EYOND the ancient gate, through which Philomel emerged from the grounds belonging to the abbey, spread to the left a tract of moorland. On the further side of this were seen the spire of the church, village roofs, and the shrubbery surrounding the vicarage, to which Philomel Lamb was now bound. To the right lay the pleasant meadow-path which she had pursued when coming from Lady Macaw's on the breaking-up of the little working-party at the Villa of Roses. Philomel paused before crossing the moor, as she saw the stunted figure of Miss Eccles, conspicuous from afar by the long green veil which she wore, coming from the direction of the villa. The elderly lady quickened her pace as much as a slight lameness would permit when she caught sight of the vicar's daughter, and Philomel, turning out of her way, went to meet her old friend.

"My dear, you've just come from the abbey ?" cried Miss Eccles, as she limped towards Philomel, panting partly from eagerness to know the result of the visit, partly from breathlessness caused by walking unusually fast.

"Yes, I've seen my uncle," said Philomel.

'And what success have you had?" cried Miss Eccles.

Philomel sighed and shook her head as she answered, "None."

"If Mr. Coffin does not care for what you say, it is not likely that he will care for what Lady Macaw writes," said Miss Eccles with a look of disappointment, glancing down on a pink-tinted and muskscented note which she held in her hand.

"Are you carrying a letter from Lady Macaw to my uncle?"

"I offered to do it; her servants are busy preparing for to-morrow's archery-meeting, you know. I am sure that I would do anything to help to keep up the school," continued the lady, raising her cotton handkerchief to her heated face, "but there's nothing that a poor old creature like me can do, except heartily wish and pray that those who have the means to do great good may have the heart also."

"Better to have the heart than the means, Miss Eccles," said Philomel kindly.

"It may be, my dear, it may be; but I own that I did feel a little covetous to-day. I've everything I need for myself, but I should like to be able to give something more than good wishes. But I will not detain you, my dear; I promised to take the letter at once."

Philomel pressed her old friend's hand, cased in its neatly-mended cotton glove, for, except upon very rare occasions, kid was a luxury unknown to Miss Eccles. The two then separated, and Philomel watched for a minute the little limping form as it hurried away on an errand of kindness.

'There," thought she, "goes one who is ready to take a servant's office, and to press on tired and heated on a mission which will bring her no credit and scarcely a word of thanks. I sometimes think,” reflected Philomel, as she turned to the path across the moor, "that Miss Eccles cares less about self than any one else in our village circle. She is 'content to fill a little space,' which is more than can be said of most of us. I wonder whether in her youth she ever got up little dramas in her own fancy of which she was the heroine, inventing speeches that would never be spoken, and imagining looks that would never be given." Philomel sighed as she pursued her reflections. "What idle folly was mine! How my charity was but a froth

covering the surface of vanity—a froth so light, that a breath of satire could blow it away! My uncle's society oppresses and chills me. He has no faith in what is lofty, noble, and generous; he cannot believe in any motive higher than that of covetousness or vanity. He would do with life what he is going to do with his beautiful old abbey-tear away the clinging associations, the blossoming hopes, silence the wild music, and reduce all, if he could, to one tame uniformity of selfish comfort! All charm of poetry destroyed, the beautiful sacrificed to the useful; as if the beautiful had not a use of its own, and as if the heart were not likely to be the happier and the purer for the poetry in it!"

As Philomel approached the cottage on the edge of the moor, she saw that the little scholars of Thwayte were dispersing to their various homes, as their afternoon lessons were just over. But there was no joyful sound from

"The playful children just let loose from school." Tidings had already spread through the village that the place where the little ones and their parents before them had learned to fear God and read His Word was to be turned into a public-house, and the children were thronging together in groups, with looks of grave concern that were strange on their chubby faces. Philomel could scarcely bear to think

that the drunkard's song might soon be heard within those walls which had so often resounded with hymns. Without her usual merry smile, the vicar's daughter acknowledged the bobs and curtseys from the various groups that she passed. As she went up to the cottage porch, a little child ran up to her, caught her by the dress, and looked up wistfully at Philomel, with her eyes brimming over with tears.

"What ails you, my little Mary?" said Philomel, tenderly, stooping down to the child.

"Oh, I hopes, I hopes it's not true as teacher is goin' away, and we won't never have no more school! You won't let it be true, will you?" pleaded the child.

It was bitter to Philomel to be able to speak no word of hope to the child, who seemed to have such confidence in the lady's power to help.

"Shall I find Mrs. Arkwright within?" asked Philomel, glancing towards the cottage.

Little Mary nodded her head. She's a bin acrying, and so has a lot on us-we be all so sorry as teacher is goin' away;" and the tears that had been glistening in the eyes overflowed and ran down the sunburnt cheeks.

With a sigh Philomel crossed the threshold of the little schoolhouse, and found the mistress not resting