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A fAiISiLT JO9&KAL. WMMM TO LITKIiTUIi. IBS iWs ABB SCISHGIS. ABB TO 6BHMAL IBf ELMfiBBGE. TERMS, s2,Oft PER ANN PM. IN ADVANCE. fljr ftnrtj f'tlltr. From Household Word*. THE SPENDTHRIFT’S DAUGHTER. IN’ SIX CHAPTERS. [cOUCiUDUB, FROM LMTU'JJH.] CHAPTER JV. And now. several years have ekpsed, and these, two girls have grown np to be two beautiful young women. They had been taken out of the nursery when it was time to’ be thinking seri ously of accomplishments; and the reign of Mrs. Nurse had She was superseded bv a regular govern ess—a, .foreigner. A Frcneb'iadv was to of;-form. ! * r— ■“** En glish wives and mothers. The French lady did well all that she was required to do; for neither Mr. nor Mr. Win stanley desired that their beautiful daughters should receive any thing ap proaching to what is usually called a solid education. Mrs. VVinstanley had not ten ideas beyond the arrangement of a party, and the keeping of good society. As for Julian Winstanley himself, he de tested reflection, abhorred everything approaching to seriousness, only desir ed to get through life as brilliantly and as thoughtlessly as he could. He was not much at borne; but when at home he required to be con stantly amused, or he found home in tolerable. It was not long before his daughters discovered this. Till they were what is called intro duced, these fair girls passed their time secluded in the school-room, and saw very little of their parents ; but when they were once brought out, and when Mademoiselle was dismissed and they lived in the drawing room, they were soon initiated. The plan of life was one not unusual among married people of a certain class. A large and splendid!y furnish ed house, in a fashionable square in London, was home —at which about six months of every year were passed; the remaining six being spent either in travelling, or at watering-places, or at some hired house in the country. — 1 hey lived as a privileged order, sev ered, as by a gulf impassable, from the lowest orders around them, and in little communication with the highest. Ihe last condition was not of much importance, but the other was fatal. \\ hat can grow out of such a life, that is really wholesome and good ? Many, many residents in London, es cape this mischief. They have broken down the wall of separation which used to hide the very existence us want misery and sin from the happier mid the better; and the obscure dwellings of the London poor have their visiting angels, as well as those in the country. But a great many families still neglect this weighty duty, and live without thought of such things. Mrs. \\ instanley bad led the regular party-going London life for the last sixteen or seventeen years. She was beginning to get rather tired of it, when the new excitement arose of hav ing to “bring out” her daughters. This bringing out of her daughters became an excuse tor all kinds of amu sing changes and improvements. Her receiving-rooms had to be newly fur nished, anew open carriage to be bought, the Queen's drawing-rooms to be attended with more assiduity than ever. The girls were two lovely creatures; this seemed to excuse, if any thing could, the expenses incurred on their behalf. So said the mother, and so thought the father. The love he felt for his daughters was perhaps the only tender feeling he had ever experienced in his life ; for, in general, he might be said to love nothing, not even him self. It might have been the dawn of a better life, this w r ell-spring of pure af fections, could he have worthily indulg ed them. But neither his nor his wife’s habits admitted of that. Mrs. Winstanley would havethought it a disgrace if she had been one single evening disengaged whilst they were in London. Even in the dead winter she managed to keep up the ball; what with little parties and concerts, the opera, the French plays, and so forth, she contrived to escape the hor ror of a domestic evening. As for Mr. Winstanley, he seldom or never dined at home; except when there was a dinner-party, lie spent his eve nings at his clubs, engaged—he too well knew how. The two girls presented a striking contrast to each other. Clementina was fair and delicate, with soft hair, and those tender blue eyes, which to me are the most charming of all eyes. Ella was a noble creature; a figure and form the most perfect that I ever beheld—features of matchless symme try—eyes dark, large, and lustrous— hair in floods of rich brown waves—a hand that was a model, from which statuaries contested to be allowed to copy—and a spirit, energy, and feeling in her gestures and countenance, that won your heart before you wore aware. It was upon her that Julian Win stanley doted. Theothergirl he thought and called, a sweet girl, but his Ella was his darling. Nothing was too good for Ella ; nothing was to be spar ed that could please or adorn Ella.— To ride with her in the Park; to visit the box where she sat at the opera ; sometimes in a party to hear her sing; seemed to give him anew pleasure. et there was nothing ill all this, unhappily, to rouse him to a better life : to break the chain of evil habits in which he was involved. Ella was a child of this world; an impetuous, proud, haughty beauty ; a contemptu ous disregarder of the weak, the want ing, and, above all, the Jow, or the ug ly ; —living for the day, as her father lived for the day—she for the day of vanity and pleasure; he for the day of i vanity and sin. There was that differ- SDUTISM MTOMII UR ence, indeed, and it was a vast oue ; but he did not feel it. There was no pure and holy influ ence of a higher and nobler life, diffu sed from the beautiful being. She was no angel of light. She was merely, to all appearance, a very line, fashionable girl. And Clementina, in her gentleness and softness, was little more. The good seed which Matty had sown, had fructified at first, but the briars and thorns were gathering fast around it. The pleasures of life were choking it up. It was in danger of being alto gether lost. Matty had long been gone. She had married a respectable tradesman, and was in a flourishing, though small, way of business. She would have altogether. fo-T--**- - ago. tnr.t she Would not .suffer Uiis.— She found herself still welcomed when she did come ; for both the girls loved her, and she perfectly adored them. — So she caine, bringing her little offer ings, from time to time—little matters such as she dealt in, in her shop—hum ble, but, for her sake, welcome. These two girls had both hearts. Where they got them I don’t know. CHAPTER V. “Oh, Ella! Ella!—what’s the use of you turning your head from me ? W hy, 1 can see you are colouring crim son—as if 1 had no eyes ! Oh! he is charming, is not he ?” “How tiresome you can be, Clemen tina ! 1 am sure I don’t care. No, not Besides, he’s your flirt, not mine.” “Is he ? I wish he were! But I know better. He loves you, Ella; and what’s more, you love him. And if you don’t know it—which perhaps you don’t—/ do, and he does.” “He does ! —I like that !—he does ! Upon my word! /like him, and he knows it! Ido no such thing.” “Take care what you say. Walls have ears.” “Pooh !—nonsense ! And if they have, 1 tell you 1 don’t care.” “You don’t?—you are sure you don’t ? Oh, very well! If that be really so, then 1 had better keep ray message to myself.” “Message !—what message ?” “You know a man does not like to be refused: and so, if you really do not care for him, why, 1 had better ; hold my peace. He is young, and he is volatile enough And, indeed, 1 have wondered, Ella, sometimes, how | you ever came to take a fancy to him; : but lam forgetting. It was my mis ; take. 1 can never have taken a fancy | to him.” “How you do run on !” she said, | taking the last rose out of her hair. I tor sue was standing before the glass, undoing her braids ; the sisters having dismissed their attendant, that they might have a comfortable chat togeth er. And then the hair came all tumb ling over her shoulders, and upon her white muslin dressing-gown, and she looked most beautiful—half pleasant, half angry—as she turned round; and, trying to frown with her eyes, whilst her lips smiled, said— “Cle., you are the most intolerable girl in the world.” Cle. smiled, looked down, and said nothing. “You may as w f ell tell me, though.” “No, I won’t, unless you will be a true girl—own wliat you ought to own —say what you ought to say—that you do not quite hate him. You really I may say that—and then we will see about it.” “Hate him! Did I say 1 hated him?” “Or, pretended you did. Or, that he was indifferent to you.” “Well, well; 1 don’t hate him, then.” “Then come here, and sit down by me, and I will tell you that Lionel loves yon, and adores you—and all that. Very easily said. But far more than that —and with great difficulty said—he wishes to make you his wife!” “Ah me!”—and again the colour flashed into her face, and such an ex pression was visible in her eyes ! Suddenly she threw her arms around her sister, and embraced her tenderly. “You dear, dear girl,” she whisper ed—“Oh, lam so —so happy! But tell me—tell me—all, from the begin ning. Lionel!—is it possible ?” “You thought we were very busy talking together to-night, at Mrs. White’s ball, did’nt you ? You were a little jealous, were you not, you silly thing ? Ah, my Ella ! My proud— proud Ella! To have made such a tumble into love !” “Nonsense !—how you talk ! But tell me all he said. Every single word of it!” “He said he loved you more than his life, and all that sort of thing; and that I must tell you so to-night; and, if you would give him the least atom of encouragement, I was to take no notice, and he would speak to papa and mamma immediately ; but, if you hated him as much as 1 said 1 was sure you did—” “How could you say such a stupid thing ?” “1 thought that was what 1 ought to say.” “How foolish you arc, Cle.! Well?” “Well, in that case, I was to write. Shall I write ?” She did not write. And from this time the existence of Ella was changed. She loved, with all the fervour and energy of her nature ; and life took at or.ee anew colour. True love is of the infinite. None can have deeply loved —when or how in other respects it may have been—but they have enter ed into the unseen world ; have breath ed anew breath of life; have tasted of the true existence. What is often called love, may do nothing of all this—but I am speaking of true love. Lionel seemed at that time scarcely worthy of the passion he had inspired. Y'et hs had many excellent qualities. He was warm-hearted, generous to ex cess, had good parts, rbrilliant way of talking, and was a favourite with all the world. He had not the splendid gifts which nature had bestowed upon Julian Wiu atanley. By the side of her fattier, even in the eyes of Ella, the bright halo which surrounded her lover would seem somewhat to pale. The young man even appeared to feel this, in some degree, himself. He always, yet with a certain grace, took the second place, when in her father’s presence. Ella loved her father, and seemed to like that it should be so. “Oh, my sister! oh, my friend ! what—what shall we do? Oh, mise ry ! misery ! what is to become of us all?” Clementina’s eyes were swimming with- but sh w.u.m - ec’- • wiyY endurance she ex celled Her sister. She held her arms clasped closely round her; whilst Ella poured a tor rent of tears upon her bosom. “My father! my beautiful, clever,! indulgent father, that 1 was so proud of-—that I loved so—who spared noth ing upon either of us—alas ! alas ! how little, little did I guess whence the money came !” Clementina trembled and shivered as her sister poured forth these pas sionate lamentations ; but she neither wept nor spoke for some time. At last site said : “Ella, I have been uneasy about things lor some time. Weure young, and we have not much experience in the ways of the world ; but since our poor mother died, and 1 have had in some degree to manage the house, 1 have been every day becoming more uncomfortable.” “You have i” said Ella, lifting up her head ; “aud you never told me 1” “Why should 1 have told you ? why should 1 have disturbed your dream of happiness, my dear Ella ? Besides, I hoped that it concerned me alone— that things might hold on a little while longer—at least, till you were provided for, and safe.” “Safe ! and what was to become of you ?” “I did not much think of that. 1 had a firm friend, I knew, in you, Ella; and then, lately, since mamma’s death ; I since you have been engaged to dear | Lionel, and 1 have been much alone, 1 | have thought of old things—old things , that good Matty used to talk about. 1 have been endeavouring to look be yond myself, and this world ; aud it has strengthened nie.” “You are an excellentereature, Cle.!” She shook her head. “But, my father ! what is to be done? Can any thiag be done ?” “No, my love, i fear nothing can be jlone.” , “HS lovsS"me !” said Elia, raising up her head again, her eyes beaming with anew hope. “I will try —1 will venture. It is perhaps great presump j tion in a child ; but my father loves ; me, and 1 love him—” Again Clementina shook her head. “You are so faint-hearted—you are so discouraging. You give up every thing without an attempt to save your self or others. That is your way!” cried Ella, with her own impetuosity, and some of her old injustice. Then, seeing sorrow and pain working upon her sister’s face as she spoke thus, she stopped herself, and cried—“Oh! I am a brute —worse than a brute—to say this. Dear Cle., forgive me; but don’t, pray don’t discourage me, when 1 want all my courage. I will go—l will go this moment, aud speak to my father....” Clementina pressed her sistea’s hand as she started up to go. She feared j the effort would be vain—vain as j those she had herself made ; yet there was no knowing. Ella was” w’as so beautiful, so correct, so eloquent, so prevailing! She followed her with her eyes, to the door, w ith feelings of mingled hope and apprehension. Down the splendid stairs with their gilded balustrades, and carpets of the richest hue and texture, rushed the im petuous Ella. Through the hall—all marble and gilding—and her hand was upon the lock of the library door. She was about to turn it without re flection ; but a sudden fear of intru ding came over her—she paused and knocked. “Who is there?” exclaimed ail irri tated voice from within; “goaway —l can see no one just now.” “It is I, papa—Ella; pray let me come in.” And she opened the door. He was standing in the middle of the lofty and magnificent apartment, which was adorned on every side with pictures in gorgeous frames; with busts, vases, and highly ornamented book-eases fitted w ith splendidly bound books—seldom, if ever, opened. His pale, wan, haggard face, and degraded ! figure, formed a fearful contrast to the i splendid scene around him, showing | like a mockery of his misery. A small table, richly inlaid, stood beside him ; in one hand he held a delicate cup of . tine china ; in the other, a small chein i ist’s phial. Ho started as she entered, and turn | ed to her an angry and confused coun j tenatice, now rapidly suffused with a j deep crimson flush ; but, as if electri | lied by a sudden and horrid suspicion, she rushed forward, and impetuously seized his shaking arm. The cup fell to the floor, and was broken to atoms; but he clenched the phial still faster in his trembling hand, as he angrily uttered the words : “How dare you come in here ?” “Oh! papa—papa!” she had lost all other terror before that of the horrible suspicion which had seized her—“what are you about l what is that ?” stretch ing out her arms passionately, and en deavouring to wrench the phial from his fingers. “What are you about? what do you mean ?” he cried, endeavouring to ex tricate his hand. “Let me alone— leave me alone ! what are you about ? Be quiet, I say, or by—” CHARLESTON, SAT UR ft IY, DEC. 20, 1851. And with the disengaged -hand he tore her fingers from his, and thrust her violently away. She staggered, and fell, but caught herself upon her knees, and flinging her arms round his, lifted up her earnest imploring face, crying “ Father—father! papa—papa! for my sake—for your s ike—for all our sakes; oh, give it me : give it to me!” “Give you what? what do you mean? what are you thinking about ?” endea vouring to escape from her clasping arms. “Have done, and let me alone. Will you have done ? will you let me alone?” fiercely, angrily endeavor “ again to push her away. “No! never—never -never! till give—” t r —~ —yrnatT’f- Tki.l t” • ’ ‘ “That !'* he cried. Then, as if re collecting himself, he endeavoured, as it seemed, to master his agitation, and said more calmly, “Let me be, Ella! and if it will be any satisfaction to you, l will thrust the bottle into the fire. But,you foolish girl, what do you gain by closing one exit, when there are open ten thousand as good ?” Disengaging himself from her re laxing arms, he walked up to the fire place, and thrust the phial between the bars. It broke as he did so, and there was a strong smell of bitter almonds. She had risen from her knees. She followed him, and again laid that hand upon his arm—that soft, fair hand, of whose beauty he was wont to be so proud. It trembled violently now; but as if impelled with unwonted cour age, and an energy inspired by the oc casion, she ventured upon that which it was long since any one ever had pre sumed to offer to Julian Winstanley —upon a plain-spoken remonstrance. “Papa,” she said, “promise me that you will never—never—never again—” “Do what?” “Make an attempt upon your life— if I must speak out,” she said, with a spirit that astonished him. “Attempt my life ? What should I attempt my life for ?” said he, and , he glanced round the scene of luxury which surrounded him He was con tinuing, in a tone of irony—but it would uot do. He sank upon a sofa, and covering his face with his hands, I groaned—“ Yes—yes, Ella! all you l say is true. lam a wretch who is un worthy to —and more —who will not live.” He burst forth at last with a loud voice ; and his hands falling from his face, displayed a countenance dark with a sort of resolute despair. “No —no —no!—death, death!—annihila tion—and forgetfulness! Why did you come in to interrupt me, girl ?” he added, roughly seizing her by the arm. “Because—l know nut--something : —OhT it was tile & KkT ‘God, purely, who impelled me,” site cried, bursting into tears. “Oh, papa! papa! Do not! do not! Think of us ull —your girls—Cle. and I. You used to love us, papa —” “Do you know what has happened?” “Yes—no. 1 believe you have lost a great deal of money at cards.” “Cards—was it? Let it be so. It may as well be cards. Yes, child, I have lost a large sum of money at cards— and more,” he added, setting his teeth, and speaking in a sort of hissing whis per—“more than 1 can exactly pay.” “Oh, papa! don’t nay so. Consider —only look round )ou. Surely you have the means to pay ! We can sell —we can make any sacrifice—any sa crifice on earth to pay. Only think, there are all these things. There is all the plate—my mother’s diamonds— ! there is—” “He let her run on a little while; ; then, in a cool, almost mocking tone, he said— “l have given a bill of sale for all that, long ago.” “A bill of sale ! What is a bill of sale f” “Well ! It’s a thing which passes one man’s property nto the hands of another man, to make what he can of it. And the poor dupe who took my bill of sale, took it lor twice as much as the things would really bring ; but the rascal thought he had no alterna tive. I was a lbol to give it to him, for the dice were loaded. If it were the last word I had lo speak, I would sav it—the dice were loaded—” ‘“But—but—” “What! you want to hear all about it; do you ? Well, it’s a bad business. I thought I had a right to a run of luck—after all my ill fortune. 1 cal culated the chances ; they were over whelmingly in my favour. I staked my zero against another man’s thou sands —never mind how many—-and 1 lost, and have only my zero to otter in payment. That is to say, my note of hand : and how much do you think ! that is worth, my girl t 1 would rath ; or—l would rather,” he added, pas sionately, changing his tone of levity j tor one of the bitterest despiar—“l | would rather be deed —dead, dead— -1 than—” “Oh, papa ! papa! say it not! say it not! it is real. Such things are not mere words. They are real, fath er, father ! Die! You must not die.” “I have little cause to wish to die,” he said, relapsing again into a sort of gloomy carelessness ; “so that I could see any other way out of it. To be sure, one might run—one might play the part of a cowarc ly, dishonourable rascal, and run for it, Ella, if you like that better. Between suicide and the escapade of a defaulter, there is not much to choose; but. I will do as you like.” “I would not willingly choose your dishonour,” said she, shuddering; “but between the dishonour of the ont course or the other, there seems little to choose. Only—only—if you lived, in time you might be able to pay. Men have lived, and laboured, until they have paid all.’’ “Live and labour —very like me!— Live, and labour, until I have paid all —extremely like me ! Lower a moun tain by spadefuls.” “Even spadefuls,” she said ; her un ‘l”" J lAI i —~ ( JVAjd pf, r heart, seemed both ,-y *ripened in this feartul extrem ity—Lven spadefuls at a time have doiirsc-inething—have lowered moun tain! where there was determination and “Ht suppose there was neither. Supp,e there jvas neither courage, norgodness, nor determination, nor perse crance. Suppose the man had lived , 1 fe ot indolent self-indulgence, I until.Dq foeze him as you would, there ; was 114. one drop of virtue left in him. 1 Crushhim - 3 late is crushing me.at I **■’ t; you, you will ouL Nothing— 'Tc \L: ty*'/ ortb'“s than -J” ./ . •, ft he turned ghastly pale at this ter rible speech—but, “No,” she faltered out—“no—no.” “You will not have me die, then ?” he said, pursuing the srne heartless tone; but it was forced, if that were any excuse for him. Then you prefer the other scheme? I thought,” he went on, “to have supped with Pluto to-night; but you prefer that it should be on board an American steamer.” “1 do,” she gasped, rather than ut tered. “You do—you are sure you do?” said he, suddenly assuming a tone of greater seriousness. “You wish, Ella, to preserve this worthless life ? Have you considered at what expense ?” “Expense! How! Who could think of that ?” she answered. “Oh! not the expense of money, child—at the expense of the little thing called ‘honour.’ Listen to me, Ella,” —and again he took her arm, and turned her poor distracted face to his. You see lam ready to die—at least, was ready to die—but I have no wish to die. Worthless as this wretch ed life of mine is, it has its excitements, and its enjoyments, to me. When I made up my mind to end it, I assure you, child, I did the one only generous thing I ever was guilty of in my life ; for 1 did it for you girl’s sakes, as much or more than for my own. Suicide, some think a wicked thing—l don’t. How I got my life, I don’t know ; the power of getting rid of it is mine, and 1 hold myself at liberty to make use of it or not, at my own good pleasure. As for my ever living to pay my debt, it’s folly to talk of it. I have not, and never shall acquire, the means. I have neither the virtue nor the industry. I tell you, I am utterly good for nothing. lam a rascal—a scoundrel, and a des picable knave. I played for a large sum—meaning to take it if I won it— and got being able to pay, 1 lost it— and that, i have still sense of honour cuungii >■ ft to caji a rgscal.lvjirpe mg. m Cay, Snd one way on. cancelling all this in the eye of Uie world. When a man de stroys himself, the world is sorry for him—half inclined to forgive him—to say the least of it, absolves his family. But, if he turn tail, and sneak away to America, and has so little sense,” he went on, passionately and earnestly, “of all that is noble, and faithful, and honourable, that he can bear to drag on a disgraced, contemptible existence, like a mean, pitiful, cowardly, selfish wretch, as he is—why, then then— he is utterly blasted, and blackened over with infamy ! Nobody feels for him, nobody pities him—the world speaks out, and curses the rascal as heartily as he deserves, and all his faintly perish with him. Now, Ella, choose which you will.” “I choose America,” she said with firmness. “And how am I to get to America ? and how am 1 to live there when 1 am there? To be sure there are your mother’s diamonds,” he added. “Those are included ill the bill of sale. Did you not say so ?” she ask ed. “Well, perhaps I did. But if a man is to live, he must have something to live upon. If he is to take flight, he must have wings to fly with.” “I will provide both.” “You will ?” lam of age. What I have—which was not your gift—is at least my own. Lionel has been generous; I have the means to pay your passage.” “Aye, aye—Lionel! But afterwards how am Ito live ? He will not like— no man wmuld like—to have to main tain a wife’s father, and that man a de faulter. too. You should think of that, Ella.” “I da’ I will never ask him.” “Then who is to maiutain me ? 1 tell 1 shall never manage to do it my “l wll.” “Mv poor child !” he cried—one short touch of nature had reached him at last—“what are you talking of?” “1 hope, and believe, that 1 shall be able to do it.” “I stood with my household gods shattered around me,” is the energetic expression of that erring man, who had brought the fell catastrophe upon him self. And so stood Ella now—in the cen tre of her own sittiug-room, like some noble figure of ruin and despair; yet with a light, the light divine, kindling in an eye cast upward. Yes! all her household gods—all the idols she had too dearly loved and cherished, were shattered around her, and she felt that she stood alone, to confront the dreadful fate which had iuvolved all she loved. What a spectacle presented itself to her imagination, as drearily she looked round ! On one side, defaced and dis figured, soiled, degraded, was the once beautiful and animated figure of her father—the man so brilliant, and to her so splendid a specimen of what human nature, in the full affluence of nature’s finest gifts, might be. Upon another side her lover!—her husband ! who was to have been her heart’s best treasure! who never was to be hers now. No! upon that her high spirit had at once resolved ; never. Impov- erished and degraded, as she felt her self to be, never would she be Lionel’s wife. The name which would, in a few hours’ time, he blackened by irre mediable dishonour, should never be linked to his. One swell of tender feeling, and it was over! All that is wrong, and all that is right, in woman’s pride, had risen in arms at once against this. The last figure that presented itself, was that of her delicate and gentle sis ter. But here was comfort. Clemen tina was of a most frail and suseepti ! bit- temperament, and eminently form -1 ed to suffer severely from adverse ex- I terns’ turnslances; b l '* she had a e'S'ijd give eon-ulntion in re turn. Ella looked upward—she looked up to God! That holy name was not a stranger to her lips. It had been once, until the child of charity had taught the rich man’s daughter some little knowledge of it. But such ideas had never been thoroughly realized by her mind ; and now, when in the extremity of her destitution, she looked up—when, “out of the depths she cried unto Him,” — alas ! He seemed so far, far off, and her distresses were so terribly near ! Yet even then, imperfect as all was, a beginning was made. The thick darkness of her soul seemed a little broken—communion with the better and higher world was at least begun. There was a light—dim and shadowy —but still a light. There was a strength, vacillating and uncertain, but still a strength, coming over soul. CHAPTER VI. And now that wretched man, broken with disease and misery, sat there, with the lady, who, patient and pitying even to the worst of her fellow-crea tures, had been moved by the sinceri ty of his distress. The extremity of his misery had raised so much compas sion in her heart, as to overcome the resentment and indignation which she had at first felt, on recognizing him. He had entreated her to tell him every thing she knew of the fate of one whom lie had that morning follow ed to the grave. For wretched as was his attire, defiled with dirt, and worn with travel, he had left the house, and had followed, a tearless, but heart broken mourner, the simple procession which attended the once lovely and glorious creature whom he had called daughter, to her resting-place. He had stood by, at her funeral, whilst the ill-taught children stared scoffed, until the busy mercenaries had pushed and elbowed him aside. He had seen his best and loveliest one ’ aShCs trashes, 3usAto dust; he had waited quietly until all had dis persed, and every one was gone home. He had no home—and he yet stood by, and watched the sexton completing his work and cheerfully whistling as he proceeded with it. For it was now a gleaming bright day, and the sun had burst forth, and beamed upon the lofty tower of the church-steeple. It gilded the church vane and weather-cock; it sparkled from the windows of the houses around the graveyard; it glistened on the lowly graves. Cheerfulness was around him, for the bright sun of heaven cheers aud enno bles every thing upon w hich his beams fall- And there was a soft wind, too, which stirred among the leaves of a few poplars, that stood hard by, whis pering sweet secrets of nature, even in that dismal spot. He stood there, motionless and tear less, until the sexton had finished his task, had shouldered his spade, and, still whistling, had walked away. Then he sat down upon the little mound. He sat there for some time—for a long long time—and then slowly arose, and with feeble and uncertain steps retra ced the way he had coine, aud found himself at the door of the handsome house, whence he had follow’ed the fu neral in the morning. He made his way to the lady, who happened to be stili there, and who now (as I have said) indignation hav ing yielded to compassion, was prepar ed to satisfy the yearning anxiety he had expressed to hear all she could tell him of his once proud and beauti ful child. “You know where you are, and what I am, and what 1 and the other ladies whom you have seen with me, em ploy ourselves upon when we come here.” “No,” he said, looking round. “It never struck me to inquire, or even to reflect upon what I saw.” ‘'This house is a kind of hospital.” He started, and a faint flush passed over his face. “Yes,” he said, “it was natural—as things had gone on—a consequence in evitable. Then she died at last in the hospital V’ “Not exactly that —as you would interpret the word. This house is, in deed, a species of hospital: it is in tended as a refuge for the sick and dy ing, who have nowhere else to go; but it does not exactly resemble an ordina ry hospital. In the first place, the ser vices performed are not altogether gra tuitous ; in the second, every patient has a room to herself. We are only women, except the medical attendants; and we admit none but women —and and those women of a higher class, of gentle breeding, and refined habits, who have fallen into poverty, and yet who have not been hardened in their sensations by habits, so as that the edge of privation is blunted ; or what perhaps, is still more difficult to bear, that painful sense of publicity unfelt, which renders shelter in an ordinary hospital a source of suffering to them —which, God be thanked ! it does not necessarily prove to those for whom such places of refuge were intended. This house would have been more just ly called an asylum than a hospital, for it is intended as a shelter for the sick and destitute; but yet those who, FOURTH VOLUME-NO. U WHOLE NO. ISO are received into it are expected to | contribute to their own support.” He made no answer to this explana tion. After all, it interested him lit tle now to know that his Ella had not been a mere object of the charity which is extended to paupers. His pride had died within him, for his nature had been much changed; but only as such natures change. His faults had with ered away, but no good qualities seem ed as yet to burst forth to flourish in their stead. The soul had been so ut terly ruined and devastated, the foun tain of living waters had been so com pletely dried up, that he seemed mere ly to have lost the inclination to do wrong--that was all. heyday of prosperity, but who, amid ail the triumphs of youth, wealth, and oeauty, have not quite forgotten the poor, the sick, and the miserable ; oth ers, who, like myself, are fallen into the yellow leaf of life—whose years cannot of necessity be many—may be very few —and who would do some thing in the, great vineyard before they are called away. It is our practice for some of us to visit this place every day, to see our patients, attend to their wants and comforts, and, w here it is desired, administer by our conversa- 7 v tion such help and solace as we can. I come here pretty often, for I am not one who is very much occupied upon this earth; and, as 1 love to sit with the sufferers, and am more aged than the majority of them, they seem to lean upon me a good deal. They love to have me with them ; and many of the younger ones have treated me with a confidence, which has excited, 1 can scarcely say whether more satisfaction or pain.” He still spoke not, but listened with deep attention. “A few months ago,” she continued, “the matron of the establishment came to me one morning, and said that a young lady had been received here some days ago, whom she w ished me very much to visit. I had but the day before returned from an excursion into the country, and had been absent from my post about a fortnight. 1 asked, at whose recommendation the patient had been received. She said, that of Lady R., but that Lady R. knew noth ing about her. It was at the earnest solicitation of the wife of the baker who supplied her family with bread, that Lady R. had given the order; the woman, who was a very plain sort of person, but highly respectable in her way, having assured her that it was a case of the most urgent necessity : that the young lady was utterly penniless and destitute, and in an almost hope less state She brought -in jfc pi “■■■ in - tain a sick s. and pay'Vsome debts of that sistei i,- she thought her self bound .vvdour to discharge — ‘and other expenses,’ she added, some what mysteriously—promising that she would advance the required guinea a week ; for, as for the young lady, she did not believe that she had five shil lings left in the world.” He struck his hand flat at the top of his head, and held it there, leaning his elbow upon the table, so that his arm covered in part his face, which was painfully contracted ; but he neither spoke, nor groaned, nor even sighed. went up to the young lady’s room immediately. Our rooms are each provided with a single bed, a sofa, an easy chair, a table, and such other re quisites as make a chamber at once a bed-room and a sitting-room. “The matron knocked gently at the door; but no one answered it; she therefore gently turned the handle of the lock, and went in. “The w indow was open. Iler’s look ed upon those green trees you see at the back of the house, and the fresh air came pleasantly in ; but it seemed unheeded by the sufferer. She was clothed in a long white sleeping gown. ! One arm was thrown above her head; i her hair had gotten from her comb, and tell in waves and curls of the ut most beauty and luxuriance almost to her feet. She lay with tier face upward, resting upon the back of her head, al most as motionless as a corpse; her j features were fixed ; her eyes rested upon the top of the bed. She seemed j lost in thought. Never in my life have I seen any thing so supremely beauti ful.” “Ella—Ella!” he just muttered. “Wheu we approached the side of the bed, she first perceived us, gave a little start, glanced at the matron, and then, with a look of rather displeased surprise at me. “*1 beg your pardon if I intrude upon you,’ I said. ‘Mrs. Penrose asked me to pay you a visit. lam but just returned from the country. 1 spend a good deal of my time when in town with the sick ladies here, and they seem to like to have me ; but if you do not I will go away directly.’ “She made an impatient and half contemptuous motion of the head as 1 used the words ‘sick ladies ;’ but she fixed her large, lustrous eyes upon me as 1 went on speaking—saying nothing, however, when 1 concluded, but keep ing those large dark eyes fixed upon my face. ‘“Shall I go?’ I said, after a little time thus spent. “She made a gesture as if to stop me—but without moving those large mournful eyes, in which I could see that tears were slowly gathering. “Mrs. Penrose had already left the room. I said no more; but took a chair, sat down by the bed-side, and laid mine upon her thin, fevered, but almost exquisitely-formed hand. “1 gave a gentle, gentle pressure ; it was faintly, very faintly returned; and then the tears, which had so slowly gathered into her eyes, fell in a few large drops over her faded cheeks. “ ‘This is lonely, desolate work, do what we will,’ I said, as a sort of an swer to these few large tears, falling so quietly and still, and without convul sion of features—the tears of a strong but softened mind. ‘To be sick, and without familiar faces —to be sick and among strangers —is a sorrowful, sor rowful thing—but we do our best.’ “ ‘O, you are good—very good,’ she said. “ ‘There is nothing I feel so much myself as this destitution of the heart; solitude in sickness is to me almost more than 1 can bear ; and, therefore, it is perhaps, that 1 am almost trouble some in offering my society to those here who have not many friends and visitors—especially to the young. I can bear solitude myself better now badly as 1 do bear it, than when 1 was veiling. Society seems, to the young, the vital air upon which the” Ss7"*-*-’ ~ ■—~ musing a little —‘yes. So long as there was one near me whom I loved, I could get on —better or worse—but I could get on. But she is gone. Others whom 1 have loved are far—far away. The solitude of the heart! yes, that kills one at last.’ ‘“Then will you try to make a friend of me 1 Anew friend can ne ver be like an old friend. Yet, when the old wine is drawn down to the dregs, we accept the new, although we still say the old is better.’ “ ‘How very kindly you speak to me! You have none of the pride of compassion,’ she said, fixing her lovely eyes, filled with an earnest, intelligent expression, full upon mine. ‘You will not humble me, whilst you serve me.’ “‘Humble you! My dear young lady ! That, I hope, indeed, would be far from me—from every one of us.’ “‘I dare say so—as you say it. I have seen none of the ladies, only the matron, Mrs. Penrose, and a friend of mine, to whom I owe much; but they are both so inferior to myself in habits and education, that I don’t think they could humble me if they tried. The insolence of my interiors, I can defy— the condescensions of iny superiors, are what I dread.’ “I saw in this little speech something that opened to me, as I thought, one side of her character. All the notice of it, however, w hich 1 took, was to say, ‘We must not exact too much from each other. A person may have a very single-hearted and sincere de sire to serve us, and yet be somewhat awkward in conferring benefits. We must not be unreasonable. Where people do their best to be kind, we must accept the w ill for the deed, and besides— ’ “ ‘You mean to say that benefits may be accepted ungraciously,—and she laid her hand upon mine, aud pressed it with some fervour. Yes, that is true. We may, in the pride of our unsubdued u-'-i ’nnßtttlated .hearts, ‘lc.ptisa Vi /n:"# W may be very, very . f .rateful.’ “Do I tire you with relating these things ?” said the lady, breaking off, and addressing the fallen man. “Shall I pass onto others? Yet there are few events to relate. The history of this life of a few months is comprised in conversations. I thought you would probubly like to hear them. “1 do like to hear them. I adjure you, solemnly, to omit nothing that you can remember of them. She was a noble creature. And he burst forth with a bitter cry. “She was a noble creature !. “I sat with her some time that day, and learned some little of her story ; but she was very reserved as to de tails and explanations. She told me that she had once lived in grejit afflu ence ; but that a sudden reverse of for tune had ruined her father, who had been obliged to quit the country ; and that she and her sister had found it necessary’ immediately to set about getting their own livelihood. Only one course was open to either of them —that of becoming governesses in private families, or teachers at schools. They had w ished to adopt the latter course, which would have enabled them to keep together, but had not been able to provide themselves with situations ; so they had been compelled to separate. “ ‘My sister.’ she said, ‘took a situ, ation in London; 1 was obliged to ac cept one that offered in a distant coun try, so that we were entirely parted; , but in such cases one cannot choose. My dear Clementina’s accomplishments were such as the family in London wanted; mine suited those who offer ed me the place iu the country, or 1 would have exchanged with her. But it was not to be. Things in this mise rable world are strangely ordered.’ “‘For the best ,’ I said, ‘when the is sues are known.’ “ ‘Who shall assure us of that? and when are their issues known V she ask ed, with some bitterness. ‘lt would need great faith when one receives a heavy injury, to believe it was fraught with good, and well intended.’ “ ‘lt would, indeed ! Yet, we must have that faith. We ought to have that faith in Him, the All-wise, Merci ful, and Good. We should have it— should we not ?—whatever appearances might be, in an earthly friend of this description.’ “ ‘Ah! but we sec and know such a friend.’ “‘We ought to know, though we cannot see, that other friend.’ “ ‘Ah ! well —it is so. 1 dare say.— But, oh, there are moments iu life when the cruel blow is so real, and the consolation so illusory !’ “Seems so real—seems so illusory ! Ah! my dear young lady, have you drank so deep of the cup of sor row? And have you not found the great, the only true reality, at the bot tom ?’ •‘She had loosed her hold of my i hand, and turned her head coldly away, as I uttered the last speech. “I asked her why she did so. “ ‘Because you talk like all the rest. At ease yourselves, religious faith is an easy matter to you. It is easy to give these every-day religious conso lations, when we have nothing else to give. But they are things of a pecu-