those in descending which there is not, a saving of power.

The objections, then, to the steep gradients of the London and York and the 4 miles of tunnelling would not apply, while the additional length of twenty-five miles presses against his own line with full force. In fact, though even as against the London and York, his only serious argument was its inefficient estimate. It cannot be the project is not supported with money, or Mr. Hudson would not wear the aspect of so determined a wooer. But if the Direct Northern and the London and York amalgamated, as they ought to do, this objection would be obviated by the amount of combined capital. The main line, then, should be the direct one, and satisfactory arrangements might be concluded about the numerous branches. If this were done the triumph of the

direct principle against the circuitous would in this, the first great contest of the session, be undoubted.

And now one short observation, and then I shall have done.

As to better provision for the safety of passengers, I see no means so certain as laying down a set of rails by the sides of the others for the use of goods and luggage only, which might be carried at a rate of fifteen miles an hour, at a farthing per ton per mile. Nine out of ten accidents occur through the presence of luggage-trains on the same rails with passenger-trains. A good deal of expense might be spared in construction by devoting certain lines of rail to the transport of passengers alone, as the steepness of gradients would not be so material. The cost for the additional route would be about 4000l. a mile.

THE evening shadows were stealing on, at the close of a cold, bright winter's day. Stretched on a bed of sickness, pale, wasted, silent, lay the lady of Elm-wood. The curtains of purple velvet, dark and gloomy in the fading light, hung heavily round her, and through an opening, at the foot of the bed, a gleam of red light from the blazing fire now and then fell on her face, but did not rouse her from the deep thought in which she seemed plunged. There was much beauty even yet in her large, dark eyes and delicately formed features; but her cheek was hollow, and the tightly closed lips looked as if no smile of joy had ever parted them.

A hired nurse, the only watcher by that sick-bed, was dozing in an arm-chair before the fire, rousing herself now and then to glance at the lady, who was totally regardless of her presence. The old woman began to feel chilly as the evening closed in, and she was rising to draw the curtains before the window, when the clear, gay laughter of a child rang on the frosty air, floating up from the garden below. A look of misery

VOL. XXXIII. NO. Cxcш.

passed across the lady's face, and she sighed heavily.

"Did you speak, my lady ?" asked the nurse, moving to the bedside.

"No, nurse," answered a sweet, yet feeble voice; "I want nothing-nothing that you can give me," she murmured, as the old woman turned away. "Oh, for a loving voice to cheer me in this dark hour!"

Again she lay, silent and thoughtful as before; but, after a time, she called the nurse, and, as if by a strong effort, said, “Go to him-to my husband-and tell him I am very, very ill. Say that, for the love of Heaven, I entreat him to come to me!"

She half raised her head from the pillow to listen to the old woman's slow footsteps, till the sound died away in the long and distant corridors. The slamming of a door gave her notice when the nurse had reached her destination, and she clasped her thin hands in an agony of impatience, as it seemed, to know the result of her mission.

"Surely, surely he will come now," she said; he does not love me; he has taught my child to scoff at me ;

I

and yet, now, surely he will feel something for me!"

The door was heard again, the nurse tottered back, and stood once more beside her charge.

"My lord bids me say, he is engaged now, but will come by and by."

The lady's head fell back on the pillow, and the colour that had risen to her cheek for a moment faded away. The nurse had been used to look on scenes of suffering and sorrow, and perhaps age, too, had blunted her feelings, for she re-established herself in her comfortable chair, and sank into a doze. The lady's voice once more roused her.

"Go to him again, nurse! say, that I am dying--you see I am;-tell him, I entreat him to send for Mr. Paterson to pray for my departing soul. Beg him earnestly to grant me this, only this!"

Again the messenger departed, and again the lady listened anxiously for her return, yet with less hope in her sorrowful eyes than before. Her heart sank evidently when she heard the nurse returning immediately.

66

My lord says," said the old woman, "it is only your fancy that is

sick."

My lord said, 'No, he would have no canting priests here.'

The old woman hobbled back to her seat, and the lady, covering her face, sobbed aloud.

"Cruel, even to the last!" she said at length. "This life, that some call so happy, how dreary has it been to me! long, miserable years, ending in a death like this!" And words of long-suppressed anguish, thoughts that had burdened the heart with a weight of misery for years, burst from her dying lips.

"Poor lady!" muttered the nurse, "her mind wanders. I've heard strange stories about her. To be sure, there was something wrong, or my lord would never have kept her mewed up so close; and I dare say the thought of it troubles her now.'

"To be sure there was something wrong!" The words had been in many mouths, till it came to be believed that some dark secret, some hidden error, was the cause of the seclusion in which she was kept by her husband. The sadness of her countenance was held to be occasioned by remorse, and the tears that were sometimes seen to fall, as she knelt in prayer in the house of God, were looked upon as tears of penitence. The patience and meekness with which she bore the impertinence of some, who hinted, even in her presence, at the suspicions they entertained, only confirmed them in their belief that, in some way, she had erred grievously. "And then, my lord," they said, "is so easy and good-humoured, any body might be happy with him!" happy with him!" So by degrees a belief had gained ground that all was not as it should be with the beautiful lady of Elm-wood, and some dared to speak scornfully of her, even those who were unworthy to wipe the dust from her feet.

For the suspicions that had gone abroad, the undefined mysterious whispers against her, were unjust as they were cruel. There was nothing of shame, though, God knows, there was enough of bitter sorrow in her blushes and her tears. Her spirit was too utterly broken by daily and hourly trials, of which the coarse world knew nothing, to resent insult or reply to impertinence None knew-how should they know ?how a course of petty oppression, beginning in her earliest years, had conquered all cheerfulness and crushed all hope; and, during her married life, to none but to her God did she breathe a word of the troubles which subdued her, and to which she submitted without a struggle. The little world about Elm-wood had only seen her brought-in triumph, as it scemed-as a bride to her husband's ancestral home. They had seen, at first, a gay succession of guests at the old hall, and the young bride presiding at brilliant entertainments. But the number of guests fell off by degrees, ladies ceased to be among the few remaining visitors, and, when an occasional party met at Elm-wood, the lady was no longer seen among them. Her husband thought it necessary, at first, to excuse her absence

on the plea of ill health, but it was soon understood that there were other réasons (although none knew what such reasons were) why she appeared no more, and her name was never mentioned.

She was sometimes seen by persons who visited Elm-wood on business, wandering alone in the woods near the house, like a pale yet beautiful spirit, or tending the flowers in a small garden sheltered by the farstretching walls of the old hall. Some, who had purposely thrown themselves in her way, said, that she replied gently to their greeting, but always in a tone of sadness. On

Sunday she never failed, unless when detained at home by severe illness, to walk to the church in the neighbouring village. It was built upon the edge of her husband's park, and a little path led to it from the great house, through old dark woods, and by a little stream, that stole away at last singing as it went, into the fields below the churchyard. The whole village was part of the Elm-wood property, and the church contained many monuments to the memory of its possessors. The family pew had still its velvet cushions and draperies, faded though they were, and here the lady knelt alone Sunday after Sunday. Rain and cold, frost and snow, all seemed alike to her. The good rector, who soon learned to take an interest in her pale and melancholy face, never failed to glance at that humble worshipper, so constant in her attendance. Sometimes he saw that she was weeping, and his kind heart longed to breathe comfort to her evidently wounded spirit. His attempts to make her acquaintance at her own house had all proved vain. Her husband, whose manner to the good old priest was full of scarcely suppressed contempt, always replied to his inquiries about the lady, by saying, she received no visitors. To speak to her on her way to or from the church was his only chance of proving to her how much he felt interested in her welfare. She always waited till all others had left the church, and then stole quietly across the graveyard, and through the little gate into the park. One wet and stormy Sunday, when the congregation was very scanty, the

clergyman, Mr. Paterson, to his surprise, saw the delicate form of the lady of Elm-wood kneeling in her usual place, her meek head bowed in prayer. When the service was over, he went to her, and offered to assist her in getting home. She took his arm in silence, and, feeling that she was trembling with cold, he led her towards the rectory, whither his wife and daughter had preceded him. He looked compassionately upon her, as he endeavoured to shield her from the beating rain, for she appeared so feeble, that without his help she must have fallen.

"This is trying weather for one who seems so delicate and weak as you," he said gently. "Surely you should not venture to leave home on a day like this."

"I come here for consolation," she answered sadly; "you know not how much I need it."

"But God is in every place, dear lady. From your secret chamber, He hears your prayer arise, and surely it is not well to risk your life thus."

"My life!" she exclaimed, in a tone of grief that brought tears into the old man's eyes; my life! Why should I nurse and cherish it, as if it were a precious thing? Who would miss me if I were gone? Forgive me! oh, forgive me!" she added, after a short silence; "I know these are wild and sinful words. Forget that I have spoken them.

Think of

me only as of one sorely tried, to whom your ministrations have given more comfort than aught else on earth. Good and kind I know you are. Let my name be sometimes on your lips when you pray to your God. We are told the prayer of a righteous man availeth much. Will you do this ?" she said, earnestly, raising her eyes to his face.

"As I hope for peace I will," answered he, with much emotion.

"And when you hear that I am dead, do not grieve for me, but thank God that a wounded spirit has found peace."

"Do not speak so sadly, dear lady," said the rector. "You must be familiar with God's Word; you have read there, that He who made the worlds, even He, healeth the broken in heart.""

"Yes, I feel it," she replied. "He

indeed, healeth them, but it is by taking them to himself. I have looked round me here," she continued, pointing to the graves by which they were surrounded," and envied those who have gone before me to that home where the weary are at rest."

Some few words of comfort the good rector spoke, as he approached his own house, and opened the glass door that led into the little study where his daughter awaited him. The lady hesitated, and seemed half fearful of entering, but he led her in, and seated her beside the fire, while his daughter divested her of some of her damp garments, and insisted on wrapping her in her own cloak.

There was something so humble in the lady's gratitude, something so sorrowful even in her extreme beauty, uncared for and neglected as she seemed, that the kind-hearted family at the rectory could not but feel a touching interest in her; and when

at length her carriage, for which a messenger had been despatched, arrived to convey her home, many kind words were spoken, and none could have supposed that, till that day, the lady had been a stranger.

The next Sunday was fine and bright, but the lady was not in her usual place. She was seen no more even in her garden; and the rector, who made several vain attempts to be admitted to her presence, heard that she was very ill. He doubted not, remembering her weakness and her wan looks, that the hour for which she longed was approaching, and gladly would he have endeavoured, as the minister of God, to smooth the way before her to the grave. We have seen that she, too, wished for the comfort of his presence, but even this was denied to her. Young (for she was only in her twenty-sixth year), innocent, beautiful, yet broken-hearted, she was left to meet her death alone.

It is time that we say something of the cause of that grief which oppressed the lady of Elm-wood, and which the ignorant and unkind attributed to some error of her past life. For this purpose, it is necessary to turn to the history of her carly years. Her mother died when she was an infant, and her father, a man of extravagant habits, married a second time within a year of his first wife's death. His marriage with a wealthy heiress freed him for a while from pecuniary embarrassments, but destroyed for ever the peace of his home. His bride was haughty, vain, and ill-tempered, and the indifference he had felt for her at first quickly deepened into positive dislike. For a time, he seemed to find in the caresses of his child a consolation for the disagreeables of his domestic life; but his weak mind soon thirsted for excitement, and he found it at the gaming-table. By degrees a passion for play absorbed every other feeling. The birth of an heir, though it appeared to give him pleasure, did not long keep him from his darling pursuit, and, as years passed by, he saw less and less of his family, and appeared to become totally in different as to their welfare.

The

Thus his daughter was left a victim to the caprice and ill-humour of her vain and frivolous step-mother. Few were the remembrances of her childhood, which she, even in the deeper trials of her after-life, could recall with any thing of pleasure. spoiled and petted son of her stepmother, imitating the small tyranny of his parent, on every occasion asserted his superiority over the gentle girl, whose spirit was already learning its lesson of humility and submission. When she had grown to womanhood, her extraordinary beauty, though it did not increase the good-will of her step-mother, was yet looked upon by her father with something of selfish pride, and he already calculated the advantages which might accrue to himself from her making what is termed a good match.

It was while these thoughts were maturing into plans for the accomplishment of his object, that he made acquaintance with the lordly owner of Elm-wood-a man in the prime of life, yet, like himself, an habitual gambler. In their frequent meetings, these two men became intimate, and frequently played together-up to a certain time, with about equal

success. At length the younger gambler began to lose; one by one he pledged all his possessions, and, in the end, rose from the table a ruined man. He might raise the money to pay his debt, but only by injuring his property past the hope of recovery. His companion observed the struggle in his mind; he balanced the advantages and disadvantages of insisting on the payment of the debt; for, while he wanted money, he yet did not wish for the publicity which the present affair, if persevered in, must give to the nature of his re

sources.

"Come!" he said, after some reflexion, "I know it would be inconvenient to you to pay a sum like this. Let us compromise the matter. I have a daughter, beautiful as an angel: marry her, and I will take your doing so as three quarters' payment of your debt."

You must be very fond of your daughter," said his auditor, sarcastically, "very fond indeed. Does she at all resemble yourself?"

"I have told you she is beautiful," was the reply. "You may even see her, if you will, before you decide."

The young man remained for awhile in a state of moody abstraction, and then exclaimed, "No, no! I don't want to see her. I'll marry her, if she is as ugly as Sin. There's my hand upon it!"

They sat down again, called for writing - materials, and wrote,— the one a promise of marriage to a woman he had never seen; the other, a discharge of three-fourths of the debt due to him, on condition of the fulfilment of the pledge agreed upon. The two papers were duly signed; and the parties separated. And thus the father bartered away his childthus the lord of Elm-wood obtained his bride! She was told to prepare to receive her future husband, and she obeyed; for she knew resistance would be in vain. Her father had become so entirely estranged from her, that she dared say nothing in opposition to his commands; and her step-mother shewed too openly the joy she felt in the prospect of being rid of one, whose very patience was a tacit reproach to her conscience for the poor girl to entertain a hope that she would intercede for her.

The future husband came, and was not slow to perceive the repugnance of his betrothed. His pride and selflove were interested at once; and he devoted his attentions to the hitherto neglected girl, filling her ear with the sweet voice of praise and seeming love, till he won not only her gratitude but her affection. In a very few weeks she became his bride, and went with him to his stately home, where, for awhile, she deemed herself happier than she had ever been before. But he soon slackened in his attentions, and sometimes betrayed the bitterness and violence of his temper even to her. One day, when he had spoken to her with cruel, and, as she felt, undeserved harshness, the feelings that had for some time been gathering strength in her heart found utterance, and she passionately entreated to know what she had done to forfeit his love.

"My love!" he said, contemptuously, "did you never hear why I married you?"

"I thought I hoped you loved me," she answered, in a low, timid

voice.

"You thought-you hoped! Did your father never tell you of our bargain? I gave you my hand in payment of a gambling debt to your excellent and respected father. Mighty innocent you are, no doubt, and never knew that you were forced upon me; and that now your every look reminds me of the most hateful hours of my life! There,-dry your eyes. Your revered parent has, no doubt, made you a capital actress ; but we need not pretend to misunderstand each other. We have each won our reward in this blest union: you are mistress of Elm-wood, and I am saved from ruin, which would be bad enough, and exposure, which would be worse."

"My father!" stammered the lady.

"Yes. No doubt his conduct proceeded from the purest affection for yourself. He had, of course, every reason to believe I should make an excellent husband. There was nothing of self-interest in what he did -no desire to make use of my house and fortune, or to make a tool of myself. It matters not," he added, with increased bitterness, "I have made myself a promise that he sho