brother with you, Miss Clare?—I don't hear and live with us-what say you to it? him." Allan would be proud to tend you, I am "He could not come, madam, but he sends sure; and Rosamund and I should be nice his love by me." "You have an excellent brother, Miss Clare-but pray do us the honour to take some refreshment-Rosamund ". And the old lady was going to give directions for a bottle of her currant winewhen Elinor, smiling, said "she was come to take a cup of tea with her, and expected to find no ceremony." "After tea, I promise myself a walk with you, Rosamund, if your grandmother can spare you." Rosamund looked at her grandmother. "Oh, for that matter, I should be sorry to debar the girl from any pleasure-I am sure it's lonesome enough for her to be with me always-and if Miss Clare will take you out, child, I shall do very well by myself till you return-it will not be the first time, you know, that I have been left here alonesome of the neighbours will be dropping in bye and bye-or, if not, I shall take no harm." Rosamund had all the simple manners of a child; she kissed her grandmother, and looked happy. company." Margaret was all unused to such kindnesses, and wept-Margaret had a great spirit-yet she was not above accepting an obligation from a worthy person-there was a delicacy in Miss Clare's manner-she could have no interest but pure goodness, to induce her to make the offer—at length the old lady spake from a full heart. "Miss Clare, this little cottage received us in our distress-it gave us shelter when we had no home-we have praised God in it-and, while life remains, I think I shall never part from it-Rosamund does everything for me ”— "And will do, grandmother, as long as I live; "—and then Rosamund fell a-crying. "You are a good girl, Rosamund; and if you do but find friends when I am dead and gone, I shall want no better accommodation while I live-but God bless you, lady, a thousand times, for your kind offer." Elinor was moved to tears, and, affecting a sprightliness, bade Rosamund prepare for her walk. The girl put on her white silk bonnet; and Elinor thought she never beheld so lovely a creature. They took leave of Margaret, and walked out together; they rambled over all Rosamund's favourite haunts-through many a sunny field-by secret glade or wood-walk, where the girl had wandered so often with her beloved Clare. All tea-time the old lady's discourse was little more than a panegyric on young Clare's good qualities. Elinor looked at her young friend, and smiled. Rosamund was beginning to look grave-but there was a cordial sunshine in the face of Elinor, before which any clouds of reserve that had been gathering on Rosamund's soon brake away. Who now so happy as Rosamund? She "Does your grandmother ever go out, had oft-times heard Allan speak with great Rosamund ?" tenderness of his sister-she was now rambling, arm in arm, with that very sister, the "vaunted sister" of her friend, her beloved Clare. Margaret prevented the girl's reply, by saying "My dear young lady, I am an old woman, and very infirm-Rosamund takes me a few paces beyond the door sometimes -but I walk very badly-I love best to sit in our little arbour when the sun shines-I can yet feel it warm and cheerful—and, if I lose the beauties of the season, I shall be very happy if you and Rosamund can take delight in this fine summer evening." "I shall want to rob you of Rosamund's company now and then, if we like one another. I had hoped to have seen you, madam, at our house. I don't know whether we could not make room for you to come Not a tree, not a bush, scarce a wildflower in their path, but revived in Rosamund some tender recollection, a conversation perhaps, or some chaste endearment. Life, and a new scene of things, were now opening before her-she was got into a fairy land of uncertain existence. Rosamund was too happy to talk muchbut Elinor was delighted with her when she did talk:-the girl's remarks were suggested most of them by the passing scene-and they betrayed, all of them, the liveliness of present impulse; her conversation did not consist planning other people's happiness in a comparison of vapid feeling, an interchange of sentiment lip-deep-it had all the freshness of young sensation in it. Sometimes they talked of Allan. "Allan is very good," said Rosamund, 'very good indeed to my grandmother-he will sit with her, and hear her stories, and read to her, and try to divert her a hundred ways. I wonder sometimes he is not tired. She talks him to death!" - con tinually forgetful to consult for her own personal gratifications, except indirectly, in the welfare of another ;-while her parents lived, the most attentive of daughters-since they died, the kindest of sisters-I never knew but one like her. It happens that I have some of this young lady's letters in my possession-I shall present my reader with one of them. It was written a short time after the death of her mother, and addressed "Then you confess, Rosamund, that the to a cousin, a dear friend of Elinor's, who old lady does tire you sometimes ?" "Oh no, I did not mean that-it's very different-I am used to all her ways, and I can humour her, and please her, and I ought to do it, for she is the only friend I ever had in the world." The new friends did not conclude their walk till it was late, and Rosamund began to be apprehensive about the old lady, who had been all this time alone. On their return to the cottage, they found that Margaret had been somewhat impatient -old ladies, good old ladies, will be so at times-age is timorous and suspicious of danger, where no danger is. Besides, it was Margaret's bed-time, for she kept very good hours-indeed, in the distribution of her meals, and sundry other particulars, she resembled the livers in the antique world, more than might well beseem a creature of this. So the new friends parted for that nightElinor having made Margaret promise to give Rosamund leave to come and see her the next day. CHAPTER VII. MISS CLARE, we may be sure, made her brother very happy, when she told him of the engagement she had made for the morrow, and how delighted she had been with his handsome friend. Allan, I believe, got little sleep that night. I know not, whether joy be not a more troublesome bed-fellow than grief-hope keeps a body very wakeful, I know. was then on the point of being married to Mr. Beaumont, of Staffordshire, and had invited Elinor to assist at her nuptials. I will transcribe it with minute fidelity. ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA LESLIE. Widford, July the—, 17—. HEALTH, Innocence, and Beauty, shall be thy bridemaids, my sweet cousin. I have no heart to undertake the office. Alas! what have I to do in the house of feasting? Maria! I fear lest my griefs should prove obtrusive. Yet bear with me a little-I have recovered already a share of my former spirits. I fear more for Allan than myself. The loss of two such parents, within so short an interval, bears very heavy on him. The boy hangs about me from morning till night. He is perpetually forcing a smile into his poor pale cheeks-you know the sweetness of his smile, Maria. To-day, after dinner, when he took his glass of wine in his hand, he burst into tears, and would not, or could not then, tell me the reason-afterwards he told me- -"he had been used to drink Mamma's health after dinner, and that came into his head and made him cry." I feel the claims the boy has upon me-I perceive that I am living to some end-and the thought supports me. Already I have attained to a state of complacent feelings-my mother's lessons were not thrown away upon her Elinor. In the visions of last night her spirit seemed to stand at my bed-side—a light, as of noonday, shone upon the room-she Elinor Clare was the best good creature-opened my curtains-she smiled upon me the least selfish human being I ever knew with the same placid smile as in her lifealways at work for other people's good, time. I felt no fear. "Elinor," she said "for my sake take care of young Allan,”and I awoke with calm feelings. Maria! shall not the meeting of blessed spirits, think you, be something like this?— I think, I could even now behold my mother without dread-I would ask pardon of her for all my past omissions of duty, for all the little asperities in my temper, which have so often grieved her gentle spirit when living. Maria! I think she would not turn away from me. Oftentimes a feeling, more vivid than memory, brings her before me--I see her sit in her old elbow chair-her arms folded upon her lap-a tear upon her cheek, that seems to upbraid her unkind daughter for some inattention-I wipe it away and kiss her honoured lips. Maria! when I have been fancying all this, Allan will come in, with his poor eyes red with weeping, and taking me by the hand, destroy the vision in a moment. I am prating to you, my sweet cousin, but it is the prattle of the heart, which Maria loves. Besides, whom have I to talk to of these things but you?-you have been my counsellor in times past, my companion, and sweet familiar friend. Bear with me a little -I mourn the "cherishers of my infancy." I sometimes count it a blessing that my father did not prove the survivor. You know something of his story. You know there was a foul tale current-it was the busy malice of that bad man, S which helped to spread it abroad-you will recollect the active good-nature of our friends W- and T- ; what pains they took to undeceive people—with the better sort their kind labours prevailed; but there was still a party who shut their ears. You know the issue of it. My father's great spirit bore up against it for some time-my father never was a bad man-but that spirit was broken at the last-and the greatlyinjured man was forced to leave his old paternal dwelling in Staffordshire-for the neighbours had begun to point at him. Maria! I have seen them point at him, and have been ready to drop. him say-and at such times my mother would speak to him so soothingly of forgiveness, and long-suffering, and the bearing of injuries with patience; would heal all his wounds with so gentle a touch;-I have seen the old man weep like a child. The gloom that beset his mind, at times betrayed him into scepticism-he has doubted if there be a Providence! I have heard him say, “God has built a brave world, but methinks he has left his creatures to bustle in it how they may." At such times he could not endure to hear my mother talk in a religious strain. He would say, "Woman, have done-you confound, you perplex me, when you talk of these matters, and for one day at least unfit me for the business of life." I have seen her look at him-O GOD, Maria! such a look! it plainly spake that she was willing to have shared her precious hope with the partner of her earthly cares— but she found a repulse Deprived of such a wife, think you, the old man could long have endured his existence ? or what consolation would his wretched daughter have had to offer him, but silent and imbecile tears? My sweet cousin, you will think me tedious and I am so-but it does me good to talk these matters over. And do not you be alarmed for me-my sorrows are subsiding into a deep and sweet resignation. I shall soon be sufficiently composed, I know it, to participate in my friend's happiness. Let me call her, while yet I may, my own Maria Leslie! Methinks, I shall not like you by any other name. Beaumont! Maria Beaumont ! it hath a strange sound with it— I shall never be reconciled to this namebut do not you fear-Maria Leslie shall plead with me for Maria Beaumont, And now, my sweet Friend, I find in my collection several letters, written soon after the date of the preceding, In this part of the country, where the and addressed all of them to Maria Beaumont. slander had not reached, he sought a retreat—I am tempted to make some short extracts -and he found a still more grateful asylum from these-my tale will suffer interruption in the daily solicitudes of the best of wives. by them-but I was willing to preserve whatever memorials I could of Elinor Clare. "An enemy hath done this," I have heard FROM ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA BEAUMONT. (AN EXTRACT.) -I HAVE been strolling out for half an hour in the fields; and my mind has been occupied by thoughts which Maria has a right to participate. I have been bringing my mother to my recollection. My heart ached with the remembrance of infirmities, that made her closing years of life so sore a trial to her. Methinks something like an awaking from an ill dream shall the Resurrection from the Dead be.-Materially different from our accustomed scenes, and ways of life, the World to come may possibly not be still it is represented to us under the notion of a Rest, a Sabbath, a state of bliss." FROM ANOTHER LETTER. METHINKS, you and I should have same milk, conned the same horn-book, thumbed the same Testament, together:for we have been more than sisters, Maria! I was concerned to think that our family been born under the same roof, sucked the differences have been one source of disquiet to her. I am sensible that this last we are apt to exaggerate after a person's death and surely, in the main, there was considerable harmony among the members of our little family-still I was concerned to think that we ever gave her gentle spirit disquiet. I thought on years back-on all my parents' friends-the H-s, the F-s, on DS, and on many a merry evening, in the fireside circle, in that comfortable back parlour-it is never used now.― O ye Matravises* of the age, ye know not what ye lose in despising these petty topics of endeared remembrance, associated circumstances of past times;-ye know not the throbbings of the heart, tender yet affectionately familiar, which accompany the dear and honoured names of father or of mother. Maria! I thought on all these things; my heart ached at the review of them-it yet aches, while I write this-but I am never so satisfied with my train of thoughts, as when they run upon these subjects-the tears they draw from us, meliorate and soften the heart, and keep fresh within us that memory of dear friends dead, which alone can fit us for a readmission to their society Something will still be whispering to me, that I shall one day be inmate of the same dwelling with my cousin, partaker with her in all the delights which spring from mutual good offices, kind words, attentions in sickness and in health,-conversation, sometimes innocently trivial, and at others profitably serious;-books read and commented on, together; meals ate, and walks taken, together, and conferences, how we may best do good to this poor person or that, and wean our spirits from the world's cares, without divesting ourselves of its charities. What a picture I have drawn, Maria! and none of all these things may ever come to pass." FROM ANOTHER LETTER. CONTINUE to write to me, my sweet cousin. Many good thoughts, resolutions, and proper views of things, pass through the mind in the course of the day, but are lost for want of committing them to paper. Seize them, Maria, as they pass, these Birds of Paradise, that show themselves and are gone, and make a grateful present of the precious fugitives to your friend. To use a homely illustration, just rising in my fancy, shall the good housewife take such pains in pickling and preserving her worthless fruits, her walnuts, her apricots, and quinces-and is there not much spiritual housewifery in treasuring up our mind's best fruits-our heart's meditations in its most favoured moments? This sad simile is much in the fashion of the old Moralisers, such as I conceive honest Baxter to have been, such as Quarles and Wither were with their curious, serio-comic, quaint emblems. But they sometimes reach the heart, when a more elegant simile rests in the fancy. Not low and mean, like these, but beautifully familiarised to our conceptions, and condescending to human thoughts and notions, are all the discourses of our LORDconveyed in parable, or similitude, what easy access do they win to the heart, through the medium of the delighted imagination! speaking of heavenly things in fable, or in simile, drawn from earth, from objects common, accustomed. Life's business, with such delicious little interruptions as our correspondence affords, how pleasant it is !-why can we not paint on the dull paper our whole feelings, exquisite as they rise up?" FROM ANOTHER LETTER. I HAD meant to have left off at this place; but looking back, I am sorry to find too gloomy a cast tincturing my last page-a representation of life false and unthankful. Life is not all vanity and disappointment-it hath much of evil in it, no doubt; but to those who do not misuse it, it affords comfort, temporary comfort, much-much that endears us to it, and dignifies it-many true and good feelings, I trust, of which we need not be ashamed-hours of tranquillity and hope. But the morning was dull and overcast, and my spirits were under a cloud. I feel my CHAPTER VIII. THEY had but four rooms in the cottage. Margaret slept in the biggest room up-stairs, and her grand-daughter in a kind of closet adjoining, where she could be within hearing, if her grandmother should call her in the night. The girl was often disturbed in that manner-two or three times in a night she has been forced to leave her bed, to fetch her grandmother's cordials, or do some little service for her but she knew that Margaret's ailings were real and pressing, and Rosamund never complained-never suspected, that her grandmother's requisitions had anything unreasonable in them. The night she parted with Miss Clare, she had helped Margaret to bed, as usual— and, after saying her prayers, as the custom was, kneeling by the old lady's bed-side, kissed her grandmother, and wished her a good-night Margaret blessed her, and charged her to go to bed directly. It was her customary injunction, and Rosamund had never dreamed of disobeying. So she retired to her little room. The night was warm and clear-the moon very bright-her window commanded a view of scenes she had been tracing in the day-time with Miss Clare. All the events of the day past, the occurrences of their walk arose in her mind. She |