Brown's wanting to read Don Quixote? You doubted it's being good reading for him, and made me doubt too; however, the thing had been promised on certain conditions, which were fulfilled. One evening our doctor, Mr. Crewe, was passing through our village, when he heard a burst of laughter from a cottage kitchen. Without more ado, he raised the latch and walked in; and there were some half-dozen young fellows grinning over the humours of Sancho, which were being doled forth by Asahel, by the light of a cotton dip. Mr. Crewe said, 'Come, my lads, I don't mind if I give you a spell;' so he sat down and gave them Gines de Passamonte' in capital style (for he's a first-rate reader), and laughed himself, he afterwards told me, as much as the rest. When he had finished the chapter, 'Come,' said he, 'let's form a Don Quixote Club; and when you have got through this book, we'll have another. Subscriptions five shillings a-year; here are my five shillings to begin with. I'll be president, and choose or approve the books. Asahel shall be librarian and treasurer.' They have gone on swimmingly ever since, ascending in the scale of reading. They have now many profitable as well as pleasant books on their shelves.

6

Bur. I must make a donation, in books as well as cash.

Wil. We shall be much obliged to you. There are two or three honorary subscribers. Bur. And they still call themselves the Don Quixote Club?

Wil. Yes; that name sticks by them, and they are partial to it. I understand they have dubbed themselves by the names of the principal characters, as the Licentiate, the Curate, the Barber, and so forth. But they are deep in Bligh's Voyage now, and have just got an old copy of Lord Anson.

Bur. Voyages and travels are better for them than fiction.

Wil. Why, yes; and yet a good deal that is high and ennobling is to be found in Chaucer, Spenser, and Shakspere. Mr. Crewe, I understand, has made them acquainted with King John and Richard the Third; but he finds much explanation necessary.

Cla. Have any of the Heaths joined? Wil. No; the Heaths belong to a different category. They adhere to the well of Scripture undefiled.

Bur. All the better.

Wil. Heath is an excellent fellow.

Bur. Who is he?

Wil. Don't you remember when you were last here (seven years ago), I asked you to

give a poor man a piece of ground on the hillside, that was too steep to plough and covered with stones?-telling you that though it was worthless to you, it would be a great boon to him?

Bur. Perfectly.

Wil. Well, the Hill-side estate is now brought under cultivation.

Bur. How so?

Wil. Heath had six small children, all of whom, girls as well as boys, he set to help picking up the stones and removing them. Then he set to work with his spade, aided by as many children as were strong enough; and what he dug he sowed with corn, getting more and more land under cultivation every year; till at length the whole brought forth its increase, chiefly in corn, but partly in potatoes and other vegetables. Clarinda had, at starting, given him a dozen apple-trees, which bore the second year. Meantime the family fared hardly enough, drinking nothing but water, and feeding chiefly on apple-pasties, baked in potatoe crust. On market-days, however, Heath frequently bought a sheep's head and pluck for a shilling, which kept his family in butcher's meat for three days.

Bur. Capital fellow! Such a man as that, William, deserves to be encouraged.

Wil. Burrell, the blessing of God is on him! He has never had a doctor in his house, except when his wife was confined, since his marriage. He has often been found, on winter nights, threshing out his own corn by the light of a lantern. His children regularly come to school, though they are three miles from it; and on Sunday he himself, in a clean carter's frock, with a big Bible under his arm, heads the little procession to church, be the weather fair or foul.

Bur. That man is an honour to his country. I must see him.

Wil. He will be at church this evening. Cla. Shall you be able to keep your eyes open at church to-night, Harry?

Har. Oh yes; I am not such a very little boy! Besides, you're going to play the organ. Cla. Will you come with me in the organloft, or sit with your papa?

Har. I should like to be with you.

Bur. You must be a very good boy then, Harry.

Har. Yes, papa.

William here took a piece of twine out of his pocket (the table being cleared), and having knotted the two ends together, invited Harry to a game of cat's-cradle; after which Mrs. Clarinda carried him off to her own

dominions, where they amused themselves and each other in various ways not consistent with the dignity of history to mention.

When church-time came, William and Burrell, Clarinda and Harry, set forth; followed by Patty and Priscilla, who locked the doors and left the haunted house to take care of itself. Burrell asked Clarinda if she had any fears of housebreakers. She said, No: she had faith. He offered her his arm; but she assured him she did not require it; and William, smiling, told Burrell in an undertone that, in that primitive neighbourhood, to walk ‘lockin-lock' was considered tantamount to an announcement that the parties were engaged.

There was a gorgeous sunset; and Harry, with a laugh, remarked that the clouds were 'sky-blue-scarlet.'

Little knots of parishioners, trooping to the church, continually greeted them with smiles and bows, or curtseys, as they passed along; William striding on in advance, Burrell falling back to Clarinda. They parted at the church-door; she taking Harry with her up a dark little winding stair, he passing on up the aisle to the old oaken pew in the chancel, much like a cathedral-stall, where many generations of his ancestors had knelt and prayed before him; and where he was surrounded by sundry of their stone effigies and tablets, now dyed in prismatic hues, as the last sunbeams streamed through the old painted windows.

On one of these monuments, immediately facing him, he read in Old English characters, 'God is lighte, and in Him is no darknesse at all;'-and, singularly enough, the red, blue, and yellow rays that just then fell on the inscription melted into pure white light, the three in one, as he mused on it.

Just at the same moment a low, stealing sound of music breathed so softly and solemnly from the organ, that it was almost difficult to say whether it came from

"Above, around, or underneath."

Burrell was well acquainted with much of the finest Italian church musie; but found himself impressed and affected by this grand and simple old piece of Orlando Gibbons, which Clarinda had chosen, not to show off her own playing, but to raise the hearts of her hearers to heaven.

Burrell noted in the front row of the free seats a stalwart labourer, approaching perhaps to fifty, whose sunburnt ruddy cheek, straight nose, firm yet pleasant mouth, deepset eye, and hair 'sable-silvered,' came exactly up to his idea of what John Heath was likely

to be; especially as he had a quarto Bible on his knee, and was accompanied by four or five ruddy lads and lasses, poorly but neatly

clad.

William soon entered the reading-desk, and the service was conducted with a homely, affectionate fervour that carried Burrell's heart along with it. The lessons, which happened to be of Saul and the witch of Endor, and the first chapter of St. James's Epistle, were, to Burrell's mind, given in a masterly manner: it seemed as if he had hardly known what was in them before. When the responses were to be made, every one responded; when the hymns were sung, nearly every one sang; and it seemed to Burrell that a few plain professional rules must have been made familiar to them, because their articulation was distinct and emphatic, and yet no one seemed trying to outdo his neighbours by mere strength of lungs. There was a body of sound when they lifted up their voices as one man, and sang― "Ye saints and servants of the Lord, The triumphs of his name record!" And again, when in softer harmonies they joined in

"How vast must their advantage be,
How great their pleasure prove,
Who live like brethren, and consent
In offices of love!"

Burrell, remembering how, in his young days, most of them used to set their teeth fast before they started off, so as to convert "Awake, my soul," into "N-awake, my soul," was quite enchanted with the improvement, and soon found himself contributing a hearty bass.

When William began the prayer before the sermon, his voice and manner seemed changed, Burrell scarcely knew how, since his leaving the reading-desk; but he felt an increase of spirituality communicated from William's soul to his own, and doubtless to those of others, more subtilly than any incense or perfume could instil itself into the earthly sense.

As soon as the sermon began, Burrell remembered Clarinda had told him that, on week-day evenings, William was going through a regular course of Old Testament Expositions with his people. He had begun with Genesis when he first came among them, and was now in the middle of the histories of Saul and of David. He had contrived it so as to bring this evening's Exposition into connection with the first lesson; consequently, it was on the last dark transaction of Saul's unhappy life.

The subject, and the novelty of its treatment, rivetted Burrell's attention. Instead of

saying, with Matthew Henry, "Never did Saul look so mean as when he went sneaking to a sorry witch to know his fortune," there was a terrible grandeur in William's view of him. The woman of Endor became an awful sy bila woman endowed perhaps, at first, with all that could endear her to others, and make her happy in herself; but severed, it might be, by some disappointed affection or evil passion, from communion and sympathy with her kind, and impelled by her own disordered longings to penetrate into the unknown, to deal in forbidden arts and unholy incantations. Even if frustrated in her expectations, and unable to deceive herself, she had not hesitated to deceive others. Doubtless there went abroad a strange and ominous report of her; and she was perhaps conscious of some gratification in knowing herself the object of mingled fear and vene

ration.

After some practical remarks on the utterly forlorn, wretched condition of Saul which could lead him to seek her at all, the next great point was the unlooked-for apparition of Samuel. Matthew Henry hesitates not to conclude that Satan personated the prophet, for the express purpose of bidding the unhappy king despair and die. William, on the other hand, assumed that Samuel was literally disquieted and brought up, not by reason of the power of the witch, but to be the minister of God's purposes; not roused from a sleep of the soul, that would otherwise have lasted till the soul was re-united to the body at the day of judgment, but summoned back to earth from the abode of departed spirits, where it was existing in a state of blissful conscious

faculties, he found William pouring forth his thoughts on the state of separate spirits and on the resurrection of the body.

"We could form no distinct conception," he said, "of the state of a soul apart from its fleshy tabernacle; but we had sufficient knowledge of its nature to be satisfied that in a state of peaceful, wakeful rest, it might be in the enjoyment of exquisite pleasures, of which it had had a foretaste even here. For what were, even in this world, the deepest, purest, most captivating enjoyments of the human soul? Were they not found in itself, and in communion with spirits similarly constituted? in memory, in hope, in adoration, in the consciousness of appreciated and returned affection? Action, alone, was denied; and the soul, possessed of such sweet solaces in the intermediate state, might well await eternity for that!"

The preacher ceased, but still in Burrell's ear so charming left his voice, or rather the thoughts it had uttered, that he started to find him no longer speaking. The doxology was sung, the blessing given, and the little flock began to disperse from the darkened churchfor it was long past dusk, and William needed no lights. Clarinda was still making "soft music breathe" amid the old walls, and, waiting to hear the last note, with his soul perturbed, and yet exalted and comforted, by images of those he had loved and lost participating wakeful, blissful consciousness, he remained in deep reverie till roused by William's coming out of the vestry and passing through the chancel. He joined him, and they met Clarinda, leading sleepy little Harry down the dark stair,-down which, without her aid, he certainly would have fallen. The fresh night air soon wakened him up, and he ran forward, rejoicing in the moonlight.

(To be continued.)

pleased me; and I at last discovered, that friends and poets should only be approached with a light and cheerful heart. At length a book with gilt-edges fell into my hand; a book whose red and somewhat scratched, oldfashioned morocco binding bore the inscription "Album." I opened it. All my past life appeared before me from its yellow pages and faded handwritings. Long-deserted places, long-forgotten friends, I again saw: I felt as if my childish heart yet beat in my bosom, full of curious and longing desires. Ah! it had also been on a Sunday afternoon, like the present, that I, a young girl of fourteen, accompanied my beloved father from the hotel in which we lodged, to school. Hitherto I had lived at home in undisturbed freedom; now there threatened me, as I believed, the severity of a school. I could only picture to myself a building, somewhat like a cloister, enclosed by high walls, and shaded by very ancient, gloomy-looking lime-trees; with grated windows, dark halls, long, resounding passages, and sorrowful countenances. . . . What did I not fear? But I found quite the reverse: the house was new, elegant, and splendid. My father rang the bell; the door was opened directly-they seemed to be expecting us. From the windows of the upper story appeared joyful faces-curious, joking, laughing countenances. . . . Flowers stood in the entrance-hall; flowers on the staircase; the rays of the sun freely penetrated through the large shining panes of glass. Madame Bernard, the superintendent, wore a lightcoloured dress and bright ribbons; she smiled, showed her beautifully white teeth, and stroked my carefully smoothed curls. In short, it was like an enchanted castle. After a few kind words from the amiable lady, I was led into the midst of my new sisters. Oh, what a joyful company! Here there was nothing grave nor sorrowful; and I lived merrily with a sisterhood consisting of between forty and fifty school-girls. As I entered, they approached me kindly; the greater part stood observing me at a little distance off;-but with the exception of one tall dark girl, who exclaimed on my approach, "Madame Bernard wrongs us; the best pupils are overlooked; and therefore dwarfs come in, who have no idea of tournure;"-with this solitary exception, I say, all were kind and amiable; and even this snappish pupil afterwards became friendly with me, and at leaving wrote in my album these affectionate words:

"If the words 'I love you,' are not clo

quently spoken, they are, at least, the expression of heartfelt friendship.

"A remembrance of your ever-loving, "AMELIA."

Oh, those "ever-loving Amelias!" They are to be found in a dozen forms in every album. When we again look at these pledges of the heart, after we have experienced what real love and friendship are, their boasting and high-sounding strains scarcely elicit from us even a smile of sorrow. And yet, often under these empty phrases and commonplace remarks, there is found a word of deeper meaning-a promise, a view of woman's heart -which, in after years, is capable of filling our hearts with grief, emotion, or, it may be, even joy.

From these pages I will select one. It lies before me, yellow and faded; and perhaps sounds rather singular:

"The Lord said: The sins of the fathers I will visit upon the children, even to the third and fourth generations.

LEONORA, Baroness of Werdenberg."

Our good superintendent, Madame Bernard, was never prouder than on the day which brought her, as pupils, Elizabeth and Leonora of Werdenberg, the daughters of one of the most ancient and noble of the German families. They were twins, of the age of fourteen, but not at all alike. Elizabeth was tall and thin, blonde, with blue eyes and light hair, full of grace, and of an endearing disposition. Leonora, on the contrary, was short, stout, and dark; slow but very sure in all her actions; determined and persevering; and fitted by nature to be the protectress of her sister, whom she loved and honoured almost to adoration. It had been the lesson of Leonora's lifetime to keep away from this darling sister everything that might pain, harm, or perplex her: whilst Elizabeth, in return, always received everything that her sister gave her confidingly and thankfully. It was, indeed, difficult to determine where the spiritual existence of the noble sisters separated into two beings.

The children had lived so long alone at their parents' castle, that, at first, it was strange to find themselves in the large sisterhood of the school. Besides this, they were rather too much alive to the importance of their own name; they stamped every school-book with their family arms; ornamented every article of dress with the seven pearls supporting the

baron's crown; and were therefore jokingly termed by us "the Empresses."

But, by degrees, we became more familiar with the young Werdenbergs; the kindheartedness, the cheerfulness, and the amiability of these exemplary girls gradually overcame our prejudices, and they became more friendly with many of us; though, at the same time, they kept away from all who tried to force themselves roughly into their confidence. And being both industrious and docile, they soon, without being particularly clever, won the hearts of all their teachers. When their mother, a proud, brilliant, and beautiful woman, came to see them, Madame Bernard was never tired of assuring her that "the baronesses of Werdenberg were the pride of her establishment, and would one day become the ornaments of society."

But Providence had otherwise determined with regard to these girls. A year after their arrival, Elizabeth fell ill. She had a fever, which at first slowly reduced her strength, and then settled with fearful violence on her brain. Leonora never stirred from her beloved sister's sick-chamber. An under-teacher and I were permitted by Madame Bernard to assist the sisters. Ah! those were wearisome days, and sorrowful nights, during which we watched with our friend! With the wilfulness of an invalid, Elizabeth refused to allow the usual change of sick-nurses; and out of love to the poor girl, we yielded to her request, though we thereby endangered our own health.

One frosty evening, as we were sitting, tired and sorrowful in the sick-chamber, the door suddenly opened, and a tall female figure slowly entered the apartment. Never shall I forget the disagreeable impression produced on me by this appearance! her step was measured and noiseless; her countenance stiff and pale; a painful smile fluttered over the finely cut but nearly toothless mouth; and grey curls covered her head, which was enclosed in a snow-white cap.

66

Leonora sprang up. Grandmother!" she exclaimed, and was about to embrace her; but the old lady, stretching out her hand as if to push her aside, stepped slowly and solemnly to the invalid's bed, drew back the curtain, and bent over the apparently sleeping girl. When she again raised her head, there was a painful expression of sorrow on her counten

ance.

"Leonora," she whispered, in a tone scarcely audible. Leonora approached fearfully, almost as if striving against the demoniac influence of the ghost-like baroness.

"Where is your mother, child?"

"At home," replied the weeping maiden. The old lady seized the hand of her struggling grandchild, drew her near the bed, and said in a bitter tone: "Yonder are brilliant fêtes, yonder are joyful days and great splendour; whilst here death is reaping his harvest!" "Grandmother!" cried Leonora, in a voice of piercing sorrow.

The sick girl awoke.

"Do you not see the white veil over her face?" whispered the old lady, still holding. her hand tightly. "Do you see it there, over her eyes?"

"No!" screamed Leonora, "no-I see nothing, grandmother-go away!"

Then, breaking loose from the baroness, she fell on her knees at her sister's bedside, wept, beat her bosom and forehead, and refused all consolation."Grandmother, you are terrible!" she groaned.

Elizabeth, raising herself up in bed and recognising her grandmamma, beckoned softly to her, and said faintly, "Grandmother, I am quite willing to die!"

A few hours after this time the final struggle came on, and early in the morning our playmate was dead!

We were all deeply moved by this touching event; this was the first time that death had approached so near to the greater number of us. It was as if, with Elizabeth, a part of our own existence had been torn away also ; and as if we dared not, from henceforth, look so carelessly into the world as formerly—we turned our looks continually to the coffin which contained our dearest schoolfellow.

Elizabeth's mother, upon hearing of her child's danger, had fallen ill of fright and sorrow, and her husband durst not leave her alone; until their return, therefore, Elizabeth's body was to remain in the town church, and a relation came to take Leonora home to Werdenberg Castle. When the moment arrived for Leonora to take leave of the ashes of her beloved sister, she was seized with convulsions, and the physicians declared her unfit to take the journey. By degrees she became quieter, but it was the quiet of complete exhaustion. With cold looks she saw her friends come and go; asked no questions, and recognised only a few of us, whom she had neither loved nor disliked particularly; constantly exclaiming, with averted face and hasty movements, those strange words, "Away, away! You all wear the white veil!".

The superstitious among us maintained that the old lady possessed the "evil look," and