OR, THE TRIALS OF LIFE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE CURATE OF OVERTON." "There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will." SHAKSPEARE. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1855. 249. X 143. WE MILLI CENT. CHAPTER I. 'The governess! the governess! oh, wearily she sits, While midst the dazzling throng another vision flits; A mirthful circle cometh, with footsteps swift and near, And she is there, so joyously-but she wakes with start and tear. The governess! the governess! her work is scorn'd and lowly, Yet in the clear, true heavens it is counted bless'd and holy; The white-rob'd angels tenderly their glances on it cast, And her loving God accepteth it, with whom she rests at last!' SHE sat alone, unpitied and forlorn, in her solitary little chamber, beside her uncorded boxes, her head leaning on her hand; and a tear-the heart's sorrow-drop-rested sadly VOL. I. B on her cheek, asking, in crystal tones, "Why am I here?”—yes, why was it there?— Why did the girl of eighteen weep? The moonbeams played through the narrow panes of the high window, and twined themselves in and out of her clustering hair, and longed to comfort her; and they, too, whispered, in silvery tones, "Why does she weep?" She was beautiful, was that sad maiden; her soft, loving face, and gentle eyes, and her parted lips, seemed formed for the abode of smiles; yet none were there. She was good, her heart was made for soft words, and all the affection that heart can beat back to heart. Alas! poor heart, who shall love thee now?— who shall breathe words of winning tenderness like balm into thine ear?—who shall smile on thee, and listen to thy words of mirth and joy? The moonbeams have descended to thy garments, and are stooping curiously among the sable folds. Oh, what sad tales they learn! Thy mother's voice is hushed in the silent tomb; and thy father-where is he? Alas! poor child, the cold waves murmur sadly his lullaby. But, hush! sad voice-be still, sad tear; thy Heavenly Father yet remains. No quiet tomb, no cold waters can divide thee from Him; and amid hard struggles, bitter tears and sighs, with which thy path will yet be strewn, He will be there to protect and guide thee with His arm; and though contempt and scorn may meet and bend thee, sweet rose, and wither thee with their crushing blast, thy Father will not spurn thee, even governess though thou art! Yes, Millicent Thornville, the weeping orphan, was a governess; and, what rendered her lot still worse, she had not been brought up to fulfil that cold and arduous, that unloved and unrespected, post. An elegant, refined home-loving, indulgent parents— servants, to whom a look from her was law-luxuries and comforts strewn around her-these had been the portion of the only |