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TTOimtam n’ nn axce. ‘ SECOM) year no. aLwHOLE no. . fAMM mMLL W MBMSB'M, TM AMS MB SfilMGßl, MB TO fiSHSBM IHTBUISMGSI. 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