which had been long on the easel, and on which I had bestowed more than ordinary thought and pains. There was a clear pool of water in the middle of my picture, a gravel bank rose from it on one side, and a green ash tree overhung it; there was a blue sky above, with one white cloud rising up out of the west; there were some yellow flags growing by the margin of the pool, and in the centre of it floated a lily crown. As Rosie lay on the sofa her eyes were soon attracted to this little landscape. I saw instantly that she recognised it, and that her regards lingered over it with a kind of tranquil joy.

What a happy scene it was for her to recollect! What a gracious reward had been vouchsafed to her to repay her for her pain, even the rescuing of a human life-the life of one who was extremely dear to her. But what a painful scene it was for me. I intended to copy it for her that she might continue to derive pleasure from it, and to keep the original that it might be a warning to me. I let her gaze at it, and when she was satisfied -pleased that I should have it, but so weak, so touched and troubled at the sight of it that her eyes were dim with tears, I covered it, and approaching her couch, told her that I had something to say to her. I knew she would still love me, and that she would feel neither resentment nor disbelief, so I knelt by her, and with my arm supporting her, and her cheek leaning against mine, I told her all that I have told to you.

And when I had done, true to the lovely simplicity of her character, she did not attempt to palliate, or even to excuse. She listened with wonder, with pity, with sympathising love. She kissed me many times, but it was evidently a mystery to her; and then she reminded me that God could forgive us all our sins, and she proposed that we should pray for the forgiveness of ours. Sweet, simple Rosie! she believed that I had been envious because I had told her so; she knew in theory that envy was a wicked thing, but so little had she ever been tempted to such a sin, that she scarcely knew either the blackness or the misery of it. And when she had paused awhile over my narration, and caressed me with all her own simplicity and tenderness, she said, " Ah, Millicent, if you had told me that you were vain could easily have believed you, but God has made you so rich, and so beautiful, and so much beloved, that I can scarcely understand what there is for you to envy."

I felt the truth of what she said. God had placed me in the best and happiest part of this his beautiful world. I was young, healthy, cared for, and sometimes, even in my most envious days, I had seriously considered whether there was any person with whom, on the whole, I could change with advantage, and I had decided that I had not yet met with such a person. And

yet, notwithstanding this deliberate decision, I had basely envied almost every one with whom I came into contact the brighter part of her less favoured lot.

I rose from my cousin's side, feeling lighter at heart for her sincere pity and simple minded, generous forgiveness. I felt that a great fault could not be eradicated at once, but I believed and knew that of Rosie, at least, I never could be envious again. And why? Because I loved her so heartily, that all her joys, her advantages, her hopes, had become mine. The great commandment offers the only solution, that problem which afflicts the envious, "How shall I be cured?" we ask; it answers, "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself."

But can love be learned? Can it be fostered, cultivated, indulged ? Can I make myself love my neighbour? Let us ask another question which may help us to the answer of this. Can hatred be learned? Can it be encouraged, cherished? Can I make myself hate my neighbour? Yes. How can I do this? I can do it by reflecting on the least agreeable parts of his character to the exclusion of his better qualities; I can impute bad motives to his indifferent actions; I can disparage his virtues and fail to excuse his faults; I can decline, in his case, to admit the strength of temptation; I can treasure up and dwell on imaginary slights or little affronts that he may have shown me, till they exasperate me; I can tell others of his behaviour, dwelling always on its darkest side, till it appears all the darker by frequent repetition.

And can I make myself envy my neighbour? Yes, I can. I can do it by constantly comparing him with myself on those points, and those only, where he has the advantage, by considering that those advantages are precisely such as I want in order to make me happy, by exaggerating their importance, and by dwelling so much on the lot of others that I neglect the means of improving my own; and by sitting idle, brooding over my hard case, and mourning because I see no way for making myself useful, beloved, or admired, while others with no better opportunities or talents, are up and doing those very things which, but that I am absorbed in envying them, I could do just as well.

By an opposite course I can foster, cultivate, and encourage affection. This it is granted, must be difficult at first, too difficult indeed for any but those who seek Divine assistance.

But I must proceed. Rosie stayed with me till she had quite recovered her health, and then went home, carrying with her the blessings and the love of all our household. Shortly afterwards, my sister returned, and I, knowing what was in my own heart, solved that by God's help, I would never while I lived consider

my fault as cured; but watch over it as over a fire subdued, but not extinguished, and which any passing wind will fan once more into a flame. My watch has now been long, and partly lest I should slumber at my post of watcher, and partly that my example may be a warning to you, I have set myself the task of penning these pages.

But you will naturally ask, how did I discover that you were the bondslave of envy?

We are so anxious naturally to conceal this fault, and it is one that it would be such an offence to accuse one of, that, though there are few of us to whom it has not been said, or intimated by friends or acquaintances, "You have a high opinion of yourself;" or, "You are exaggerating this story;" or, "You should not be so disdainful of your inferiors;" or, "You are not very industrious;" or, "You are hasty;" or, You are inconsiderate;" yet, to none of us perhaps, has it ever been said, "I perceive that you are envious."

This delicacy is a disadvantage to us; that which is not mentioned we think to be unknown. It may certainly be concealed from others for a time; but the essence of envy arises and depends on comparison; once institute a comparison in the presence of the envious, and unless they are on their guard, it is sure to be betrayed. As when an acquaintance of yours praised Mary's singing in your presence,-Mary, whom you call your friend-and you, replied, "Oh, yes, she sings beautifully, but really, it would be a disgrace if she did not."

"How, so ?" said your acquaintance.

"Oh!" you answered, "because she is always practising; indeed, I wonder how she can make it consistent with other duties; besides, she has been so well and so thoroughly taught, no pains have been spared with her ;" and you added, in the tone of an injured person, "It would be absurd to expect those who have enjoyed no such advantages, to equal her; it would be quite unfair.' Now, why did it give you pain to hear Mary praised, if you really love her, and are not envious of her? and why was it needful to assure her admirer that she had had such superior advantage. Did it make your singing any worse, to know that hers was better; and if it was better, why deny that this better singing was any merit of hers?

I discovered then that you were envious; but I was confirmed in my discovery the next day, when, as I sat at work with you, a common friend of ours chose to descant on the beauty and loveliness of Isabel. You listened for some time uneasily, and with a slightly heightened colour; you seemed to assent, and you even smiled, but it was not a cordial smile; and you said gently, "Yes, she is pretty, and has charming spirits, but I

think her manner has been a little more subdued since her sister made that runaway match."

By this remark you made the visitor suddenly silent; the shock of the information that you had conveyed was considerable; you knew him to be ignorant of that fact; yet you took care to convey it as if you were merely referring to something well known to you both, and you presently continued in a quiet tone, "Those charming high spirits have their disadvantages after all." He slowly answered, "Yes," and then asked if Isabel resembled her sister in person. "Oh, she is the image of her," you answered good humouredly, "the sisters are as much alike in face as in manner." (I have never heard any one else advert to this strong likeness, nor can I see it.)

Upon this the visitor, effectually silenced, stooped and picked up his glove; we both thought the information you had con veyed gave him more uneasiness than we should have supposed. He thought it a great disadvantage to Isabel, as you meant he should do; but you had no reward for your information; he could not be interested in the lively conversation which you tried to engage him in; he liked you none the better because you made him like Isabel less.

Here the manuscript abruptly terminates; on examination; it appears that some concluding pages have been torn away; but I will not draw upon my own invention to supply a conclusion, I prefer to give the story as it stands.

ORRIS.

A SCHOOL GIRL'S DIRGE.

THE wood nuts and berries are ripe, and the sloe
Clusters dark in the hedge where the thorn bushes grow;
But we care not to rove of their treasures in quest,
For there's one cannot go with us-poor Annie West!

In school there's the place where she sat, yet unfilled,
We sing, but her voice in our music is stilled;
And cheerless and sad are the games we love best,

Since she joins us no more in them-poor Annie West!

'Twas a fever that seized her, she suffered by day,
Nor was lulled by the night till her strength wore away;
And she died, looking upward to Jesus for rest,
From her pillow of anguish-our poor Annie West!

Oh, sad is the widow who dwells by the copse,
And tear after tear on her knitting she drops;

In the churchyard sleep all who once slept on her breast,
And the last of her children was poor Annie West.

We have planted her grave with the roots of sweet flowers
That blossom in April's warm sunshine and showers;
Should they brave the long winter 'twill gaily be drest;
Yet they'll bloom but to wither, like poor Annie West.

Ah, the spring may return and revive them, but she
Will no more pluck the daisy that grows on the lea,
Nor seek through the lanes for the hedge-sparrow's nest,
Nor go with us cowslip-ping-poor Annie West!

But the root of a plant keeps its life through the frost,
And still lives the soul of the playmate we've lost;
There shall yet come a morning to wake from her rest
In the grave's chilly bosom-our lost Annie West!

Then whiter than lily, more dazzling and bright

Than the large gleaming stars of the clear summer night-
With the Saviour she trusted to dwell and be blest-
Shall arise our fair sister-our own Annie West!

H. F.