were somehow mixed up with disagreeable things-thunders, lightnings, plagues—comets likely to burn up the earth-and other mysterious, awe-striking matters. Are there not some amongst us who, alas! recollect similar feelings, with regard to religion, in youthful days? Some who can remember how the thick darkness of the thunder-storm, rather than the perfumed scent of flowers, or the sweet summer breeze-brought up thoughts of the Creator?

The terrible and avenging God of the Old Testament is still worshipped in terror by the multitude - while the Prince of Peace--founder of the new dispensation-is too often disregarded. The fear rather than the love of God reigns yet in the hearts of thousands. Are there not some preachers of the Gospel who seem to delight in sending away their hearers trembling in every fibre at the thoughts of God's wrath and God's judgments-dreading this awful Being so much, that they feel inclined to wish there was no God-no after life instead of departing from the house of worship feeling a glow of gratitude and thankfulness that an all merciful Father is watching over them-protecting them -willing to pardon and bless them; and with a kindly feeling of love towards their fellow-creatures filling their hearts? Mrs. Meiklam herself was one who had been brought up in an atmosphere of piety since early infancy; she could scarcely comprehend what it was to be ignorant of the vital truths of Christianityespecially with respect to the children of educated parents; and though she often lectured Dillon and Bessie on religious topics, she failed to go deep enough in her instructions.

Dillon soon left the Rest to return to Yaxley; when he was gone, Bessie went down to amuse herself in the housekeeper's room, where Mrs. Copley, the housekeeper, was making vinegar. To her surprise this was a very simple process-merely boiling sugar and water together for a little while in a large kettle, and then pouring it to cool in a wide pan.

"And will that really grow sour ?" asked Bessie.

"Indeed it will, Miss; most things get sour with age, no matter how sweet they may be when young."

"You mean people's tempers, Mrs.

Copley," said Bessie, who was very quick-witted.

'Yes, Miss-that's just it. Yet there are some people that have a great deal of sweetness in their natures, and they don't get sourthey only turn strong and fine, like wine for you know, Miss Bessie, that if I would put plenty of honey in that water, and cork it up from the air, it wouldn't grow sour, but become nice wine. So you see it's only half sweet tempers, after all, that turn sour with age.'

"Then you would have people cork their tempers up, Mrs. Copley," said Bessie, looking merry.

Ay, and keep them down as best they can, and not let the air and sharp wind of the world get at them."

"But does not the sunshine turn vinegar sour too?"

"Yes; and in like manner, the prosperity and sunshine of the world spoil the tempers of many."

"But I don't think our tempers and honey and water are at all to be compared, Mrs. Copley," said Bessie.

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‘Well, I think they are, Miss; and if you want yours not to grow sour when you're old, just make it as sweet as you can now, and keep it under your own control, corked up, as you say, as tight as possible, and it'ill be a fine, wholesome, pleasant temper like the mistress's, when you're an aged lady."

"But vinegar is very wholesome sometimes," said Bessie, archly.

And if it is, it's cheap, Miss Bessie; you'll get it anywhere-so you needn't want to lay in a stock of it yourself."

Bessie was amused-but not at all convinced that her temper was to be regarded as bearing any affinity to sugar, or honey and water, or vinegar. Mrs. Copley and she had many disputes on different subjects disagreeing, especially with reference to cooking. It was Miss Pilmer's particular amusement to go down to the kitchen at Meiklam's Rest, occasionally, and make tiny puddings and pies from receipts of her own inventionwhich very much scandalized Mrs. Copley, who felt it an insult to her understanding to see the young lady mixing up flour, oaten meal, and arrow-root for the paste of a pie-or mashed potatoes, rice, and jam for a

new-fashioned description of cakes, which Bessie insisted on making herself—with her sleeves tucked up, and wearing a large apron, borrowed from the housemaid, Peggy Wolfe, which was fastened round her neck instead of her waist, owing to its voluminous dimensions. Yet, notwithstanding their quarrels, there was no one whose approaching step could so move Mrs. Copley's grim face into a bright smile as that of the wayward young lady, who would break into the dairy for cream for the cats, and fling lumps of meat, intended for soup, to the dogs. Bingham, the butler, also had to bear, with exemplary patience, Miss Pilmer's devastations in his pantry. Sometimes the silver forks, instead of being at hand for dinner at the hour of laying the cloth, would be discovered, after much searching, in the garden or green-houses, where they were employed to stir the earth in flower-pots; while the spoons were generally acting the part of spades and shovels. The gardener at the

Rest also had his trials; when he beheld his most precious plants in the hot-houses displaced from their rightful position on the bark-bed, to make way for sundry pots of wild flowers, which Bessie considered might be brought to a high state of perfection by due attention to their culture-he merely had to re-arrange the pineapples and aloes with an air of resignation, taking care not to damage the wild flowers or cast them out, till the young lady grew weary of seeing them either decaying, or flowering no better for all the advantages given them. Nothing but experience in such matters would ever teach Bessie anything. She had implicit faith in her own opinions and judgment, and regarded all old people's advice as an infliction of a hostile nature-only to be treated like the other numerous evils of this' lower existence. Yet nearly everybody at the Rest loved her-from the lowest servant to the very pompous steward, Luke Bagley, who liked very few people indeed.

DILLON'S walk to Yaxley was a swift one, in spite of the snow. Placidly the great moon shone upon outward things, casting ghastly beams abroad. All was still and quiet. A certain degree of solemnity stole over the boy's mind, as he went on, guided by that pale light. Here and there lights were shining in humble homes; but the cottages of the very poor were shut up for the night. To save fire and candle, the inmates had gone early to bed. Taking a short cut to the town, young Crosbie struck through the old woods of the Rest, and followed a path whose windings he was acquainted with. He soon reached Mr. Stutzer's cottage, and found him sitting up in his room, beside a bright fire; for the poor five pounds, so long treasured up, had, at last, been changed, and Dillon was agreeably surprised to see a small tea-pot on the little table beside him, and cups and saucers, as if some comfortable refreshment was being prepared. Missy was there, too, looking very grave, and with eyes that seemed twice their usual size, owing to the dark shadows under them. She was holding her father's hand-cling

VOL. LXIII.-NO. CCCLXXIV.

ing to it, with a sort of determination not to be parted from him on any account. Very tight was the grasp of the tiny fingers.

In answer to his young friend's inquiry as to how he felt, Mr. Stutzer did not say he was better.

Dillon saw that his hand shook very much as he poured out tea for him.

"I tried to write a letter this evening," he said, "and curiously enough, I found it impossible to guide the pen. To-morrow, perhaps, I may be able to do so. Have you brought your books?"

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'No, sir; I went up to Meiklam's Rest, and have only run down to know how you are.'

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'And how is Mrs. Meiklam ?" "Very well, sir. She sent you a message." "What was it?"

"About your little girl. She would like her to stay at the Rest till you are quite well again."

What a bright flush passed over the father's pale face; but the child's countenance assumed a terrified, anxious expression.

"I am very much obliged to Mrs.

10

Meiklam-very much, indeed-and Missy will be delighted to accept the kind invitation. Won't you be glad to go to the good lady, Lizette ?" "No," whispered the child, and the little fingers strengthened their grasp. "Oh, Missy, why not?" The child was silent.

"And there are dogs, and cats, and birds, and everything that's nice there," said Dillon, holding out inducements of a rare description; "and big apples, too."

Lizette shook her head, as she replied

66 I don't want them."

"And what shall I say to the good lady?" asked the father.

"Tell her I won't leave you." "But why won't you leave me?" "Because I'm afraid of somebody coming here."

"But there is nobody coming that I know of. Is it a man or a woman?" "I don't know. It's somebody."

That is a silly answer, Missy. I shall have to think that you are a foolish little baby, if you will not tell what you mean. Who is this bogie that you are afraid is coming?"

The messenger that came for mamma," replied the child, slowly and solemnly.

Mr. Stutzer turned paler than before; and even Dillon's colour changed. A long pause ensued, during which no one spoke.

"Tell Mrs. Meiklam that I am deeply grateful to her," said the sick man, at last," and that I am about to write to a friend about my little girl; but, in the meantime, should I become worse, I will feel much obliged if she will take charge of Lizette, till an answer arrives from my friend in the north of England."

"Very well, sir," replied Dillon. And there was another pause, broken again by Mr. Stutzer

"You will sometimes think of your old German teacher, Dillon," he said, smiling, as he drew from his finger a ring, "when you are a man out in the world, perhaps many years hence. Here is a little token of remembrance, which I wish you to accept from me. You have been very kind to me, and I thank you deeply."

Scarcely able to refrain from tears, the boy took the ring silently, and, perhaps, awkwardly, but feeling the compliment paid him warmly. He

Thank

merely murmured a faint you, sir," and tried the ring upon two or three different fingers, finally putting it into his waistcoat pocket.

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The world is all before you, Dillon, as it is very nearly all behind me," continued Mr. Stutzer; and I trust your onward course may be fortunate. Yet, whatever will befall you, of this you may be certain, that when you reach the hour that will be to you as this hour is to me, you will find yourself only looking back with satisfaction, to whatever you have done of good towards your fellow-men-of sacrifice of your own selfish or vicious pleasures-of work carried out in the fear of a just Providence. What is it to me now that I studied hard, and gained honors for learning? What have all my dreams of ambition-for I have had dreams--turned to? Do I not rather thank God in this hour, for every kind word that I may have spoken to the poverty-stricken or distressed; for every mite that I may have added to charities; for every moment spent in soothing the dying, or giving comfort to the sick-than for all the enjoyments and amusements of my past life; all its moments of triumph and of happiness? Many, indeed, have been my shortcomings but I have a merciful Judge-I am not afraid. Have you fixed upon any profession, Dillon?"

"No, sir; I don't know yet what my uncle may choose for me."

"It is time that you were thinking of some future course of life.”

"My father was in the army, sir," said Dillon, flushing a little, "and I would like to follow his profession."

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A noble calling, too," said Mr. Stutzer, "though some people consider that it leads to vice, and wickedness, and temptation; but that is not my opinion. I believe that some of our noblest Christians have been military men."

Lizette felt much relief when she beheld Master Crosbie taking leave of her father, without insisting on bringing her with him.

Come again to-morrow, as early as you leave school, Dillon," were Mr. Stutzer's last words, as the boy left the room.

And now Dillon was out once more in the still, white night,passing through the busy part of the town, and by the lonely churchyard, where the tomb

stones were all covered with snow, and he paused for a minute or two at the quaint gate of the burial ground, looking in, and regarding its chill aspect with solemn feelings. He was very red, and a good deal tired, when he arrived at Meiklam's Rest; and Bessie ran down stairs to meet him in the hall, expressing much pleasure that he had not neglected his promise of returning for her, as his long absence had made her fear she would have to go home with Bingham, whose escort she particularly disliked. "It was such a lonely thing," she said, "to go on walking, tramp, tramp, saying nothing; and he, carrying a lantern, looking like a machine wound up to move on in silence." And then Mrs. Copley, and the housemaid, Peggy Wolfe, came up to see that Miss Pilmer was sufficiently muffled, and to offer sundry pieces of weather-proof garments, likely to be useful to her; all of which Bessie rejected, unhesitatingly; declining also to have her shawl tied behind her back, in the undignified fashion that young ladies of ten always scorn bitterly. Mrs. Meiklam received Mr. Stutzer's message about his little girl with great good-will, and was sorry to hear he was so weak. She said she would either drive to see him next day herself, or send Bingham with a present of preserves to him. Bessie was at length equipped for her homeward walk, and the objectionable Bingham, whose lantern was quite thrown in the shade by the clearer moonlight, followed the young people at a respectful distance, allowing them to converse together, in their own low tones, of blackbirds likely to be caught now, when the snow was so severe; and of a wonderful cage which one of Mrs. Meiklam's workmen had promised to make for them, while he was meditating upon sundry glasses

and tea-cups, cracked that day by the pantry-boy, and a particular varnish likely to beautify the furniture at the Rest. Mrs. Pilmer was relieved of considerable anxiety upon finding her daughter alive and merry after such a walk on such a night. She thought Mrs. Meiklam might have sent her home in the phaeton, but forebore to utter such ideas in the hearing of Bingham, for Mrs. Meiklam was a lady not to be offended for various substantial reasons. She was much concerned to hear that the good mistress of Meiklam's Rest had offered to receive Mr. Stutzer's nasty, little, ugly girl," under her roof; and blamed Dillon for having put the notion in her head; but when Dillon declared it was not he, but Doctor Ryder, who had spoken of his tutor's miserable condition, Mrs. Pilmer's wrath fell upon the physician, whom she termed

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a great big, ridiculous, meddling man," till at length she subsided into murmurings against Mrs. Meiklam's absurd love of every little beggar-child in the neighbourhood, complaining so bitterly, that Bessie stole out of the room and went to bed, but Dillon stayed up till his aunt had exhausted herself, scolding about everything.

More than once in her sleep, Bessie Pilmer started that night, as the wild appearance of Jenny Black came before her in dreams of fantastic kind; and again, in fancy, she heard repeated the terrible words "I curse you here this winter day: I pray that you may feel more grief and hardship than I ever have felt, in all my life of woe and sorrow!"

Oh, dark malediction! How often, in waking hours of the now unknown future, did your burden weigh upon the spirit of her who seemed, indeed, as one blighted by the wrath of Providence.

MR. PILMER was a man who neither had, nor wanted to have, any voice in the management of his domestic affairs-indeed his voice was seldom heard about anything. He liked a good dinner and a good old bottle of wine; and, as he was generally sup

plied with these things, his goodhumour seldom flagged. His wife was a woman of low connexions and unrefined mind; and having married him because he was wealthy, she did not now choose to consider that he had any right to interfere in the

smallest matter of his household. Like many men who have tyrannical spouses, he thought she was the cleverest, most sensible of women. And in many respects she was clever; but her energies were chiefly directed to the one grand aim of accumulating money. She endeavoured to increase her fortune by speculating in the funds and other securities; and she carried on a weighty correspondence with her stockbroker in London, to whom she wrote all her letters in her husband's name, merely requiring him to sign deeds of transfer and other papers, which he cared little to understand. He had implicit confidence in her judgment; and indeed she was most successful in her speculations, which amounted to gambling, always buying and selling shares to advantage, and very rarely failing. Mr. Pilmer passed a very dreamy existence. The Times occupied him every day from breakfast till a short time before dinner, when, perhaps, he would take a little walk. After dinner he generally fell asleep, unless his daughter felt inclined to keep him awake by pulling his hair and shaking him, that he might listen to various accounts of her own adventures. He took it for granted that every thing at home was going on in the most clock-like manner. He heard his wife striking out her orders in a sharp, clear voice, with the greatest regularity. She was always upholding the necessity of economy, though she was shrewd enough never to display stinginess in dinners, or in any comforts prized by her husband, and consequently he felt convinced that none of his money was spent unadvisedly. Never was an indolent man so blessed with an active, bee-like wife: he saw the industry without being wounded by the sting, though the industry and the sting went together. The honey appearing in the form of excellent dinners, well cooked, and always on the table at the exact moment of expectancy.

When Mrs. Pilmer mentioned to him that Mrs. Meiklam intended geting that indigent Mr. Stutzer's pious little girl to stay with her at the Rest, she was very much irritated by observing that he was able to eat his breakfast with the utmost posure, merely saying—

com

"Well, my dear, that is really very kind of Mrs. Meikĺam."

"Kind! It is all a piece of folly. What good can it possibly do a child like that to be brought to a gentleman's house, unless she is left with the housekeeper or inferiors? But you may be certain Mrs. Meiklam won't allow that. She will have the mean little thing in the drawingroom, and treat her as if she were a gentleman's child."

"I don't know, really. Perhaps she may."

Perhaps she may! And do you not foresee that it is likely she will spend large sums of money on her and her father, and in the end maybe get no thanks?"

"It is very likely."

"Of course it is. And it worries me out of all patience to think of that old woman's simplicity. What she does with all her money I cannot imagine. It will be all frittered away before she dies; and no person will be in the least benefited by it."

"No person, indeed," said Mr. Pilmer, taking up his newspaper, which he unfolded slowly. "You agree to every thing I say, and yet look so apathetic and stupid that I cannot bear it!" said Mrs. Pilmer, provoked beyond endurance. "Every thing is left upon my shoulders-you give me no help. You do not even assist me to manage that headstrong boy, Dillon, who is running into every mischief. There was Luke Bagley here to-day, complaining of him for encouraging people to break all the trees at Meiklam's Rest, and saying how badly behaved he was yesterday."

Mr. Pilmer, no doubt, feeling the impossibility of assuming a brighter expression of face than nature had designed for him, now drew his chair round to the fire, and, with his feet on the fender, commenced reading over the long array of advertisements in the Times' supplement.

“I am afraid Dillon will go to the bad altogether, if he is kept at Yaxley, and permitted to run wild," said Mrs. Pilmer, looking ominously prophetic of evil. "I wonder that you would not correct him, if it was only for the sake of your sister in her grave."

"What has the lad been doing?"