ed avidity, as soon as her strength would allow. The sketches she had made in Scotland, became more valuable to her every day, in proportion as she forgot the pain, and dwelt only on the pleasure with which they were connected; and from these she busied herself to compose a picture, which should exceed all her other performances in excellence of colouring, and execution. To her eye, it was like a vision of paradise; for there was the blue lake on which they had sailed; and, stretching far out into its quiet bosom, was the point of rock, tinged with the rays of the setting sun, where the happy party stood while she was sketching: the broken foreground, the rich purple heath, and the scattered fragments of stone, on which Frederick and herself were seated. Anna painted, improved, and gazed upon this picture, until it became a sort of idol to her; but it was not before her father talked of the price she would ask for it, that she was aware of her own idolatry; and scornfully as her proud spirit at first rejected the old man's sordid notion, after circumstances occurred, which tended very much to reconcile the idea.

It was evident to many, and now could no longer be concealed from Anna, that her father was failing, both in purse and person. She had no wish to encroach unnecessarily upon his limited means; but she felt, more painfully than ever, her own inability to assist him; she felt, also, the want of many comforts, both for herself and her father, which she had never thought of before; for she was still extremely delicate, and the winter's cold seemed more than her slender frame could bear.

"If I had but a warm cloak," she said to herself, one day, after a visit to Mary Newton; and then, the thought of her picture presented itself, to be rejected and returned to a thousand times, before she could really make up her mind to part with it.

The love of a mother to her offspring is known even to the brutes; and there are many other natural affections, common to all; but the love of a painter for his picture, is

what few can imagine, because few have known it. And if he do sometimes value his performance at what the world considers an unreasonable rate, let it not be set down solely to an inordinate love of gain; for in his picture, he beholds the clear skies, the work of his own hands, all bright and glowing, as if no cloud had ever cast a shadow on his path; the trees, in their perpetual verdure, and the seas, the lakes, and rivers, that know no storms; but most of all, his eye delights to dwell upon the portrait of a friend; for when he looks on that, memory brings back the time when it was paintedthe kind words that were spoken, and the feelings that were shared together. Time may change the original. Alas! we all know, that time can wrinkle the fair cheek, and dim the sparkling eye with tears; and oh! more than all, can estrange the heart, and turn away the current of the affections; but this mute and motionless image bids defiance, alike to the ebb and flow of human passions, and to the chilling touch of time.

After many a lingering look, not unfrequently blended with tears, Anna at last determined upon the sale of her painting; which accordingly was set in an elegant and costly frame, and sent to stand the test of vulgar criticism, in the window of an artist's repository, in the neighbouring town.

The picture, however, was not sold, though the frame was paid for; and Anna was obliged to fold herself, once more, in a cloak that was neither warm nor handsome.

CHAPTER VIII.

"THERE is nothing puzzles me so much to account for," said Anna to her friend, "as, how you should always be so happy."

"Can you tell me," replied Mary, "why that little robin bears so patiently the winter's cold; and sings so cheerfully when he feels the first gleam of sunshine? It is because he has never flown to warmer cli

with the belief, that no correspondence was kept up between them, and trusting to the well known propensity of young gentlemen to forget young ladies, especially when absent; besides, they had both other things of deep interest to converse about. The health of William Clare was failing rapidly, and every one predicted that he would not live to see another spring; and dark sayings were heard about his worldly affairs, and harsh comments were made upon his useless daughter. Anna's health was also extremely delicate, and she would often talk to Mary of the cold Scottish blight, from which, she believed, she never should recover.

Under these clouds the poor artist and her father spent the month of December; and Christmas, the happy time of good cheer and hearty welcome, brought nothing for them but that long train of gloomy realities, with which this merry-making season is associated in the minds and memories of those who have had to drink of the bitter draught of poverty.

No rosy school-boy threw open the door of William Clare; no cheerful party gathered round his hearth; no games nor festivities echoed in his silent home;-but a sickly daughter leaned her head upon her hand, in musing attitude, her eyes fixed upon the glimmering of a scanty fire, which just gave light enough to show the vast accumulation of bills and papers piled up on the mantelpiece. The night was dark, a heavy fall of snow lay thick upon the ground, and a fierce wind howled around their dwelling, searching every crevice of the doors and windows. The old man was dozing in his arm chair, and Anna sat beside him, pale and motionless as a marble statue, when suddenly a loud knock was heard at the door, and they both started, one from sleeping, and the other from waking dreams.

It was a long time before the old servant could unbar the door, and Anna stood trembling and agitated, she knew not why. The foot of a man was heard stamping off the light snow, and she began to think he never would come in.

"Is your mistress at home?" said a kind and well known voice, so unlike all other voices, so impossible to be mistaken !—

A few evenings after this, the members of a book society, established by Miss Langley, held their meeting at the house of Mr. Blanchard the surgeon, where two maiden ladies, of unspeakable age, amused themselves with the following conversation:

"Dear Mis Langley, she has so little time for writing, and yet what a kind letter I have received from her this morning." And the lady spread forth a neatly folded sheet of the finest writing paper, in which a few wavy lines, extenting far and wide, told how much the amiable writer was interested in the improvement of the inhabitants of her dear village of L, and how truly she was, &c. &c.

"There is one thing, however," continued the lady, "in which I confess I am in the dark. Miss Langley recommends the study of Belles Letters, and, between ourselves, I cannot recollect ever having heard of them before. Now you, who have so good a memory, may perhaps be able to help me out, for as I mean to order the book to night, you know it will be quite as well to say something of the style of the publication, its size, price, &c.

The lady appealed to drew her hand across her forehead, and then confessed she had read the book; but really, it was very odd, she could not call to mind whether it was an octavo or duodecimo. "Ah! here comes my nephew, charming boy! even he has imbibed this love of literature. How delightful to meet with such young and ardent minds engaged in the same laudable pursuit."

At this instant a rosy-faced, red-handed, blustering young man, dressed in a short coat, and slashing a riding-whip about his own legs, and sometimes the legs of his neighbours, walked, or rather waded into the room; and after staring at the young ladies, and stumbling over the toes of the old ones, at last turned to meet the welcome of his aunt, though with no very cordial greeting on his part.

"Why, don't you know that his horses are kept at Langley Hall, and that Lord B's hounds will throw off on Preston Common on Thursday; and a glorious run we mean to have !" and then the young Nimrod set up his hunting yell in the very ear of her who had just begun to hope that he would at last "get understanding."

As soon as this noisy intruder had withdrawn himself, and the old ladies could again hear themselves talk, they went on, with lowered voices, to hope, but really they could not help fearing, that young Mr. Langley had come down with some particular view. "It was a sad affair, very sad, but such things must be expected from bringing people up so much above their situation."

They had long thought the girl was more like a play-woman than a respectable farmer's daughter. Respectable, indeed, he was not; for it was well known he could not meet his payments this Christmas, and that all would have to be sold up; and then they wondered how much the moreen window curtains would go for; and then, more interesting still, they branched off into the merits of some articles which they had lately purchased for themselves; comparing the price, and the quality of each, with many other items not noted in the records of the bookSociety of L.

CHAPTER IX.

THERE are harsh natures that cannot enter into a situation, such as Anna Clare's, who

would say that she was bold, imprudent, and sought what she deserved to find, her own destruction. But surely, they can never have known how plausible is the first appearance of earthly love, to those whose hearts are yet warm with the glow of youth, and unhackneyed in the ways of the world. So pure, so disinterested, so entirely divested of every thing either gross or mean, is the first growth of this dangerous passion, at least in the breast of woman.

Anna felt all this, without one suspicion of the candour and integrity of her lover; nor had he hitherto harboured a thought that was injurious to her. In him she saw only the kind friend and companion of her summer rambles, come back, to her, when friends are dearest-in the winter, when there are few external sources of enjoyment; and oh! more than all, in the winter of the soul!

To the gaze of vulgar admiration Anna had indeed lost much of her beauty with her bloom; but to Frederick she was more lovely than before. It is true, she was much paler; her look of rosy health was gone; yet the colour had not so entirely forsaken her cheeks, but that it was ready to come back with every varying emotion, brighter and purer, and more spiritual in its variations.

There were traces of deep thought too upon her clear forehead, but so gently marked, as to seem only as if the finger of sorrow had lightly touched, and then withdrawn itself, unwilling to mar the beauty of so fair a picture. Perhaps she was graver too; and it was evident from her whole deportment, that experience had been her sage companion-experience, whose counsels are, or ought to be, so salutary; whose rejected lessons are so appalling when they rise up in judgment against us. When Frederick first beheld her, she was like the creature of a poet's dream; but now a stranger might assign to her the station of a wife, a mother, or a friend. She was then more beautiful to gaze upon; now, more fitted to be loved; and he had come back with the idea, almost amounting to conviction, that it was impossible to live without her.

"Respice finem," is a motto, that we should all do well to adopt, and never lose sight of through the dangerons pilgrimage of life; but, most of all, it behoves the woman who listens to a tale of love, to "look to the end."

Anna Clare had no such extended vision, nor ever asked herself of what intrinsic value the love of Edward Langley could be to her; but listened, as weak and foolish woman will listen, while the only man who had ever fascinated her young imagination, poured forth his soul in high sounding professions of never ending attachment. Mary Newton was now forgotten; the bleak winter vanished, the snow melted, and all but her aged father, seemed to wear the cheerfulness of spring.

Frederick had said all that the most ardent lover could say ;-he would leave Cambridge in April, and then his travels would commence. She was to go with him to Italy, where her health would be restored, and her skill in painting perfected, under the first masters. Nor was it until some days after his departure that this thought occurred to her, he had never mentioned one word about marriage, of the consent of his family, or any of those business-like concerns, which she was willing to believe did not often intrude upon an attachment, pure and romantic like theirs; and therefore she was satisfied, at least, she told her heart a thousand times that she was so; but still, whenever she determined upon telling Mary Newton all that had passed, there was something which put a stop to her words, and she never could bring herself to make a complete disclosure, even to this faithful friend.

We know, that when there exists between two intimate friends a resolution not to converse upon one particular subject, which is intensely interesting to one or both, a separation, or suspension of intimacy, is the natural consequence; and thus it was with them; for Anna felt that she was keeping back what ought to be told, and Mary was a little piqued that so slight a circumstance, as the visit of a young gentleman, should

have destroyed their long cherished confidence: nor could any thing less than illness have brought her again to be so frequent a visiter at the house of William Clare, until some confession had been made. But the old man was failing fast, and she could not allow Anna to be left alone with him; and therefore she came often in the day, and sometimes staid through the night, and yet the two friends would frequently sit in silenee together, both feeling that they were not to each other what they ought to be.

At length, however, the death of William Clare, put an end to all reserve, for they had more serious things to do, and to think about, without consideration of their relative situations.

James Newton and Andrew Miller were his executors; and when they came to the winding up of his affairs, it was discovered that there would barely be sufficient for the discharge of his debts, without leaving any thing for the maintenance of his daughter.

When Anna was first told of this, she heard it in silence; but she never slept on the following night, and her feverish symptoms returned, with an accumulation of distressing feelings, which terminated in a severe attack of the same disorder from which she had suffered in Scotland.

Mary was her faithful and unremitting attendant, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her restored; her mind too, was more at ease, and she could speak calmly of the past, and of the future; though not of Frederick Langley. About him there was still a mystery, which Mary could not fathom, especially when Anna, in speaking of the future, added a hope, that she should not long be burdensome to her friends.

"Anna, dear Anna," said her friend, "let me never hear that word from you again. I cannot make professions, nor say that you shall come to live with my father and me; though I am sure you would be welcome to every one of us; but we live so differently to what you have been accustomed to, that I know you would not be happy. I have, however, not been idle during your