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TTOimtam n’ nn axce. ‘ SECOM) year no. aLwHOLE no. .
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For Uicl.ardd’ Wetkiy Ouzeite.
SABBATH BELLS.
BY MRS. C . W . DUBOSE.
Those Sabbath bel’s—those Sabbath bells—
How to my heart their music ttl.’s
A tale oi’ holy peace and rest,
Which soo hcs the tumult of my breast;
And with their mas ired chimings still
The g tempests of my will!
They breathe u tale of hope and love,
And poi.it the s iul to whe.e, above,
Arc. tlo wearied heart* is given
From earthly toil and strife, in lleaveu !
And sou’s by human woes oppre.-t,
May liu l a home of peaceful rest.
‘1 hose Sabbath bells ! how sweet their chime,
Which warns us of that holy time,
When, laying earthly thoughts aside—
Its worthless pomp—its siulul piido—
We to the house of God repair,
To join in humble p also and prayer.
T hose Sabbath bells—how sweet their sound;
They teach us where that rest is found
Which s oth s our sorrow—heals our grief—
Which gives the aching sul relief,
And by its spirit power divine,
Bids ho y pc ace around us shine.
Those Sabbath bells! those Sabbath bells!
Sin e childhood’s hour Ive owned their sp 11s,
Aid welcome s’ ill their sonthii.g chimes,
Though wandering far in distant climes:
i’or where a stranger mu i n.am,
l’hcir uicc reminds me still of home!
Oh ! when with this vain world I've done—
When my short pilgrimage is run
When life wilh me is nearly o’er,
And 1 can count its sands no more
I fain wonld go. while rou and me swells
The music oi’ those Sabbath bells!
Sparta , 1819
If U is HBflf&Ml&i.
A VEIIY WOMAN.
BV S. M., THE AUTHOR OF THE MAIDEN AUNT.
[CONCLUDED.]
A year passed away—another note was
struck in the scale of life, as it rose to
wards its final cadence. Who notices
enough those solemn sounds—those lonely
strikings upon the bell which tolls and
then is silent—who takes heed whether
the note be higher or lower than the last
utterance of that grave music, or whether
it be unchanged ? Our years, for the most
part, are like poor Beau BrummelPs valet,
who, whensoever his master went forth to
a party, remained behind to gather up the
“ failures” strewn about his dressing-room,
in the shape of some dozen cravats, rejec
ted because the wearer had been unable to
attain due perfection of tie. Only the par
allel must not be carried too far—ior, alas!
xve very often strew the floor of time with
our failures, and go forth uncravated, after
all.
“Julia, dear, what is the matter 1—
Won’t you tell me 1 Why are you cry
ing ?—are you unhappy about anything !”
Clara’s arms were around the waist ot
her sister, who wept silently upon her
shoulder. After a while she looked up,
smiling, through her tears, one of those
bright, unmistakeable smiles which tell ol
warmth, life, and light, as truly as sun
shine does when it falls upon rippling wa
ters, or woos spring flowers to unfold them
selves.
“ft is very silly to cry, when I am so
happy,” answered she, after the fashion of
Miranda; “can you guess what has hap
pened 1”
Clara looked earnestly into her face.—
“Yes,” said she, “I think I can. Dear
est Julia! I have long expected it. Tell
me everything as soon as you can speak.”
Clara's tears were flowing nearly as fast
as her sister's. It is the way which wo
men have of watering all the young, ten
der plants of happiness, which spring up
new in the garden of life, to make them
grow.
i: He spoke, this morning,” said Julia,
still hiding her blushing face. “And will
I you tell mamma? for I shall never find
| courage. Oh ! Clara, il seems so strange
i and I never thought he was in love wilh
I me.”
j “But everybody else thought so,” re-
I plied Clara. “His manner has shown it
i * or a l° n S time—only, I know it is a mat
ter of course that these things are discover
el by the lookers-on, and not by the per
sons whom they most concern. I daresay
you thought he was quile indifferent to
you, and rather wondered that he did not
pay you more attention.”
“ Yes, indeed !” murmured Julia ; “ I
always thought he liked you the best!”
Clara felt greatly astonished, for such a
blunder as this outdid the ordinary mi
takes of young ladies in Julia’s situation.
“Liked me the best!” repeated she.—
“What! Mr. Archer!”
“ Mr. Archer!’’ exclaimed Julia, kindling
into an an articulateness and decision
scarcely to be expected of her. “ Who
was thinking of Mr. Archer?”
Clara looked at her without speaking.—
“It is Mr. Dacre,” added Julia, holding
down her face and relapsing into bashful
ness.
There was a silence of some minutes,
and then Clara warmly renewed her con
gratulations, and went to tell the news with
all possible tenderness to her mother. How
did she feel ? It is difficult to say. There
was immense astonishment and a momen
tary pang of something that was neithei
disappointment nor jealousy, and yet there
was a pang, vehemently and instantly chid
den into quietness, with a sensation of hor
ror at its selfishness. And then she talked
O o - J • *-•
to all her doubts and hopes, sympathizing
with all, dispelling the one by the earnest
assurances with which she encouraged the
other. And then she told her father, an I
bore part in the somew hat colder discussion
which ensued of ways ard means, and fu
ture posttion, limes and seasons, and sub
lunary matters, of which it would have
been profane to breathe a word in Julia’s
presence. And then she went out for a
quiet walk with George, and listened and
responded lo his unmixed delight—all
brothers are so pleased when their sisters
mart)’ —with a very good grace. And
each one of the three with whom she dis
cussed the great event wound up the con
ver-ai on by saying, “Do you know it is
such a surprise to me! I fancied he liked
you.” And to each one she answered,
laughing, “Oh, bow could you dream of
such a thing!”
Her vanity was a little mortified—so she
told herself in her subsequent delihera ions
on the matter. Mr. Dacre had belonged
to her, and it was not perfectly pleasant to
see him appropriated by another. He had
from the first courted her friendship, an i
she was unused to be preferred, and she
felt that her belief in her own incapacity
for winning affection was strongly con
firmed. She could not escape sundry far
from agreeable misgivings; she ha I sup
posed him to he liking her best when he
was only thinking of Julia. How often
must she have bored him by her conversa
tion when he wanted to be talking to her
sister! Her cheeks burned at the idea, and
she inwardly resolved to withdraw more
than ever from attention in society : she
must be vain, indeed, far vainer than she
had suspected, to have fallen into such an
error. She would watch herself strictly
for the future.
The real truth was that Mr. Dacre had
liked her best orginally, but had ceased to
do so, partly from natural instability of
character, partly from another cause which
may perhaps seem utterly improbable, but
which did, nevertheless, exist. Clara's
strenuous efforts to be practical and useful
had impaired her attractions in his eyes.
When h; first became acquainted with her
she had been exactly the kind of person
about whom he could dream to his heart’s
content; there was no oppressive reality
about her; no substance of character.—
Her time was divided pretty equally be
tween study, music, and conversation—all
three very elegant employments which did
not in the slightest degree interfere with
the consistency of his ideal portraiture of
her. But when she took to darning stock
ings the ideal began to fade; and when
she was heard pronouncing decided opin
ions on matters of fact—when she was
seen not merely hurrying, but absolutely
bustling, about her household concerns —
when she cut short a disquisition on esthe
tics to go and assist in putting up the
drawing-room curtains, and was too busy
settling accounts to come and play Bee
thoven, he quietly gave her up and betook
himself to her sister. It may sound para
doxical, but the truth is, that Julia’s use
lessness was her great attraction in his
eyes. Os course he was unconscious of
i ’, but so it was. In the first place, it en
abled her to he always at his beck and call;
no imperative duty thrust itself between
them. As she had nothing particular to
do, she might just as well be making her
self agreeable to him. Morever, she was
never preoccupied—a great charm to man’s
vanity —because, in fact, she was never
occupied at all except when he occupied
tier. And the very absence of all that was
definite or interesting in her character,
while it ensured placidity of temper, gave
his restless imagination free play. She
was nothing at all, and therefore he might
fancy her to be just whatsoever lie pleased.
There are certain smooth tablets on which
you may write whatever you like; it needs
hut a wet sponge to efface the whole in
scrip! ion. It is said that these tablets are
ma le of the skin of ail ass, hut I would
not for the world make an uncivil use of
this fact in natural history.
Clara's next feeling was compassion for
Mr. Archer. She was quite sure that he
was disappointed,’ and, in fact, he had rea
son so to feel. Even a man so free from
vanity as he was might have been led to
believe himself preferred, by Julia’s man
ner. She wondereJ how be would take it,
hut could not help laughing when she
aught herself devising gentle means of
breaking it to him. Soon afterwards he
drank tea with the Capels ; his congratula
tions were cold, decidedly cold ; Clara was
certain that it cost him much to offer them
at all. She exerted herself to talk to him,
and though he was in a more than ordina
rily sarcastic humor, she did not lose her
patience, for seemed to her auite natural,
to foiego his intention of asking Mr. Arch
er to the wedding, and reflected with pleas
ure that she had at least spared him that
pain. Asa matter of fact, Mr. Archer,
being wholly unconscious of the special
kindness which dictated his exclusion was
a good deal hurt by it, which Clara, happi
ly, never discoveied.
And the wedding came and passed—a
common-place wedding enough. The
bride, of course, had never looked so pretty,
and the bridegioom behave I adm rably. I
never yet heard of a wedding at which it
was not expressly stated that the biiJe
groom behaved admirably. Sometimes I
cannot help wondering what it can be that
bridegrooms are so strongly tempted to do,
that resisting the temptation is enough to
entitle ihem to such extravagant piaise.—
The bridegroom on the present occasion
looked at least as well as he behaved, I e
ing, by good luck, an unusually handsome
man, tali, and distinguished in figure.—
There was a great deal of white lace, and
a great many tears, and a crowd of people
staring at the bride, and prophetically call
ing her ‘poor dear’ at every third word,
and a quantity of flowers to walk upon,
which performed their symbolism to per
fection, looking bright and fresh when the
bride set her fairy feet upon them, hut get
ting crushed and decidedly shabby hy the
lime that the other members of the pro.es J
sion followed, and there was a priest in
white saying solemn words, and two faint
voices slowly faltering their responses,
speaking, in fact, with their hearts, which
seems to be almost as difficult as reading
with the back of one's neck ; and there
was a cluster of faces in the little vestry
looking like rain-clouds at sunset, so glow
ing and yet so tearful: and there was a
small collection of autographs made by
trembling hands for the benefit of the par
ish; and there was hurrying back to the
sound of a perfect steeple-chase of bells ;
and there was a breakfast which was a
dinner in a stage disguise which deceived
nobody, but just enabled people to call it
by a wrong name; and ihere were a few
desperate struggles at small talk tna le and
then abandoned; and there were healths
drunk, and speeches grotesquely pathetic
delivered, tind a band ouisiJe playing
“Hearts of Oak,” with a vague idea that
it was appropriate to the occasion ; and an
agitated toilette, in which it seemed won
derful that the lady's stockings did not get
upon her hands, or her bonnet upon her
feet; and a rushing down stairs and sundry
clo-e embtaces in the hall, silent and sob
bing, as though the form thus passionately
grasped were just about to tie committed to
the executioner; and four horses gallopping
as fast as four horses ought to do when they
are carrying joy away from sorrow ; and
it was all over.
Clara felt very lonely—not that Julia
had been a companion to her in the highest
sense of the word—nevertheless, it seemed
as though a completer kind of solitude
than heretofore were cotne upon her life.
She had no one but George to whom she
could now speak of what she felt, and to
him she clung with a fervor of affection
absolutely passionate. This was, in truth,
the greatest fault of her character, and it
may he desciibeu in a single phrase— the
need of idolizing. That a woman must
needs lean and love who will deny ? But
that she should lean helplessly, and love
immoderately, is the evil. Yet never was
there woman in the vorlil, of true woman
nature, to whom this was not a danger
narrowly escaped, an obstacle scarcely
surmounted, if, indeed, escaped or sur
mounted at all. Claia followed her broth
er’s college career with proud and joyful
devotion ; in a very agony of hope she
watched through each crisis of the course,
and language is powjrless, indeed, lo ex
press the rapture osier thankfulness when
the final trial was passed, and the honors
of the first class were won. With her
whole heart she believed that the world
had never before owned such a genius as i
George's. She associated herself in all
iiis pursuits, tastes, troubles, and pleasures,
with a touching mixture of reverence and
tenderness, and so made him her all, that
she could scarcely be satisfied to be less
than all to him., The incredulous scorn
with which she turned away from sundry
intrusive whispers, that he was not quite
so steady as he might have been, was too
lofty to be otherwise than calm. It is little
to say that she would have given her life
for him. An every-day affection could do
thus much out of mere shame, if the altern
ative were distinctly set before it; but she
gave her life to him, and that is far mere.
His college course was now over, and,
in one of those fits of enthusiasm natuial
to a character of his stamp, he announced
his intention of devotimr a rar tr>
tion for deacon’s orders. He talked and
felt beautifully concerninglhe responsibili
ty about to come upon him ; and his sister’s
warm heart bowed itself before him as he
talked, grateful to him for thus realizing
its highest ideal. There was a painful
struggle in her mind when he asked her if
she would come with him lo the cottage
which be ha I chosen in a retired village
on the sea-coast. At first she believe I
that her duty foibade her this great happi
ness, an I that she must needs stay at home
to uphold the system of domestic comfort
which she had constructed; but she was
overrule 1 in her own favor by her parents.
They did not tell her all the motives which
determined them upon sending her with
George, for many reasons; but the fact
was that their experience had by no means
encouraged tnem to a perfect reliance upon
his steadiness, and they had so grown into
the habit of looking to Clara in all trials,
of seeing her arrange all difficulties, en luie
ail annoyances, and bring order and com
fort out of all confusions, that they felt, as
though by establishing her under her broth
er’s roof, they were setting a guardian
angel to watch over him, and keep him
from going astray. Circumstances, un
fortunately, prevented this plan from being
put into practice according to theirorigmal
intention. Little Annie was ill, and Clara
was obliged to stay at home to nurse her.
George had been more than four months in
his solitary abode when his sister set forth
to join him. Long enough to commence,
to waver in, and to forsake his original
resolution—or to persevere in it till he made
a habit of it.
Clara had never in her life felt so per
fectly happy as she did when her brotner's
arms received her on alighting from the
stage-coach. The solitary journey,
always a nervous business, was over; the
warm welcome so long looked forward to
was actually being received. She was
now with him; in five minutes more she
was making tea for him. How comfort
able the little room looked in her eyes with
its soiled carpet, gaudy paper, straight
backed chairs, and narrow horse-haii sofa!
How delicious was the tea, male with wa
ter guiltless of having ever boiled; and
surely never before was such a uainty
taste.l as the under-done mutton-chop which
the good ofli es of the hostess had provid
ed for the refreshment of the traveller! If
she noticed anything amiss it was only
with the agreeable anticipation of reform
ing it, and so making him more comfortable
than he could jrossibly have been without
her. And she 100 ked greedily at the well
filled book-shelf, and thought how she
should make extracts and look out pass
ages for him, and sit by his side while he
worked, holding her breath lest she might
disturb him ; and how delightful it would
be when he should look up for a moment
to read a striking sentence, or discuss a
doubtful argument! He looked a little
pale, he had certainly overworked him
self. Now she was come, that could never
happen again; she would beguile him into
the refreshment of a walk, or the luxary
of a little chat; she could help him in all
his labors, and ensure his not overdoing
them.
look tired, dear!’ was her obser
vation, her eyes fondly fixed upon his
face.
‘I was up late, last night,’ he replied;
•and I have a little headache.’
‘You will have no more headaches now
I am come,’ said she. ‘When 1 think
bed-time has arrived, I Fhall take away the
books, and put out the caudles. 1 have
no notion of letting you work so hard in
the present as to impair your power of
working for the future.’
He laughed. ‘Oh!’ answered he; ‘I
was not working last night. Wonderful to
relate, I was at a party! Thiee old col
lege friends of mine have taken a shooting
box in the neighborhood, and I dined with
them, and we kept it up rather late. They
are capital fellows.’
‘I am so glad!’ cried Clara; ’I was a
lra;d you had no society or amusement
here, and that must be bad for anybody.
You know, love, you mustn’t think of me;
I am used lo be alone, and rather like it.
So I hope you will spend as much time
with your friends as you did before I came.
Are they studying too?—how lucky it was
that you met them here!’
‘Not exactly. Very lucky!’ replied
George, with a slightly embarrassed man
ner; and the next minute he began to talk
of home, and they separated for rest, aftei
one of the most delightful evenings that
Clara had ever spent, The next morning,
after a happy tete-a-tete breakfast, she
fetched her work and sal quietly down, ,
anxious not to be troublesome or officious
1,,.. „(I„.—r e... J_ . 1
with alacrity, as she might find that she
was wanted. George produced his books
and papers, and took his seat with a de
sultory yawn. The length of time that it
cost him to find his place, the vague, aim
less manner in which he went to work, the
parade of new pens and clean paper might
have caused a more suspicious person than
Clara to guess that, at the very least, he
was resuming an interrupted habit, lie
had not been employed above an hour,
when a note was brought him, and he
strarted up eagerly. ‘I am going out,
Clara, dear —I shall be back to dinner;’
and he was gone, without further explana
tion. That day he did. return to dinner:
! hut the compliment to his sister was not
often repeated. Gradually, even her lov
jing incredulity was forced to confess that
1 he was t ile—even her faith in him, which
! could have removed mountains, began to
waver. He was scarcely conscious himself
how far he had departed from his own de-
I terminations; he was so resolutely blind
to his ow n defects, that it would have need
ed a stronger hand than poor Clara’s, who,
alas! was only anxious to be blind with
j him, to open his eyes. Moreover, he did
work by fits and starts; and she remern
hertd each day of work with a vigilance
more eager than his own, and added it
scrupulously to the account, and tried to
persuade herself that his relaxations were
1 only necessary, as long as she could. Her
sense of her own inferiority to him was so
strong, that it was long indeed before she
ventured on a remonstrance, and w hat she
’ suffered, ere she did so venture, can scarce
ly he described. It was ahoutlhree weeks
alter her arrival —he had been out all day.
and she was sitting up for him. He came
at about one o’clock in the morning, and
she heard his voice in the passage, calling
vehemently for tea, before he would go to
bed. She hurried out to him: “George,
dear! come in—nobody is up—l will get
you some tea, directly.’
He came in—his manner was strange
and abiupt —he looked vacantly at her—
uttered an oath, the first she had ever heard
from his lips—threw himself on to a sola,
and before she could complete her hasty
and trembling preparations, was breathing
hard, in sudden, heavy sleep. Even Clara’s
inexperience could not mistake the symp
toms, ami, instead of making tea, she sat
down and cried —how bitterly, none but
those can tell who have believed in, and
doated upon, and worshipped an imaginary
divinity, and then suddenly discovered it to
be weaker than ordinary human weak
ness. To Clara’s pure and gentle eyes,
this was grievous sin—and, with the pain
ful charity of disappointed aliection, she
began to devise excuses for what she could
not refuse to see; but, oh! the bitterness
of the new, terrible truth, which madethose
excuses necessary !
When George awoke on the following
morning he was still on the sofa, and his
sister still watching beside him. It was
some time before he thoroughly compre
hended what had passed, and then, half
ashamed, half angry, he made an awkward
explanation ; he had been out all day in
the open air, hai returned quite exhausted,
and a glass or two of wine more than his
habit had been too much for hi in—he was
afraid he had frightened her—what a sim
pleton she was, not to have gone to bed!
Stc. &e. And poor Clara took this scanty
balm to her aching heart, and tried to be
satisfied with it.
George was by no means very baJ, only
Clara had fancied him so very good that it
was hard to be undeceived. Her influence,
patiently, tenderly, trustfully exerted, was
not without its effect. Anil, bitter as was
her disappointment, she lived through it:
the path which seems perpendicular when
you gaze at it from a distance, may toil
somely be climbed when your feet are act
ually set upon it. Some half dozen limes,
in the course of Clara's sojourn with him,
tire scene which had so bitterly afflicted
her was repealed ; but, on the whole, he
improved. He tried to work more regular
ly ; occasionally be refused an invitation;
sometimes be laid out a plan for the dis
tribution of his time, and once he kept to
it for a whole week. Clara learned to re
joice in things which, three monlhs-before,
she would have disdained to believe. It is
wonderful what love will bear—how per
fect is its theory, yet with what a beautiful
hypocrisy that theory will accommodate
itself to facts, and strive to seem unaltered.
The union between this brother and sister
was never disturbed: she itever spoke
harshly lo him; indeed, she was too timid
to speak as freely as she ought. But
gradually the reproving silence of her quiet
sorrow did its work, and the last month
that they spent together, resembled, in
arrived.
‘Yes, there it is! That is the church
tower, George; how kind ot the moon to
appear for a moment, and show it me !
We are almost at home. In live minutes
more, the horses’ feet will be upon the
stones.’
Their hea Is were put eagerly out of the
carriage w indows as they drove up the
street, and turned the well known corner.
Soon, by the light of the wayside lamps,
they distinguished the stria 1, formal-look
ing, red-brick house, with its green door
and trellised porch, its miniature front
garden, some thirty feet square, with a
straight gravel walk up the middle, and a
circular border on each side, in the centre
of a plot of grass. The upper and the
lower windows of the house were dark,
though it was already two houis after sun
set; suddenly the gleam of a candle was
seen; it passed rapidly from one window
to another; then the door of the hou-e was
thrown violently open, and a female ser
vant, without bonnet or cloak, ru.-liel out,
and ran at full speed up the street, scarcely
a 6econ! eie the cairiage stopped befoie
the swinging gate. Quick, speechless tei
ror came upon George and Clara, and the
former was out of the carriage almost be
fore it had ceased to move—sick at heart
with nameless fear, his sister followed him
into the house. There was no one in the
hail. From .above— tairs came the sound
of hurling footsteps, interrupted by alow
moaning and sobbing, as ol someone ii.
great agitation, but unable to give it fiee
vent. Clara stood still, appalled. She
would have given worlds to know, either
at once or never, what was happening.—
She felt tempted to turn and run away, as
if she could so escape what was about to
come upon her. In another moment, the
loud, unrestrained cry of childish sorrow
burst upon her ears, and little Annie came
running down stairs, weeping bitterly, and
covering her face with Iter handkerchief.
The brief paralysis which had rendered
Clara incapable of thinking or acting, pass
ed away in an instant; taking the child in
her arms, she asked, in low - , hasty accents,
■ What is it, Annie I—what is it 1’
‘Papa, papal’ sobbed the little girl; ‘he
has had a fit—lie is dying.’
They stood together, a moment, in the
dark hall, closely folded in each other’s
arms, but unable to see each other’s faces.
Then Claia hurried up stairs—but ere she
joined the ghastly and troubled group who
stood around the bed, all was over, and
*hc was ail orphan.
The course of a great sorrow is common
place enough, a thing of every day. There
is the wild incredulity and the unreal com
posure, half stupor, half excitement; there
fk the strugg'e, more or less vehement, of
the will against the alverse power which
is laboring to subdue it; the defeat and the
victory, the brave ellort, the helpless sur
render. There are prayers, such as that
which was once wrung from the agony of
a great heart, and which is the voice of a
new grief for all time “ Lord ! thou hast
p omitted it, therefore I submit with all my
strength.’* There is the heavy weariness,
and the aching resignation, and the utter
weakness, ani the deep solemn calm, anu
tlie holy strength, and the melancholy
peace so sweet in the midst of titterness,
when the vision of heaven dawns u;or>
those eyes which are too blind with tears
to see any longer the beauty of earth ;
there is the slow, painful return to old habit*
an I ways, the enJeavor, now feeble, now
vigorous, tiie gradual interrupted success,
tlie shuddering recurrence of familiar iraagM
and associated sounds—and the final clos
ing up of a memory into the heart's inmost
emple, where it dwells ani lives forever,
which the world calls forgetfulness, or at
iea.-t recovery. And the mourner goee
back again to the outer world and common
life, like one who has had a fever and is
in health again, thougli somewhat wan and
feeble, and needing more than heretofore*
to be cared for and considered. Sorrows
art ths pulses of spiritual life ; afier each
beat we pause only that we may gather
strength for the next,
Mr. Cupel’s affairs were found to be in
great confusion. It often happens that the
men whom we have believed to be most
cautious and least sanguine are the very
men to engage in some sudden rash specu
lation which results in ruin. Such was
the case now. He had embarked what
little principal he possessed in anew rail
road; the scheme failed, and his family
found themselves literally penniless. Th3
poor widow and little Annie were taken
by Mrs. Dacre, whose very moderate in
come was taxed to its utmost to maintain
Clara and George were, for the present, re
ceived at the vicarage. Mrs. Middleton
was throughout Clara's chief support; her
warm unselfish kindness amply atoned tet
any little deticiency in refinement. She
insiste 1 upon taking the poor dejectel girl
to her own home till a suitable position as
governess could be found for her, and she
interested herself most earnestly in the
preliminary negotiations taking special
care that Clara should not “throw herself
away in a hurry, which would be perfectly
absur I, as the vicarage was open :o her for
any length of time, and 6he would not suf
fer her to leave it unless the prospect were
thoroughly satisfactory.’ As Clara wit
nessed her life of busy charity and hones*
self-denial she forgave her the hay-window,
and reproached herself not a little for her
former censorious judgment. Every com
fort and help came trorn or through Mis.
Middleton ; it was she who found the sit
nation for Emily, and agisted Claia in a:*
ranging and carrying through the whole
affair; it was .-he too who cheered George
when his heart was heavy and his hopes
were low, as giving up of course hi- inter.*
tion of taking orders, he began the weari
some ta-k of looking for employment.—
Aided by her, Clara began gradually to
rally from her extreme depression, and to
exert hersc'f as heretofoie. Her greatest
present difficulty, the maintenance and
destination of her two younger brothers,
was relieved in an unlooked-for and mys
terious manner. In the miJt of her first
despondency anived a letter from the mas
ter with whom the boy- were placed, ac
knowledging the receipt of a year’s pay
ment in advance for hi* pup.ls. On inqui
ry it was found that the sum had been seat
in Mr. Capel's name; but a'i exertion* to
di-cover the source fromwhi.h it cam;
proved utterly futi’e. This bounty, come
whence it might, came like manna in the
desert; yet poor Clara was neaily as much
inclined to murmur at it as were the Israel
ites of old. There was in her character a
strength of natural pride, hitherto unsus
pected by herself, mingling, a bitterness
with her gratitude, of which she felt deep
ly a-hamed. The discipline which situ
was now undergoing was specially needful
to her, and therefore, of course, specially
painful; she had mo loved tobeall-fcutfkient
in her iamiiy, to know secretly, however
little she presumed upon it outwardly, that
she teas the prop, the guide, the guardian
of them all. Now sire found herself help
less. powerless, useless; one whom she
ha I well-nigh despised was her supporter,
one unknown was her benefactor. She
herself was—nothing !
It was Qlara'a birth-day: no one ventur
cl to congratulate her, and she herself
shrank from any allusion to t! e subject.
When we are in much affliction it seems
natural to put out the lights. Tb v c 1.1
but show others what w e suifr c
•Tb swas thee.'aulati in re.e.it iy atteicl
by the uahsnpy Hsnrie: la M-ria, who sir s
gan to i (cover from the stupor into much ehc ws
thrown by the newi es hor jeyal ha-band > uiur
dor