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heard by the LORD, and therefore more willingly and unhesitatingly does he bestow all largesses upon him, and takes care that he wants for nothing. The poor man thanks GOD for the rich, because they both work from the LORD. The elm is thought among men not to bear fruit, and they neither know nor perceive that when united with the vine, the latter yields double produce, i. e., for itself and the elm. And so the poor praying for the rich, are heard of the LORD, and their wealth is increased, because they give to the poor of their substance. Whosoever, then, has so acted, will not be deserted of the LORD, and shall be written in the Book of Life. Happy they, then, who are rich, and know that they are enriched, since they who are conscious thereof will be able to minister to the wants of others.

III.

As in winter green trees cannot be distinguished from the dry, so in this world the just and the unjust cannot be distinguished.

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He then showed me many trees stripped of leaves, which seemed to me dry, for all were alike. And he said, "Seest thou these trees ?" Yes, sir," answered I," they resemble dry ones.' "These trees, then," said he, 66 are like men who live in this world." 66 Why," rejoined I, "are they like dry trees ?" Because," was his answer, "there is no distinction between just and unjust in this world, but they are alike. For this world is like winter to the just, because, living with sinners, they are not distinguished. As all trees in winter, when their leaves are fallen, are like dry ones, and we cannot tell which are dry, or which green, so in this world there is no distinction between just and unjust, but all are alike. W. B. F.

FIDELIA.1

"There are sorrows and trials so idealised by the heart and the imagination, that they rise by their very purity into a region far above the personal and private."-Lady Anne Lindsay.

"Let us not be dependant for gratification in our latter years on the recollections of youth; but let us advance with joy, under the Divine protection, to those days which are destined to be eternal."-S. Pierre.

"Now know I what is love."-Virgil's 8th Eclogue.

FAR away from the vast metropolis, in one of the fairest nooks of merry England, nestles a pleasant village, in nowise materially differing from many others equally well favoured, with its old grey church, picturesque school, and gabled manor house, hedged round by vast, dark woods, and watered by numerous purling streamlets, which trickle down from the hills, and leap, and sparkle, and foam in the summer sunshine, laving the velvet lawn of the pleasure garden-washing round cottage strawberry beds, and sprinkling lavender bushes with diamond spray. The inhabitants of Kilve, indeed, are of opinion that their village is absolutely unrivalled for beauty and salubrity, and their local attachment is remarkable: one of the principal features which render Kilve attractive, consisting in a home repose-an indescribable air of tranquillity and comfort, which pervades the sylvan scene, from the mansion to the humble cot.

Here dwelt the two Misses Edmonds, daughters of a former faithful Pastor of Kilve, who, on their father's decease, removed to a small tenement adjacent to the school-house, presided over by the excellent Mrs. Rosemead, an individual who had known better days,' and had been the early friend and playmate of the elder Miss Edmonds. These ladies still continued their friendship and intimacy, and Miss Edmonds was almost as busy and interested in the village school as Mrs. Rosemead herself.

The Misses Edmonds were also cousins twice removed to Mr. Melby, the squire of the old Manor-house; and By the author of "Gabrielle, or the Sisters," in Frazer's Magazine, 1851.

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this gave them a degree of consideration which their straitened circumstances might not otherwise have commanded for Kilve, in becoming respect for worldly gear, did not differ from its neighbours. Mr. Melby was the ancestral landlord of Kilve, and descended from the younger branch of a once powerful and opulent family ; but the Melbys' flourishing days were over long ago, and the squire of Kilve, with all the pride of his ancestors, found himself in a condition, on succeeding to the patrimony, by no means such as would warrant him in giving free scope to a naturally generous disposition-crippled pecuniary resources, and even temporary embarrassment, leaving no choice in the matter for the exercise of selfdenial, as a prudential course. He had, besides, made what the world terms a foolish marriage—that is, he had married to please himself; the object of his choice being a young, beautiful, but penniless girl; moreover, an orphan, dependant on rich relatives, who persecuted and discarded her for rejecting a wealthy and titled suitor, to become the bride of a comparatively poor and obscure country squire.

More resembling Eden bowers than an earthly home, was the old gabled manor-house of Kilve, during the advent of the bright angel-wife, who for a short time only was lent to her adoring husband. After pre senting to him a son and heir, the young mother lingered but a few weeks subsequent to the premature birth of a second child, ere death claimed his victim. From that period Mr. Melby became an altered and careworn man, shutting himself up in misanthropic fashion, and with devoted solicitude watching over the motherless boys, with a tenderness and anxiety more akin to maternal weakness than to the sterner rule of a father's hand. Except the Misses Edmonds, no visitors were received at Kilve by the bereaved owner, and in the society of his children he alone seemed to find comfort and resignation.

They both resembled their lost parent in feature, being fair, golden-haired, delicate creatures; Paul, the eldest, however, being far stronger and more robust of frame than little Rubens, whose premature developement had ushered him into this world so unprepared for the rough conflict, that the tender shoot, wanting power to expand,

speedily became a helpless, hopeless cripple, stunted in growth, and twisted until deformity was confirmed. This misfortune seemed to call forth more than ever the deep well-springs of affection gushing from the father's heart towards his offspring; and from their earliest years Paul evinced towards his gentle younger brother a fond and yearning love, which was indeed most touching and beautiful to witness.

Between the Misses Edmonds a vast disparity of age existed. Miss Edmonds, or Fiddy,' as she was familiarly designated, her proper Christian name being Fidelia, stood more in the light of a mother to the gay and pretty Ann, than of elder sister; their temperaments and disposition differing even more widely than their years. Fiddy was now an antiquated, quaint damsel-a dear, kind little soul; wonderful to relate, trying to make every one believe that she was, in truth, a really old woman. But though antiquated in dress and manner, and quaint in her phraseology, hers was not the antiquity of years, but of some great sorrow, which had passed over her in youth, and left her a scathed, blighted woman,-old before her time. What this bitter sorrow had been, none knew of; for Miss Edmonds had been absent from Kilve, and returned home after a lapse of time, no longer young― no longer gay-no longer attractive in appearance. A great inward change had also been wrought. As gold is purified in the furnace, so had trial and sorrow purified and exalted Fidelia Edmonds. Gentle, truthful, and unselfish she had always been, but now she seemed to have nothing left of the grossness or weakness of human nature, but to live for others-to do good by every means in her power, and to forget herself entirely.

A dash of romance, it is true, mingled with her earnest usefulness, and Mrs. Rosemead, who knew more of Miss Edmonds than any one else, would sigh and smile when the good little soul let fall unconsciously some expression, indicative of deeper feeling than her walk in life seemed to call forth. Yes, Fiddy Edmonds was 'romantic'—in common parlance so called. Mrs. Rosemead, indeed, affirmed that she had too much feeling and truth for this world, and that in Vanity Fair what is deemed 'romance,' is, in short, but another name for faith and feeling. But

then Mrs. Rosemead was only a village schoolmistress, so what could she know about it? Fiddy Edmonds was a busy, active, useful, persevering sister of mercy wherever and whenever her services were needed; and as to the tale of bygone sorrow, she never alluded to it in the most distant manner: evidently considering herself so aged in heart, that she had learnt to consider herself equally aged in years. Poor Fiddy Edmondsthere are many like her, whose guarded secret of silent suffering goes down with them unknown to the grave.

Every one loved Miss Fidelia, but every one bestowed a meed of admiration on Miss Ann, who was undoubtedly the village belle. At Mr. Melby's, they were both welcome visitants; and the beloved young wife had evinced towards both sisters a kindliness and affection most warmly reciprocated. On her decease, while each sister deeply deplored her loss, they expressed their feelings in widely different ways. Fidelia forgot her own affliction in thinking of the bereaved husband and babes, and in endeavouring to prove a comfort in the house of mourning. Ann wept and bemoaned her hard fate to lose such a companion, and declared Kilve-always monotonous and stupid-was now insufferable; and that her oppressed spirits required a change of air and scene.

Fidelia gently remonstrated with her pretty sister on the inexpediency of quitting their quiet home, just when they were so privileged as to prove of some use to "poor Cousin Melby," when little Paul held out his arms to welcome them, and the infant required incessant feminine superintendence. But Fidelia's tender remonstrances ended, as they always did, in giving way to Ann's wishes, though so contrary to her own, and in going to a fashionable sea-side resort; where, in a small lodging, at exorbitant charge, she endeavoured to feel reconciled to a few weeks' discomfort, on seeing Ann pleased and cheerful: though, to be sure, it was a little trying to leave beautiful Kilve in the summer season, when their garden and Mrs. Rosemead's were looking so lovely, and when they were so much missed.

However, Ann speedily recovered her usual hilarityand, as they had an opportunity of mixing in the best

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