Mr. Grant never urged her stay. He had alluded only once to his wife's request, and that soon after her death. "I have nothing to offer which can tempt you to remain," he said; "for my home will not be now what it was when she was here. Yet you know how much, how very much my children need you; and if you can feel willing to stay for their sakes, and that of her who asked it, I shall be most grateful, and God will bless you for the act.”

An earnest assurance of the pleasure which she felt in being permitted to watch over the children, and in any degree to minister to his comfort, satisfied him, and from that time the subject was no more alluded to; indeed, very little conversation of any kind took place between them, for Mr. Grant seemed now to shun the family circle as carefully as he had once sought it. The greater portion of his time was spent in retirement and study, and he appeared to have lost all taste for social enjoyment, since she who had brightened every scene to him had passed away.

Miss Mason had taken, almost as a matter of course, the whole direction of the household, and he felt no anxiety for worldly things. He saw his children well and happy, improving in their education; and, though he superintended a part of that education, the general conduct of it was left to their fond and efficient governess. And what had Ella, the once gay and brilliant Ella, who for more than eighteen years had sported through life, scarcely conscious of the existence of such a thing as care-what had she to reconcile her to a life of constant watchfulness and never-ceasing thought? She had the smiles of an approving conscience, the affection of the little ones for whom she lived, and the hope of being one day permitted to present them, in the world above, to the mother from whom she had received the charge. And, as she watched their growing intelligence with almost a mother's pride, or felt their little arms twined round her neck, and their warm lips pressed to her cheek, she thought herself fully repaid for every hour of anxiety, every feeling of responsibility and care. The weight, too, had come gradually upon her, and was therefore less heavily felt. At first she was simply the teacher of the little ones; then, as Mrs. Grant's health gave way, one duty after another was assumed to relieve the invalid, until, long before her death, she had under her direction the entire charge of the domestic concerns, and, when that took place, she became the nominal, as she had before been the real, head of the family.

But this was too peaceful and happy a state to remain altogether undisturbed; and rumours, for some time in circulation in the congregation of which she was a member, and Mr. Grant pastor, began to reach Miss Mason. She had always looked upon her minister as a being apart from the rest of the world, one not to be spoken of lightly, nor approached with even the shadow of disrespect; nor had a daily and comparatively familiar intercourse with him ever removed this impression from her mind. Words would fail

to express her grief and indignation at hearing, from one whom she had deemed a friend, that the name of this honoured being had been coupled with her own in light words and lighter jests; and that his comparative seclusion from his people had been attributed to other causes than grief for the wife he had so tenderly loved, so deeply lamented.

"An angel from heaven would not escape censure from those who would speak thus of Mr. Grant!" she exclaimed, unable to restrain the expression of her indignation. "If ever there was a being on earth whose life might challenge the closest scrutiny, it is his."

"I have no doubt you think so, Miss Mason,” said her gratified informant, smiling maliciously; "but others"

"Others!" she interrupted impatiently. "And who knows Mr. Grant so well as I ?"

"No one, certainly; but I was only going to observe that they would scarcely think you a disinterested witness."

A withering reply rose to the lips of the excited girl; but she felt that it was worse than useless to prolong the conversation, and, suppressing her feelings, directed it into another channel; and the lady visitor, having succeeded in the object of her call, and obtained fresh_material for gossip, soon took her departure, leaving Ella to thoughts sad and agitated beyond any she had ever known before. And yet it was rather feeling than thought, for of thought she was just then scarcely capable; but the emotions awakened by what she had heard were too powerful for control, and, leaning her head on the arm of the sofa where she was sitting, she wept unrestrainedly and bitterly.

From this indulgence of her feelings she was roused by the voice of Mr. Grant, inquiring, in tones of surprise and concern, “My dear Miss Mason, what is the matter? What has occurred to distress you?"

She looked up in much agitation; but too highly excited to make any attempt at concealment, she said, in broken tones, "Mr. Grant, I must go home."

"Go home! You have had bad news from B., then. I am very sorry. Are your parents ill? Or what is it that requires your presence?" "It is not that I am needed at home; but I cannot stay here any longer. Do not ask me why," she continued, weeping; "but I must leave you."

"Leave us! go away altogether! Nay, then, I must ask you why? I must know what has caused this sudden determination." And seating himself beside her, he, after a time, succeeded in drawing from her the tale which had induced both her emotion and the resolve she had expressed.

The account was no less surprising to him than it had been to herself, and caused scarcely less pain; for he had never imagined that a wrong construction could be put upon the seclusion which his deep grief had induced. He sat for some time in pained and gloomy silence, thinking only of what he had heard, and forget,

Weeks and months rolled on, and the slanderous reports which had so deeply pained Ella had, as Mr. Grant predicted, died of themselves. But their effect upon her had not ceased. Others might have forgotten them, but she could not forget; and a nervous dread of their renewal would, but for the determination with which she turned from it, have made her very miserable. All seemed as it had done, it was true; but the feeling of security which had made so large a portion of her happiness was gone; and, though to others she might appear as tranquil as before, there was a restlessness, a vague fear ever fluttering about her heart which she could not still.

Alas, poor girl! the agony caused by those tales, and by the thought that she must part with him, had shown her in the depths of that heart a feeling unsuspected by herself before, and had forced her, though with bitter tears and self-upbraidings, to acknowledge that she loved Mr. Grant as she had loved no other-as woman can love but once.

She never dreamed of a return; she believed that he would never love again; and her only thought was how to conquer, or at least disguise, her own deep affection. Yes, Ella Mason, once so certain that a second love, if it existed, could call forth no return, so positive that her heart could only be given in exchange for one which had enshrined no other image, now loved, with all the warmth of her nature, the widowed husband of her dearest friend.

"Yet not with earthly love, Father!-oh, not with earthly love!" she exclaimed often, as, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, she knelt before her God. "Yet is he dearer than a thing of earth should be! Oh, strengthen me to overcome this feeling! aid me to conceal!"

Some months had passed in this way, when, one evening, as she was retiring with the children at their usual hour, Mr. Grant said

"Will you return to the parlour, Miss Mason, when you are at leisure? I wish a few moments' conversation with you."

Never, at any time or in any way, Mr. Grant. If I have given you cause to think so, it is I who should ask your forgiveness. I have been dull, perhaps, for I am not altogether well, and, for the first time in my life, am somewhat nervous; but offence in your house I never had cause for, and, I do assure you, never thought of."

"It is well," he said, musingly. "I am glad that it is so."

And a silence of some moments ensued, which to Ella seemed interminable, yet which she dared not break. At length Mr. Grant rose, and commenced walking the room; and, gathering courage, she, too, left her seat, saying

"If you have nothing more to say to me, I will retire."

66

No, Ella, sit down again. I have much more to say to you-much which I scarcely know how to begin." Then, taking her hand in his, as she still stood where his words had arrested her, he said, "Let me come to the point at once. You have long been as a mother to my children: Ella, will you be my wife?"

He paused: but Ella could not answer; her heart throbbed so that she could not speak, and she sank upon the sofa and covered her face. He sat down beside her, and gently strove to soothe her agitation

"It is but a little while, Ella," he said, "since I deemed it possible to love any but my sainted Anna. At the time when you spoke of leaving us, I was most indignant at the idea of another ever taking her place. Even now it is but the first place in a widowed heart that I can offer you; one that will never lose the memory of its early love. Yet I love you fondly, Ella; better than aught else on earth, and, if you will be mine, will strive earnestly to make you happy."

Still Ella was silent; and, when he spoke again, his tone evinced much emotion

I fear I have pained you," he said; "I ought to have remembered that you were still too young to give your heart's first warmth of love to one who has so little to give you in exchange. Forgive me, Ella. If you cannot love me, at least forgive my folly. I will leave you now," he continued.

66

"Miss Mason," he said-"Ella, have I offended you?"

"Offended me, Mr. Grant! Oh no! Why should you think that you have offended me?"" I have fancied that you were less frank and coral in your manner, Ella, for some time. You as not talked to me so much nor so freely as you once did, and I feared that I had,

own feelings, but of yours. Do you indeed love me?”

“Do you doubt it?" he replied, almost indignantly. "Why should I profess a love I did not feel? Do you think I would deceive you, Ella ?”

"No! Oh, no, I am sure you would not! And yet I cannot realize-it seems like a dream that you should love me," She pressed her

hand over her eyes for a moment, and then placing it in his with something of the childlike confidence of former days, she said, though her tone was low and tremulous," Mr. Grant, the least and lowest place in your heart is more valuable to me than the undivided love of any other !"

"Ella! dear Ella !" he said, as, overpowered by this simple acknowledgment, he clasped her in his arms, "as much as I can now love anything on earth I love you. You will be mine, then, Ella? I am no longer alone!”

No answering words were needed now; for, in that hour of joy, spirit communed with spirit, and each felt how deeply and sincerely the other loved.

*

"Ella," said Aunt Hetty, with a quiet smile, after the first congratulations were over, and when the bustle attendant upon the arrival of the bridal party having somewhat subsided, she and her niece were conversing a little apart, "George Sidney was married again last week."

Ι ΗΟΡΕ

"I am am glad to hear it," replied Mrs. Grant, smiling and blushing as she met her aunt's significant look, and recollected her own words in relation to second marriages. "I hope he may be very happy."

"Happy! But are you not sorry for his wife? Is not a second marriage always a matter either of calculation or convenience? Must not every spark of romance or freshness of feeling be extinguished before such a thing can be thought of? Does not a heart require”—

"Aunt Hetty! Aunt Hetty!" interrupted her niece, in some confusion, "pray do not bring up all the nonsense of my girlhood against me. I was very silly then."

"And have grown wiser now, under Mr. Grant's auspices. Ah, Ella, was not I a true prophetess, dear?"

"To some extent you were, dear aunt. I have given my whole heart in exchange for a second love, and I am more than satisfied; but-there are very few men like Mr. Grant, and-andplease do not tell him how foolish I used to be."

You say Roses and stars have seldom been discuss'd by you and me,

the dew is on the rose, the stars are o'er the sea"

PROPOS E!

Boatie Rows"

won't propose!

The

You never wore in Regent-street such sad and anxious looks

You never talked in Belgrave-square of cottages and brooks!

Why do you speak about "the bliss that mutual love bestows?"

Why quote from Shenstone's Pastorals? I hope you won't propose!

Now, should you really ask of me my freedom to forego,

And I pronounced (for so I should) a frank, decisive "No!"

Just tell me, could you ever hope hereafter to

appear

In public, as my chosen knight, my favoured cavalier?

We must pass by one another with looks as cold and proud

As the couple in Haynes Bayly's song, who "met, 'twas in a crowd!"

Refusals leave a sting behind, so every wise man knows;

And those who doubt the answer should beware how they propose!

Nor could I soon another find so ready at my call, So careful of my handkerchief, my bouquet, and my shawl.

Who would secure the opera-box? who would so ably choose

The best and most conspicuous seats at races and reviews?

Then, when we once were seen apart, imagine, if

you can,

What snares society would set to trap the marrying man!

Girls, chaperons, and mothers would be always in

your way:

You would feel in every drawing-room just like a stag at bay.

While I, unwelcome suitors would beset my path by

scores;

Pert coxcombs, country cousins, blockheads, fortune-hunters, bores,

All ready to pursue, annoy, plead, flatter, fawn, and

prose.

Do save me from the horrid tribe! in pity don't propose!

By all the gay assemblies we have gone to, night by night

(Termed, I believe, in poetry, "the halls of dazzling light!")

By our soft and quiet whispers, when with Jullien's concerts dinned

By our speechless rapture when we heard the notes of Jenny Lind

By our Crystal Palace saunters, when we saw in rapt surprise

The wonders of Arabian tales unfolded to our eyesBy all the "Claude Lorraine effects" that faithful Memory throws

Over three successive seasons, I adjure you, don't proposo!

Yes! we are sever'd wide apart,
So close as still we seem to be-
Sever'd while bound heart fast to heart
In mute conformity.

And sad it is to feel and know

To mortals never yet was given To dwell, two souls in one, below, Or shall be, save in heaven.

It is but by a common bond

We seem to grow so near, so near-
The same hope in a bright beyond-
The same enjoyments here;

The same sweet thoughts that wing their way
To the same sweet happy home of rest,
That bids us fold from day to day
Each to each other's breast.

"Tis but our poor imperfect speech, Our eyes but half-revealing shine, That prompts the pleasant lie to each "His thoughts are e'en as inine." Unfathomed depths in either soul

Full of stern discords still remain,
Hid in that seeming perfect whole
Enough to render twain.

Souls strung in life must ever be
Each to its own peculiar tone,
Till Death shall strike the master-key,
And all be tuned to one.

Then in that deathless quire above
Our hearts unisonal shall join,
Merged in one symphony of love,
Beyond all mine and thine.

Well, we left poor Hilda fast bound to a tree, in one of the most lonely parts of the forest; with the large tears running down her pale face, and heart quite sick with anguish and sorrow quite broken, indeed; as well it might be. She heard the growl of the bear, and when her wicked mother-in-law and Brunehaut ran away, she glanced fearfully round, to see if it was one of her own dear bears, as she fondly hoped, or a wild one, that would probably make a meal of her; but, to her great joy, it was the old bear of all, who came running up to her directly, licking her hands and feet, and fawning; and then, running hastily away, it returned in a short time with its three cubs, which were grown, however, into great bears; and they, too, licked her, and ambled about her, and wagged their bushy tails, quite surprised, all of them, that she did not return their caresses, or pat their heads as usual; and then seating themselves round her on their haunches, looked fondly at her with half-closed eyes-waiting patiently for her to begin to play with them, sucking their great paws, in the meantime, to hide their impatience. And then, two or three of her tame squirrels came hopping up, with their tails in the air; and

then her dear turtle doves, who had seen her pass but were afraid to join her, because of the Baroness and Brunehaut, came flying up, and settled on her shoulder, putting their little cooing bills to her lips, to be kissed as usual; and then the blackbirds, thrushes, and nightingales, came flying all around; and, lastly, her dear white does, who licked her face and looked at her with their large affectionate eyes quite mournfully, as much as to say-"What's the matter with you, dear mistress?" for, in short, they all felt that something was the matter, so that a dead melancholy silence reigned among them; and they all hung their heads, quite broken-hearted, too.

But all this only made poor Hilda weep the more bitterly; so that her sobs were the only sounds heard. "For I shall soon be dead," said she--" who will or can come to loosen my bonds, in this wild place? Yes, here I must die, miserably, and I shall never-never see my own dear papa more! and those wicked ones will tell him I am dead, and he will weep for his poor Hilda! And my dear little Bobby, too, where are you-do you forsake me in my hour of need?"

"Here I am; here I am, darling," exclaimed