of that time when she might hope to assist and console her.

The spring was cold and late, and their stock of wood was exhausted. Madame Leroi, whose ill health had prevented her working as much as usual during the winter, being averse to contracting a debt, declared that she could very well do with out a fire; but Mary Anne, who knew how much she suffered, wept each morning when, on opening the window, she found the cold as intense as ever. She would willingly have assisted her mother with her tapestry, but, although a tolerable worker, Madame Leroi had not encouraged her to neglect her more serious employments for the sake of perfecting herself in embroidery, and she had not yet entrusted her with any thing of much con

sequence.

Do not fear, Mary Anne," said she, "you will work soon enough for me."

On a day that Madame Leroi had returned to her bed with a bad sick headache, a piece of tapestry was sent to her with an order to work it as quickly as possible, to repair an accident caused by the falling of a lamp. The chair which it was to match was sent with it as a pattern. Mary Anne promised that it should be finished by the following week; and, agitated by an idea which had just entered her head, she shut all the things together in a place where her mother was not likely to find them. Madame Leroi having been asleep at the time of this occurrence, knew nothing of it. Mary Anne found, to her great joy, that her mother's box of silks contained all that was necessary for her work.

With the assistance of the porter's wife, to whom she confided her scheme, she dragged from the garret an old work-frame, and fixed it in an uninhabited room, of which this woman had the key. Before her mother awoke, the frame was mounted, the chair placed before it, and the needle threaded; and the following morning, being unable to sleep, from impatience, she silently escaped to her work, to which she also devoted the two hours which were usually spent in a walk with Madame Thibourg and her daughters. She communicated her intention of surprising her mother to Madame Thibourg, but said not a word about the privations which that mother had undergone. The harp was a little neglected, to be sure; for, while practising, she thought only of the shades of her silks; but in time she found herself quite equal to her undertaking. As she had only to copy, and was now endued with that perseverance which conquers all difficulties, this her first attempt succeeded to admiration; and on the seventh day, the porter's wife, and Madame Thibourg and her daughters, who were summoned to a consultation, declared that the copy could not be distinguished from the original. The good woman was commissioned to take the work home, and receive the money, which Mary Anne destined to the purchase of half a load of wood.

The next morning, while Madame Leroi was still in bed, Mary Anne, who was now very much delighted at the coldness of the atmosphere, had the wood put in the fire-place, while the porter's wife, nearly as much pleased as herself, brought a good stoveful of lighted coals. Madame Leroi, awaking at the noise of the crackling wood, asked what it was, and reproached Mary Anne with having bought a faggot.

"A faggot, indeed!" said the woman, proudly; "come and look if the kitchen faggots are like that;" and Mary Anne, opening the curtains of her mother's bed, showed her such a nicely-burning fire as she had not seen for many weeks; then, without answering a question, she threw a dressinggown over her, took her to the kitchen, where the good creature had piled their store of wood, and, after placing her by her sitting-room fire, she related all that had occurred.

"My dear child-" were the only words her weeping mother could utter.

Mary Anne pressed her mother's hand, and exclaimed, in an animated, yet serious tone, "Now, mamma, I do indeed belong to you!"

"Yes, my love, and I take possession of you," replied the mother, with great emotion; "now is your turn to give yourself to your mother,—the time is come." And Mary Anne, falling at her mother's feet, covered her hand with kisses.

From that day she assisted her mother in working, without stealing from her hours of study; her strength and activity never failed, for the good feelings that put them in action were inexhaustible. At the age of eighteen, she was quite qualified to give lessons, having tried her first efforts in teaching on Madame Thibourg's youngest daughter. Her next pupils were the young ladies of a school, and, as she became more known, she taught in several respectable families. At first, the porter's wife used to attend her to and from the houses of her pupils; but in a short time, Mary Anne's good sense, and the modest, serious manner which the thought of her peculiar position required her to adopt, induced Madame Leroi to allow her to go alone; and this enabled her to make more extensive engagements. The expenses of their house was thus defrayed; and if, on Mary Anne's return, she found her mother looking fatigued, she would take the work from her hand, saying, "I belong to you, mamma, you must do as I please."

Madame Leroi's health became worse and worse, but she felt no anxiety about it, while her child remained well. At such moments as these, Mary Anne rejoiced in the consciousness of her health and strength.

On receiving an advantageous offer of marriage, she felt that in accepting it, she would not only deprive herself of the pleasure of working for her mother, but also rob that mother of the charms of her society, and she declined it. Fortunately the announcement was made to herself, and she studiously concealed her refusal from her mother (who would never have consented to such a sacrifice) until some time afterwards, when, seeing her mother deeply affected, and nearly angry at this intelligence, she fell at her feet, exclaiming, "Mother, I have but one favour to ask of you, that of being allowed to belong to you always!"

"My child," said her mother, with a sigh, “be happy in your own way;" and she concealed her deep regret at the failure of this marriage.

Not very long afterwards, mention was made, in Mary Anne's hearing, of an officer, whose wounds compelled him to retire from active service, although little more than thirty years of age. He had lost his left arm, and his former good looks had disappeared, under an accumulation of sufferings. Full of ardour for his profession, but sadly depressed at the reflection of so early a termination to his once brilliant expectations, he had devoted

himself to solitary meditation. He would not think of marriage, having, as he said, but his own wretched self to offer to a woman. Mary Anne, whose natural disposition, and habits of thinking, led her to delight in generosity of sentiment, replied, with warmth, that she thought the whole charge of a husband's happiness a sufficient offering to any woman. This speech being repeated to M. de Luxeuil, the officer, together with the comments on Mary Anne's character which it elicited, excited his curiosity to know more about her; and, when he was informed that she had hitherto devoted her life to her mother, he conceived the idea, that by assisting her in this pleasing task, he should give himself a claim to her gratitude and affection.

The person who had mentioned Mary Anne to him (not without design), encouraged the idea, and managed so well, that from talking of her, M. de Luxeuil became desirous she should hear of him, and he then thought it might be possible for him to make himself agreeable to her.

To make my story short: in course of time, the proposal was made, and joyfully accepted; and after their marriage, M. de Luxeuil took his wife and mother-in-law to a charming country house which he possessed, about thirty leagues from Paris. On arriving, he conducted Madame Leroi to the apartments which he had ordered to be arranged for her use, and Mary Anne beamed on him a smile of fond affection, as if in thanks. The rest of the house excited new admiration at every step. In the drawing-room, Madame Leroi's armchair was placed in the most comfortable corner, and care had been taken in planning their future style of living, that it should be such as best suited her health, tastes, and habits. "My children,' said she, looking affectionately at her son-in-law and daughter, "I perceive that you have already talked a great deal about me."

Mary Anne's happiness was complete, and M. de Luxeuil began a life of such bliss as he had never before even dreamed of. Formed, by their mutual tastes, to become dearer to each other, and most grateful for their reciprocal happiness, Mary Anne and her husband felt almost alarmed at this untroubled stream of joy. Madame Leroi hardly knew how to respond to this double affection. "Leave me alone," she would say; "what am I to do with two causes of happiness at once."

Poetry.

[In Original Contributions under this head, the Name, real or assumed, of the Contributor, is printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selections, it is printed in Italics at the end.] THE STORY OF HORSLEY HALL. (J. E. M.)

THE lady was sitting alone in her grief,

Yet her proud flashing eye scorn'd to weep for relief,
While these half-mutter'd words from her pale lips comprest
Gave vent to the passion that swell'd in her breast:-
"Am I thus then cast off, like a plaything laid by ?
Has he sated his lust? has he wearied his eye?
Has his fickle heart, yearning again to be free,
Learnt another is younger and fairer than me?
"Where's the love he once swore should be strong in all time,
Should soften our age as it gladden'd our prime?
The flame then so hot has grown suddenly cold,
Like a dream that is fled, like a tale that is told.

"His want of affection and love I could bear,
With a heart ill at ease, and a proud, careless air;
But to meet such a slight, such a mark of disdain-
Oh, my God! it o'erpowers and maddens my brain.
"Was his easy neglect not enough of disgrace,
That he needs must caress here my maid to my face?
"Twere better to die than a bye-word to live-
Life to me now no pleasure save vengeance can give."

'Twas a sight full of dread in that old chamber dark,
The lady's fine face how it workèd to mark :
Far better to meet with a she-wolf at bay
Than encounter a woman when balked in her way.
She heard a low knock, and serene grew her face,
Like the sea when a cloud passeth o'er without trace:
As, the door softly opening, her maiden stepp'd in,
You'd have thought her a creature too lovely for sin.

Said the lady, with voice that dissembled her hate,
"I forgot that the evening was drawing in, Kate;
Thou shalt dress me, good wench, to the best of thy power,
For Sir Thomas, I hope, will be here in an hour."

Her forehead is bound with a chaplet of pearl,
And her dark raven locks on her snowy neck curl;
O never, I ween, had that lady, so fair,
Seem'd fairer than then, or more sprightly her air.
She leaned through the casement her beautiful hed,
"He is coming at last-he is coming," she said;
Now nearer and nearer his horse's hoofs fall,
He will quickly be here; let us haste to the hall.”
Through the gailery long the unfortunate pair
Arrived at the head of the broad oaken stair;
When the maid, by her mistress (as old people tell)
On a sudden pushed down, o'er the baunister feil.
One instant, her white robes were fluttering in air;
The next, she was dashed at the foot of the stair.
You may still see the stain on the mouldering wood,
Where the floor of the hall was bespatter'd with Flood.

As the lady descend d the staircase alone,
She thought once she heard her in agony moan;
But when on the last step she listen'd; no sound
Save the clock's heavy tick broke the silence around.
When Sir Thomas and she o'er the dead body met,
There was that in her eye man might never forget:
One glance spoke the whole of her heart's deadly hate,
And told how the maiden had come by her fate.
Neither utter'd a word-for their souls felt within
That each knew the whole of the other one's sin;
But they gazed on the blood-spotted face of the dead,
And learnt that in life all their pleasure had fled.

'Twas deemed that Kate's foot slipt-for none saw the blow-
Yet at times there were whisperings, though secret and low,
That some terrible thing did that lady appal,
Whenever she ventured to pass through the hall

They buried the corpse in the pleasant churchyard,
At the foot of a yew by the western gate hard;
And still does a tomb, with a quaint arch built 1igh,
Mark the place where the bones of that young creature lie.
Yet a curse seemed to rest on the house. The proud dame
Soon to foreign lands passed, nor again ever came;
But sought in a convent. by praying and tears,
To atone that sad deed all the rest of her years.
When Sir Thomas died early, the last of his race,
No kinsman attended his bones to their place;
But buried by strangers, uncared for, unwept,
With his fathers in Birkenhead Abbey he slept.

The above Ballad is intended to embody an old story of Horsley Hall, on the borders of Denbighshire and Cheshire, once the seat of the Powells, a family which became extinct in the last century. They were people of much consequence in that part of the country, and the possessors of the abbey lands at Birkenhead: so that their history seems to confirm the opinion of a curse at:ending such kind of property. How far the facts of the case are athered to in the Ballad, is extremely doubtful. One account repre, ents Sir Thomas as the murderer, and not his lady.