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vored from Mexico. That the Americans are willing to occupy the whole country we can well believe; but are they prepared to pay the necessary cost, or vote the establishment of the large standing army that would be necessary for the purpose? The project of Paredes, if he really entertains it, of erecting Mexico into a monarchy, and offering the throne to some European prince, would seem to afford a reasonable chance of yet preserving the country, or at least a fragment of it, and of checking the further progress of republican rapacity :—

MEXICO, Dec. 13, 1847.

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would afford to keep incorrupt, should be maintained. If we may judge from the past, we may safely conclude that the republican principle has totally failed in this country, and, indeed, in every country of the New World peopled by the Mauritanian race. We cannot help, therefore, leaning towards a monarchical form of government as one better fitted for these people. It is remarkable, in support of this view, that the Brazils is the only South American state which has, as an independent country, ever attained any degree of prosperity, and it is likewise the only monarchy. Mr. Percy Doyle, her majesty's minister plenipotentiary, has arrived in this city, much to the gratification of all who knew him when he was previously here. He is well fitted to watch over our interests during these turbulent times.— Britannia.

The state of affairs in this country is not likely to offer any feature of interest for some time to come, and may be viewed as going through that ordeal which intervenes between the invasion of a country HANGING JUDGES.-Buller was said always to and its permanent occupation by the conqueror. Independent, republican Mexico is virtually no more; hang for sheep-stealing, avowing as a reason that she may struggle on for awhile; she may defer, he had several sheep stolen from his own flock. but she cannot avoid, her fate, which is, to fall under Heath, acting more on principle, used to hang in another ruler. Were overtures for a peace to be all capital cases, because he knew of no good secnow made on the part of the Mexicans, it is a very ondary punishments. Said he, "If you imprison doubtful question whether the Americans would not at home, the criminal is soon thrown upon you prove as fastidious and perverse as the Mexicans again, hardened in guilt. If you transport, you were when previous negotiations were going on. corrupt infant societies, and sow the seeds of atroThe Americans now occupy a very different posi- cious crimes over the habitable globe. There is no tion to what they did when they offered terms. regenerating of felons in this life, and for their own They have been very considerably reinforced; and, sake, as well as for the sake of society, I think it although some opposition may be offered to the war is better to hang." When sitting in the crown policy at Washington, that policy, it is confidently court at Gloucester, he asked a lying witness from anticipated, will find a majority in Congress. They what part of the country he came, and being an"he exclaimed, have at present, therefore, neither to fear the ene-swered, "From Bitton, my lord,' "You do seem to be of the Bitton breed, but I my in their front nor censure at home. The Mexicans, beginning to understand this, are disposed to thought I had hanged the whole of that parish long sue for peace, and it is believed a commission will ago."-Lord Campbell's Chancellors. shortly be named for this purpose at Queretaro, A NOBLE AND REFINED COMPLIMENT.-"I shall with full powers to negotiate a treaty, but time never," says Ledyard the traveller, in writing to alone can tell what result will attend this proceed- Mr. Jefferson, the American statesman, from Egypt, ing. It is tolerably evident now that the Ameri-think my letter an indifferent one, when it concans will only admit of such a boundary line as will admit of very easy access to these parts, should any future differences arise between the two states, and to the cession of the whole of Upper and Lower California. As regards the inhabitants of Mexico, their present position under the American dominion is quite enviable as compared with their previous existence, and the fruits of a well-ordered and stable government are beginning to become manifest in the revival of commerce and restoration of confidence. The commercial community and people possessing property cannot but view with fearful anticipations a return to the deplorable state in which they lived under Mexican government, and are by no means anxious to lose their invaders. I took occasion by the last mail to allude to a scheme entertained by Paredes of establishing a monarchy, and, if his notions are practicable, this country may have a chance (it is the only one) of averting for a time its impending doom, supposing a peace were for the present to be concluded with the Americans. From what I could gather, he proposes that some junior European prince be offered the crown, and that the right of succession should be with his heirs male-in fact, that a constitution embracing the three estates should be determined upon; that the latitude of electoral right should be restricted to such a body as, from their property and interests, would ensure a legitimate representation; and that such an army only as would be absolutely necessary for the public service, or which the government

tains the declaration of my gratitude and my affection for you; and this, notwithstanding you thought hard of me for being employed by an English association, which hurt me much while I was at Paris. You know your own heart; and if my suspicions are groundless, forgive them, since they proceed from the jealousy I have, not to lose the regard you have in times past been pleased to honor me with. You are not obliged to esteem me, but I am obliged to esteem you, or to take leave of my senses, and confront the opinions of the greatest and best characters I know. If I cannot, therefore, address myself to you as a man you regard, I must do it as one that regards you for your own sake, and for the sake of my country, which has set me the example.”— Life of Ledyard the Traveller.

VOLTAIRE'S CHARACTER OF CROMWELL.-Cromwell is described as a man who was an imposter all his life. I can scarcely believe it. I conceive that he was at first an enthusiast, and that he afterwards made his fanaticism instrumental to his greatness. An ardent novice at twenty often becomes an accomplished rogue at forty. In the great game of human life, men begin with being dupes, and end in becoming knaves. A statesman engages as his almoner a monk, entirely made up of the details of his convent-devout, credulous, awkward, perfectly new to the world; he acquires information, polish, finesse, and supplants his master.-Philo soph. Dictionary.

EDITH KINNAIRD.-PART III., CHAP. VIII.

PHILIP EVERARD was not a man to be overcome by any circumstances in which he might be placed; his will, vigorous and disciplined, rose to the encounter with a strength which failed not to increase in proporton to the difficulties which opposed him. Yet, on the present occasion, his self-possession well-nigh forsook him, his eye sank, his voice trembled, and, for the first moment, strange as it may appear, Edith, in the very desperation of her enforced composure-Edith, the weak and unstable woman, was apparently the calmer of the two.

"He has met with an accident," said he; "do not fancy that I am keeping anything from you; I am going to tell you the exact truth. There is hope that he may recover-with his youth and strength there must be considerable hope; but I must not conceal from you that he is in danger. It was a fall; he went too near the edge of a cliff and part of the earth gave way. I came myself, both because he wished it, and because I was sure you would desire to come to him directly, and I thought there might be some difficulty; I thought, too, it would be a satisfaction to you to be quite sure that you were hearing the exact truth.”

"Thank you," said Edith, in a choking voice; "I may come directly?"

"There is some mistake, I think," said she, gently, in answer to his scarcely articulate salutation, and, but that her hand closed tightly on the back of the chair by which she stood, and her lips quivered" a little, there was no outward sign of agitation. "You inquired for Miss Forde."

"I can scarcely hope to be forgiven for an intrusion which must seem so unwarrantable," replied he, hurriedly, "but my visit was to Miss Forde. Can 1 see her?"

"She is not at home."
"And you expect her-"
"Not for a fortnight, at least."

Quietly, though with a certain breathlessness, were these few every-day sentences exchanged; who would have dreamt that such a past lay hidden under such a present? But it is ever so; the lava destroys, the carthquake engulphs, and then the ground closes, and the humble village arises, and the very existence of the proud city beneath it is forgotten.

"As soon as you feel equal to it," he replied. A carriage is waiting."

"Thank you," repeated Edith. She was half stunned; it was a strange, unreal, dreamy sensation; she could feel no conviction of the truth of what she had been told, still less could she persuade herself that Everard was in the room with her, and that she had learned it from his lips. She put her hand to her forehead, and looked up with a delirious inclination to laugh, and tell him that it was all nonsense, and she was not deceived.

Everard rang the bell for some water, and, holding the glass for Edith to drink, he very clearly and deliberately repeated his intelligence to the servant, adding an order that she would pack up her mistress' things as quickly as possible, and get ready to accompany her, as it would be necessary for them to set off almost immediately. He watched Edith's face while he spoke, but there was the same Everard hesitated for an instant, and then walked unnatural, incredulous expression in it, and a cold up to Edith with a mixture of reluctance and deter- fear came into his heart, and made it pause in its mination, his manner visibly changing, as if under beating as though a strong grasp had closed upon the influence of irrepressible feeling. "Then it. Then he took both her hands in his, and spoke Edith," said he-" Miss Kinnaird, I must needs with the utmost tenderness. 66 speak to you myself. God strengthen us both. I be comforted; trust in God. Exert yourself for beseech you to summon all your courage.' Frank's sake-he is longing to see you-you must be his nurse and companion, but you know you will not be allowed to be with him if your own strength fails. I have known worse cases than this recover; and if not, Edith," he was afraid to encourage hope, for the surgeon's opinion had been very desponding" will you not try to submit to God's will and to take comfort? will you not try to support yourself? I know how hard it is, almost impossible in the first moment-but, for Frank's sake."

At the first note of tenderness in his voice all Edith's assumed self-command gave way, and she sank upon a chair, vainly laboring to conceal her tears. Everard continued to speak, and nothing but the exceeding and cautious gentleness of his manner betrayed that he had perceived her emotion. "I wished to see Miss Forde," said he, " because I thought she would communicate what I have to tell better than I could do it myself. I know I must distress you greatly; God knows what it costs me to do so. I do not bring you good news."

He was evidently trying to prepare her for some terrible intelligence-the most painful task which ever falls to human love, and yet one which none but the truest love should execute. At first she had scarcely grasped his meaning, but now it suddenly flashed upon her.

"Tell me at once," cried she, starting up, and for the first time lifting her eyes to his face. "Frank?" she could say no more.

"He is alive, and there is hope," said Everard, quickly.

Edith neither screamed nor fainted, but she trembled from head to foot, and her white shivering lips tried in vain to shape the words with which she panted to question him. He understood her perfectly, and, without inflicting upon her all that well-meant torture of petty delays and useless restoratives so commonly employed in cases of sudden affliction, so needlessly oppressive to the sufferer, he proceeded to do the best thing he could, namely, to tell the truth, calmly, quickly, and sympathizingly.

My dearest Edith,

The soothing words had their effect. The strange, wild expression passed away, and she bowed her face upon his hands, and wept like a child. When she looked up there were tears on his cheeks also. She rose hastily. "Now I am quite well," she said, "and quite ready. Do not let us waste a moment-pray let us go directly."

He judged wisely that it would be cruel to detain her, and went out to expedite arrangements for their departure. When he returned he found her bonneted and shawled; very pale, but quite composed; her hand shook as she accepted his arın to walk to the carriage, but she did not withdraw it, neither did she speak, and they crossed the hall together. At the door she paused, shuddering and sobbing-he looked anxiously at her. "The last time we were together," said she in a broken voice, "I vexed him."

Everard was too deeply moved to answer immediately, but in a few moments he said, gently, "Do not think of it. I am sure he has long forgotten it. He spoke of you with the fondest affection.' "When?" cried Edith suddenly.

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"The last time he named you," returned Everard, | passion," said she in her heart," the pity of a cold with a little hesitation-" yesterday, I think." but not unkind indifference." And she betook her"Not since-" (she could not say "his accident." self once more to prayer. Why is a word so much harder than a thought?) "Not when you left him?"

"No," replied Everard, "he did not speak of you then."

Edith felt the import of the sentence, and, burying her face in her hands, suffered herself to be assisted into the carriage. Immediately afterwards, however, she put out her head, unable to abstain from asking the question, though she was almost certain of the answer, and said in a low, desponding tone of voice, "Will he not know me?"

"He_may, very likely; indeed, I trust that he will. But, you know, temporary insensibility is the common result of an accident of this sort, even when it is not very serious, and I came away as soon as I learned that there was no immediate danger."

"How far?" inquired Edith. "Twenty miles only."

And not another word passed between them. Silently Everard placed the maid in the carriage beside her mistress, directed the coachman to drive quickly, and, springing on a horse, which was in waiting for him, soon outstripped his fellow-traveller. Edith kept her face covered, and unclosed not her lips during the whole journey. Who shall tell what passed within her during that silence? First, there was tumult, and wild, unnatural thoughts struggling with hurried prayers and trying to drive them out of her heart; and despair, and unbelief, now in God's mercy, now in the reality of her affliction; demon-whispers that seemed prompting her to utter derisive words which it would have been madness to speak. And then the prayers conquered, and there was a strange sort of peace, like the hush in a chamber of death, and her spirit prostrated itself as if communing with the presence of an angel, and said almost without an effort, "Here am I; do with me as thou wilt!" and then came a quick burst of bitter tears, and a throng of sudden memories that hurried past her like phantoms in a dream, bright and smiling as they approached, but withering into pale corpses as she gazed upon them. And paler, sadder, than all, wringing, as it were, tears of blood from her heart, came self-reproach, the only unbearable pang in the dreary catalogue of human woes-the tormenter, which, like Eastern despots, not only impales its victim, but refuses him the cup of water which might assuage or shorten his anguish the one agony that knows no consolation. Counsels neglected, unwary words resented, little faults unkindly judged, motives unfairly attributed; small injustices and forgotten wrongs, done in the wantonness of prosperous affection or the heedlessness of irritation, all started to life, and proclaimed that now they must needs live forever, since she could neither recall them nor atone for them. Oh, how sternly does the absence or suffering of the beloved teach love to remember its sins! Oh, how far more deeply and irremediably does an unkindness or an offence wound the heart of him who has inflicted, than of him who has suffered it! And then, through all this pain and fear, and shame and sorrow, the words and the tone of Everard thrilled suddenly upon her memory like an echo of far music heard through the howlings of a tempest, or the momentary gleam of one pale star when darkness covers the skies. But she put away the thought, and well-nigh hated herself that she had harbored it for a moment. "It was only com

The carriage stopped. Everard was at the door to receive her, and spoke before she had time to question him. "He has been sensible; he has undergone the necessary operations; he is asleep." "A good sign?" asked she, breathlessly. "Yes-so far good," rejoined he, with unspeakable dread of encouraging too far her sanguine nature. He took her hand, and gently led her upstairs to a dressing-room adjoining the sick man's chamber; there were refreshments on the table, and of these, though little enough inclined, she partook; for the quiet authority of his manner made her a very child in his hands. Then they sat down, side by side, close to the open door, to wait for the waking of the sleeper.

No sound but the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, and the low note of its chimes as it told ever and anon that another quarter of an hour of life had passed away. It seemed the audible footstep of coming Death, and Edith clasped her hands upon her ears that she might not listen to it. No sight but the table visible through the doorway, with the phials and the strips of torn linen upon it, here and there spotted with blood, and the motionless curtain of the bed, and the composed but grave face of the surgeon, who sat beside it. Edith kept her straining eyes fixed upon that face till its quiet seemed stony and spectral to her, and she could look no longer, but turned away with an inexplicable terror. The still folds of the bed-curtains seemed to her to be endued with an unreal motion; she saw them tremble as with the breath of the sleeper; she imaged to herself the ghastly form which they concealed, with every possible feature of distress and horror; she expected to see them suddenly put aside; she felt as though she could not endure to look upon the spectacle which must then be revealed -as though the slightest movement of the drapery would shake her reason from its balance.

The chime again! She has watched three hours. Was it fancy, now, or was there indeed a movement in that fearful room? Yes, the surgeon rose, and, softly approaching the bed, put his head cautiously within the curtains. There was a low murmuring sound: the sleeper must have awakened. Edith was springing to the bedside, but Everard's firm but gentle grasp detained her; and he whispered, scarcely above his breath, "Remember, he does not know you are come; be patient a moment; he must not be startled." And then he supported her trembling form, tenderly as a child takes a wounded bird to its bosom, and their eyes met, and shrank not from each other's gaze; and, without a word, each knew that the love of the other's heart was stronger and purer even than it had been when they parted four years before.

Five minutes only !-but the matter of a lifetime was compressed into their brief silence. The surgeon leaves the bedside; Everard beckons to him; he comes into the outer room, carefully closing the door behind him; Edith looks not into his face, for she dares not, but she looks into Everard's, and there is a smile on his lips; and, dizzy and weeping, she gathers her failing senses to comprehend the blessed words, "There is every hope. I expect that he will recover,"-strives to fold her hands and bend her knees in thankfulness, and knows no more, for the revulsion has been too great, and she has fainted.

When she opened her eyes from that happy

swoon, she was lying on a sofa, with Everard | going down while it is yet day. But if the home kneeling beside her, her hand in his. And the first be loveless, you may steep it in external sunshine words he whispered were-what? An assurance till it glitters with radiance, yet it will ever strike of forgiveness? No. An entreaty for it. Ch! a chill to the heart; unless you take refuge in with what humble and self-condemning words did making the heart loveless too, and for that labor Edith answer him! How tearfully did she pour you will need a giant's strength and a life's perseforth her confession and her penitence! How verance, and the end of it all will be-failure. You earnestly did she justify him-how sorrowfully may make the surface callous, and you may continue reproach herself! Not that she had ceased to love the hardening process deeper and deeper inwards, him, as he indeed had thought, but that she had but there comes a point where you must stop, ceased to be worthy of his love. With the elo- humiliated at the impotence of your own will; for quence of few words and many tears, blending the the celestial fire burns at the centre, and you cannot shame of true repentance with the happiness of per-quench it, for it is immortal. Never was there a fect reconciliation-finding no ease save in avowing truer word than the poet'sand dwelling upon the wrongs which yet she cannot contemplate without the keenest pain-striving, as it were, so to outgo him in condemnation of them as to leave room for nothing but pardon in his heart. It is forgiveness which makes the sense of a fault everlasting, the memory of it indelible.

And had Everard no self-accusation on his part? Much, truly, and he was not slack to utter it. He had been harsh, impatient, unjust; he had learned by bitter self-inflicted dicipline the need (so he said) of that charity of temper, the deficiency of which was once rather a boast than a shame to him. He had learned that the love of good is better than the hatred of evil; that unconscious self-worship lies at the root of misanthropy; that bitterness against the sins of another generally accompanies blindness to our own. He did not think that he deserved the exquisite happiness of the present any better than Edith.

And so the Gardener found his Lily again, rooted in the bank whereon he had unthinkingly flung it; and the cankered blossom was severed by the fall, and the rich array of spotless buds had expanded in the spring sunshine, pleading to him with a thousand silent voices, and bidding him forsake his unlovely domain, and make a new garden for them to dwell in. And the plant of Love, being cherished and tended, bore its natural fruit, which is the beauty of life in this world, and the promise and foretaste of it for the next.

It is said that if a silken thread be tied around a perfectly moulded bell at the moment of sounding, the bell will burst asunder, and shiver into a thousand pieces. So is it when a heart of perfect and delicate harmony in itself seeks to manifest its life among other hearts; the slightest revulsion is enough to destroy the expression forever.

Let us draw aside, and keep silence, and watch quietly in the distance; we dare not speak of this joy. Let us be very silent, and listen heedfully to the inner chime of our own hearts, if it have power to make itself heard; happy indeed are we if it convey to us an echo caught from the great chorus of Love.

CHAPTER THE LAST.

COMING home is either the happiest or the most sorrowful thing in life, and the one ingredient on the presence or deficiency of which its character depends, is Love. If there be only Love in a home, let its other qualities be what you please, let it be full of faults, abundant in discomforts, pinched by poverty, and darkened by sorrow, still there is happiness in coming back to it-still there is no happiness, worthy of the name, conceivable away from it. It is the soul's native element, and out of it there is for her no healthy growth or free development-nothing better than a sickly hot-house life, brief and evanescent, or an untimely withering, a

"The deepest ice that ever froze, Can only o'er the surface close; The living stream lies quick below, And flows, and cannot cease to flow." Fear and hope are the symbols of love; nay, they are the very manifestations of its presencethe very language of its thought: and if, having nought to lose, fear may be dead within you, still it is hard for you to slay the infant hope, who looks pleadingly into your face, and seems to promise that if you will only let it live the speechless eyes shall acquire a distincter eloquence, the feeble limbs a more conscious strength, and it shall be to you a In hope,' counsellor and a comforter. Schlegel, "such as it at present is among men, lies the chief defect; for hope ought to be strong and heroic, otherwise it is not that which the name expresses. And where hope and fear are both dead, or have lain so long in torpor that their awakening seems impossible, there is yet another witness to the secret life of love, perhaps more convincing than either-namely, bitterness. Where the scorn is most loudly expressed, depend upon it, the need is most deeply felt. Who would be forever warding off blows, unless he felt that he should suffer from them? Who would proclaim defiance that did not fear defeat?

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But what coming home was ever so happy as Aunt Peggy's, when, released from the bedside of her querulous brother, she was welcomed by Edith's sparkling eyes and warm embrace, and led to the sofa in the western window of that pleasant drawing-room, where Frank, pale, but fast regaining strength, received her somewhat more vociferously, and Everard's silent pressure of the hand seemed perhaps the warmest welcome of the three? Much had she to hear, and something to tell; tea was speedily disposed of, and the joyful group, reinforced by the addition of Mr. Verner, gathered around the invalid's couch, which was moved to his favorite position, where a flood of mellow light from the sinking sun poured in through the tender green of budding rose-trees which skirted the window, and framed, as it were, the garden-picture outside. The thick blossoms of an almond-tree spread themselves out in a pattern of delicate rose color against the vivid blue of the eastern sky; the horse-chestnuts exhibited their manifold clusters of white, heaven-pointing spires; the ground was redolent with the fragrance of lily-bells and bursting violets. Every tint was so light, so transparent, yet so intense, that the whole scene looked more like an illuminated picture in some splendid missal than a real corner of the visible world; against the glowing west, one almost expected to see in sharp relief the serene form and angel face of the maid-mother, with the wondrous babe cradled on her bosom. Night too, seemed coming onward with a half-play

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ful stealthiness, like one who should say to a child, Only let me hide your eyes for a few minutes, and you shall see what fresh beauties I will make ready for you by the morning!" Edith felt Everard's hand clasp gently upon her own, and as she gazed forth in quiet perfect happiness, she could not but remember the autumn sunset which she had watched from the foot of the oak in Beechwood Park-she could not but think how cheaply the spring had been purchased by the intervening winter. Cheaply, indeed! Alas for those whose winter ends not! yet even for them there shall one day be a spring, when the heavens and the earth are made new, if only they keep their patience and their faith.

"And now tell me the news from Mrs. Dalton," said Aunt Peggy; "you said you had a long letter from her."

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"I dare say," cried Frank; "she is just the sort of person to write half-a-dozen sheets at a time, crossed all over so as to make a multitude of little squares with an I at every corner. In the language of her own nonsensical philosophy, she is a capital specimen of the universal Me."

"My dear Frank, your hatred of poor Mrs. Dalton amounts to a real monomania. But this accusation of egotism is quite a new one-and about as correct as your quotation from her philosophy, as you call it."

"There are a great many different ways of being egotistical," grumbled Frank.

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"Quite true, my dear fellow," said Everard, encouragingly. Keep to those grand general observations, and you will be comparatively safe. I'll provide you with the practical instances--for example, one of the commonest forms of egotism is intolerance of all modes of thinking and feeling with which we don't exactly sympathize ourselves."

"I don't understand that," began Frank.

"I dare say not," remarked Everard, quietly. "Oh! you shan't put me down in that manner," resumed Frank; "I know very well you were speaking sarcastically"

"It is quite a comfort to your friends to find that you understood so much," interrupted Everard. "Suppose you meditate upon the rest, while we go on with our conversation, and tell us how far you have got an hour hence."

"I appeal to the company from this satirical gentleman," cried Frank-"I appeal to Mr. Verner. Is not sarcasm a form of egotism?"

"A very metaphysical question," said Mr. Verner, "but I think I may answer yes, inasmuch as it seems to imply a state of self-satisfaction, and contempt for others."

"I think it is about the worst form there is," said Frank, complacently.

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"I hate sarcasm in every shape," said Aunt Peggy, who had been not a little amused to observe the slight touch of earnest in this badinage; Everard having kindled because Edith's friend was attacked, and Edith because she thought Frank spoke sharply to Everard, yet both having so completely the air and tone of pleasantry, that it required a very delicate observer to detect the tiny edge of seriousness which had sharpened their wit.

"Yes, but you don't hate jokes, do you?" said Everard; "and in friendship, you know, (taking it for granted that there is such a thing,) apparent sarcasms must always be either jokes or mistakes."

"True," replied Frank, "unless one of the friends is in a passion with the other, which will sometimes happen, you know."

"Oh, then I don't call them sarcasms at all," interposed Edith; "the man who utters them does not at the time see their real meaning, and is the first to disown it when the anger is past. Anger, or irritated feeling, you know, makes one very often use words the true sense of which we should indignantly disclaim; and perhaps we are slow to confess it, only because we are slow to perceive it, never having really intended it."

"And so," said Mr. Verner, interrogatively, "you would excuse every kind of injustice on the plea that it was done in anger and unconsciously?"

"Not excuse it," cried Edith; "oh, no! condemn it, deplore it, repent it, whenever I think of it-only entreating that it should not be supposed to be the habit of my mind, and that therefore I should not be hardly judged in future because of it. Yet even such hard judgment, I suppose, is only a fitting punishment, and should therefore be taken meekly."

"Yes," said Mr. Verner; "we are not, I think, the best judges of the measure of severity which our own faults deserve."

"And now for Mrs. Dalton," said Aunt Peggy. "First, let me tell her wonderful piece of news," replied Edith, blushing in spite of herself. "Mr. Thornton is going to be married!" "Mr. Thornton!" said Everard and Frank in a breath.

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Yes," continued Edith. "Now please listen quietly, for it is very wonderful, and I scarcely think you will believe it. He is going to be married to Alice Brown."

"What a triumph for simple goodness!" exclaimed Aunt Peggy.

"I am most excessively sorry to hear it," observed Frank, whose opinions, or rather feelings, were as invincible as they were hearty and genuine. "She is not very attractive, to be sure, but she is a gentle, good girl, and is worthy of a better lot than being tied for life to a heartless dandy."

"And I perfectly agree with you," rejoined Edith, but you know what follows from that." "Let me speak a word for him," said Mr. Ver"What?" inquired he. ner. "He has many noble qualities, though cir"That it is about the unkindest accusation which cumstances, and a deplorable feebleness of will, one friend could bring against another-in earnest." have hitherto combined to keep them in the back"Oh! if Edith is going to take up your defence, ground. But I have every hope for his future. 1 Philip, I must surrender at discretion," exclaimed saw symptoms in him when I was last with him, Frank. "The rebuke is quite sentimental, but it does n't touch me, you know, because I wasn't in earnest."

"So people always say when they are proved wrong, "observed Edith, demurely.

People may, but I don't," said Frank, bluntly. "At any rate, I always confess my faults-that is to say, if you give me a little time to make sure of them. So now let us go back to Mrs. Dalton."

of the uprising of another spirit than that which has hitherto ruled his life; and perhaps no better proof of it could be given than his present choiceas most certainly he could have found no surer safeguard against a relapse. As for her, I am almost afraid to say how highly I think of her; she is eminently what a woman should ever be--the companion and the consoler."

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Well, I am glad to hear you say so much,'

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