should part them now. Ida was more beautiful than ever. Crichton said one-half of her virtues had never been brought to light except for their misfortunes. Stephen grows in beauty, and Sally who, despite her assertions, has a lurking fondness for the boy, takes care that he be not again lost. Kind usage has improved Sally much, and she feels that the law of love is the best law, and the easiest followed and obeyed. PART XLVI. Summer came; Summer at Clare Hall, where all was sunshine and beauty. The blow of the lillies was past, but the roses unfolded their scented leaves. Sunshine and beauty without, and yet no joy note in Clare Hall. Within, silence and sadness throughout the long bright summer day! And a darkened chamber into which the sunshine may not enter. From between the closed draperies a little pale face peers out for an instant, on the brightness and beauty without, and then with a sigh the heavy folds are replaced, the curtains closer drawn, and the worn-out watcher returns to her post by the bed of death. That darkened chamber, how sad and solitary it looked in the gaudy sunlight. How strange and solemn in the night with its dim lamp flickering through the silent watches; whilst others slept it told of waking eyes and troubled hearts, and of one for whom there would shortly be no more night. * * * * She had looked her last upon the summer she was leaving upon the earth. It was yet the June of life with her, but her work was almost done, her time for rest was near. And in the parting light of the long summer day they watched and wept by her couch whilst the mysterious shadows gathered o'er her pale brow. * The old time came back to her at the journey's end. She was poor and friendless again--her children starving for food; and she minded the distant river, and once more she set out to seek its friendly shelter from all her troubles. But the night was dark and starless, and as she wandered on by herself far in the gloom and darkness, she had lost her children. The pale moon seemed to look down upon her with pitying gaze while wading through angry clouds, and seemed in her lonely wanderings, like poor Annie, to have lost her way. Together they held on their course, but as the hoarse sullen roar of the dark waters fell upon her ear the gloom and the darkness deepened, and the moon hid herself in the shadow of the great cloud. They spoke gently to her, and Lily softly kissed the unquiet dreamer; but she saw them not, for her eyes were darkening upon earthly sights, and her ear was dulled to familiar sounds. She reached the river's brink, but she missed the tall ships with their ghostly sails gleaming in the dark waters. She stood alone in the horrible darkness, with the surging waves dashing up to her feet, and their sullen roar deafening every sound, and she shuddered and drew back. At length her heavy ear caught a voice of music above the noise of the many billows; the soft brown eyes once more unclosed with a beam of intelligence, her wanderings ceased, and she met the conscious faces of those she loved with a smile, bidding them not weep. The lamp was expiring in its socket as the first faint flush of dawn gave promise of returning day. The night, with its darkness and its gloom, had fled. The journey was ended-the struggle was past -she was beyond the cloud, and the golden shores of the happy land were full in sight. Lily went with her as before to the river's brink. But there they were to part. The child shuddered at the cold dark river (she saw no smiling shore beyond). And the fearless pilgrim kissed her, and bidding her be of good cheer, with a radiant smile left her, and Lily was motherless. No need to darken the chamber by day, or to trim the feeble lamp when night returns. The weary eyes are closed-and the once busy hands folded in quietness. The heart beneath the shroud has laid down its burden of care in its stillness. The oppressed and the oppressor have passed away into the silent land. And their works shall follow them. Peace be with the dead-side by side sleep the just and the unjust-the tyrant and the slave the oppressor and the oppressed. But before the judgment seat they must all appear. PART XLVII. MR. LEE believed in a change of air for everything. Grief had paled Lily's cheek, and he himself felt out of sorts. Clare Hall had a desolate look. Everything reminded him of Annie, and he suddenly resolved to travel about for a seasonfor Lily's sake, of course. The sister kingdoms were duly visited; but still Lily grieved, and Mr. Lee did not benefit as usual by the change; and neither glorious scenery, nor volatile companions, could divert his mind or remove the oppression at his heart. Annie's death had greatly affected him. He consulted physicians to no purpose, and hurried from scene to scene in vain. He had flown every haunt of Annie's; but it occurred to him he would visit a favourite little watering place in Scotland-the only place Annie had desired to visit before she died; and there the travellers took up their abode. It was the season, and, in consequence of the fineness of the weather, a late one; but Mr. Lee avoided society, and engaged private apartments in the hotel in order to preserve his retirement. Mr. Lee, unfortunately for himself at times, is no reader; and he found the time hang as heavy on his hands there as at other places in his frame of mind. Lily was with him always, but her brightness was clouded with grief; and when he looked for smiles he oftener found tears upon her pale face. Such a state of being was intolerable; and Mr. Lee made a desperate resolve to embark in some exciting commercial speculations to give his thoughts a turn. Man proposes, whilst Heaven disposes. And whilst Mr. Lee made his own resolves, Fortune sat turning her wheel, and destiny, laughed at the man who should think to control her. In the same hotel a young widow lady, accompanied by her mother and her child, were for a time located. Lily had made acquaintance with the baby and its nurse, but Mr. Lee had seen neither of the parties. The baby was a fragile little thing, with great blue eyes and a waxen complexion, and Lily thought it the most beautiful little creature she had ever beheld. In vain she tried to interest her uncle in the little stranger. Mr. Lee hated babies, and refused to make the new acquaintance. Fate, however, had determined for him, and, by an unlucky chance, Mr. Lee stumbled over a little red shoe, the tiniest little shoe that ever was made. Mr. Lee would probably have kicked the miniature stumbling-block aside and passed on, had not the owner of the dainty red shoe appeared at that moment in the arms of a very beautiful woman (evidently the mother of the child); polite ness compelled Mr. Lee consequently to lift the missing slipper and present it to its rightful owner. The baby frowned and turned away; the lady smiled, and thanked the finder of the red morocco shoe with a grace that Mr. Lee thought bewitching. Mother and child disappeared; but Mr. Lee no longer buried himself in seclusion. He went out more, and, to Lily's surprise and delight, manifested quite an interest in the baby he had formerly refused to see The lady he frequently met in company with another lady bearing some resemblance to herself, but older, and much stouter, and certainly much more accessible Mr. Lee thought. The old lady was easily enough won over, but the younger was distant and reserved, and rarely, save when with her child, unbending. Still, there was a fascination about the young widow Mr. Lee could not withstand, and her very presence exerted a magic influence upon him. She looked sad and touched with care. but the only happy moments he experienced were in her society. There was something about her reminded him of Annie, although she was altogether unlike Annie-she had the same soft winning smile when caressing her child. Mrs. Morgan secretly congratulated herself on the success of her little ruse to bring Lady Gravely once more out. She had insisted on a trip to Scotland, when Lady Gravely's circumstances were improved; but not succeeding with her daughter, for her own sake; she tried to rouse the young mother's fears for her child's health, with better success. Lady Gravely could not deny that the babe looked sickly, and Mrs. Morgan declared in favour of the place, whither they went, to meet the new possessor of Clare Hall. It seemed Lady Gravely, who was blameless of design, was content to remain, so long as her child benefited by the salubrious air, and Mrs. Morgan took care to strengthen the general opinion that baby improved in appearance every day. Meanwhile Mr. Lee lingered also. Mrs. Morgan was on the most friendly terms with him, and Mr. Lee was in full possession of Lady Gravely's previous history and recent misfortunes during the first week of their acquaintance. Mrs. Morgan thought it a remarkable coincidence that they should meet the owner of Clare Hall there, and she augured well from the circumstance. Lady Gravely's nature was so full of repose that she might almost be called apathetic. She seldom intermeddled with her mother's speculations, and so far as these concerned herself she was indifferent. Mr. Lee took notice of her infant, and she felt grateful for the kind interest he evinced in the little drooping rosebud. He manifested an anxiety for Mrs. Morgan's two boys, who, through the influence of a distant relative, had been received into a public hospital at their father's death; and Lady Gravely, who was deeply attached to her younger brothers, was won with the stranger's kindness, and the soft winning smile that charmed Mr. Lee was not only upon her lip when her babe was near. Summer is gone, having said its farewell to this part of our globe. The little party have separated for a season. Lady Gravely returned to her quiet home in Kerry, with her child now rosy and well; and Mr. Lee went back to Clare Hall with restored spirits, but yet in a new trouble. Mrs. Morgan believes Mr. Lee will find business to call him to Ireland before the winter sets in, but she prudently keeps her own counsel. As for Mr. Lee, he must have some operation in view, for he has only a few weeks since concluded a settlement in favour of Lily, or of trustees for Lily's use-so large that it need not be namedand it will have many years yet to accumulate ere Biddy's new friend be the unguardianed owner of her property. PART XLVII-THE CONCLUSION. SOME still remains to act out their part; and some have passed off the stage, to be little missed in the whirl of life, but speedily forgotten as time steals on with stealthy pace. The daylight is fading away, the shadow lengthens on the wall. The night comes, and the life story is told. When the now warmly beating heart has counted out its numbered measures, this pen, too, shall lay idly upon the unwritten page. And thus wears the world away-and thus we reach our abiding place at last-and are at home-at our home." LADDIE-did ye ever loe Oh! tell me no, and tell me true, For a' my love to thee! PLEADING. Oh, tell me no! Oh, laddie, ne'er I loed, but thee alane! I loe thee sae, oh, laddie, dear, I would thee a' my ain. Laddie-will ye ever woo If I should hae to dee? For in the land o' others' bliss, I couldna' think o' happiness E. D. ABER. A MARRIAGE FESTIVAL AT ADANA. A SHORT time ago I chanced to be on a visit to my friend the British Vice Consul at Tarsous-the ancient Tarshish-poor fellow, like every one of his predecessors in office for the last half century, he fell a victim to the climate, and his bones lie bleaching almost under the shadow of a tall minaret; for wonderful to say, the Turks, who are here abouts more fanatical than in any other part of the empire, positively allowed "dogs of Christians" of all denominations to be buried within a stone throw of one of these buildings. But I am not here to cogitate on gloomy reminiscences, so as I said at the commencement, I chanced to be on a visit at Tarsous when the monotony of our every day life was agreeably interrupted by a visit from Monsigneur the Greek Archbishop of Adana, who had actually travelled all the distance, and that under a broiling hot sun, to present us with a wax candle a piece and solicit the honour of our company at the approaching nuptials of his niece. These candles by themselves usually constitute an invitation to a wedding; and the invited are expected to carry them with them on the bridal day and hold them ignited in their hands during the ceremony. The wedding, so the prelate informed us, was going to be something on an unprecedented scale of grandeur; owing partly to the high position of the brides relatives; partly to the fact of the fortunate bridegroom in embryo being a British subject (one of those Ionian gentlemen about whom recently such stir was going on and who possessed of English passports, consider themselves in duty bound to give our consuls a grievous amount of trouble and vexation) and a merchant of great consideration in the eyes of the Adana people. Holding a shop in the main street where he retailed, at fifty per cent. profit, chintzes and shoes, scents, soaps, candles, crockery ware, villanous Genoese rum, and equally vile liquors in old Eau de Cologne bottles, Signor Giovani Attaro, as this gentleman was called, had laid out nearly ten thousand piastres (£90) in stock, which was a bewildering capital. He had started in life with a dollar, and he was now worth some hundreds. Over Giovani's shop was Giovani's house, which was even elegantly furnished for Adana, and behind Giovani's shop was Giovani's stabling where he kept three Arabs of the purest breed and a number of very fine greyhounds. a state nigh to frenzy. For this purpose the bishop had been deputed to call upon my friend to invite us and all the other European residents and to engage the Consular influence with the Pasha of Adana to the end that the wedding procession should not only pass unscathed through the public streets but positively be escorted by a military force headed by the Pashas own Band. I am not certain that my friend did a wise thing when he consented to treat with the Pasha in this respect; and I am positive it nearly caused a revolution in the town. However, that was his affair and not mine, he promised, and being a determined Scotchman, he carried out his promise to the very letter. Before the archbishop took his leave he begged particularly that none would forget to come in full dress, for what were the good argued he, of a fantasia, unless there was plenty of cocked hats and feathers preceded by those silver headed canes which are the insignia of office and authority in the east. Very great preparations were going on at Adana, I was informed by parties passing to and fro daily, against the coming event. Even at Tarsous we had something to prepare; for there is a not very convenient custom prevalent of making presents to the bride, which are supposed to vary in the scale of value according to the position and wealth of the donor. My gift was a couple of pounds of scented soap and a bag of rice. I thought the first a useful luxury to a young wife who would have much garlic to handle in culinary occupations. I knew the second to be the eastern staff of life. I afterwards discovered that the greater number of guests had presented precisely the same things and I am not quite positive that I did not subsequently purchase a bit of my own soap of Giovani, at his shop. Notwithstanding the scriptural, classical, and fabulous connections so intimately linked with Tarsous and the surrounding country I am ashamed to say, no schoolboy ever looked forward with greater impatience for the holidays, no boarding school miss for a ball, than I did for this approaching wedding. And after all there is not much to be surprised at in this when one takes into consideration the present aspect of affairs at Tarsous. Did I stroll out at mid-day amidst the cool and shaded streets, wrapt in brown study about Paul and his possible whereabouts aforetime, I was disagreeably awakened from this day dream Now it was not likely that such a grand match by a score or two of insane dervishes bobbing up and one of such rare occurrence could be permitted and down and grunting to each other, whilst they to take place without a very very grand "fan-foamed like mad dogs at the mouth. There was tasia" indeed. The bishop had made up his mind to this, so had Signor Giovani, so had all the Christian and Jew inhabitants of Adana. They all joined common cause against their persecutors the Adana Turks, and determined literally to astonish their weak minds and aggravate them to no fruit, or stalk, or leaf here, of the seeds sown by the early apostle. Should fancy and the cool evening direct my steps through orangegroves, literally scenting the air with their blossoms and the imagination pictured some fable of old until I expected every instant to see a glorious castle rise |