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recollection of early years, rushed upon her, too powerfully for utterance; and she burst into tears.

"I know what you are thinking of," continued Anna, "you are thinking of my ingratitude to you. And, ah! Mary, when I am laid upon my death-bed, I shall think of it too."

"I believe I was,” replied Mary, "but it was a selfish and unworthy thought." And then, taking the hand of her friend, she continued, "Let us turn our attention to weigh tier considerations. Let us think where that death-bed may be! But first, tell me truly, did my senses deceive me." And she quesoned Anna, in such plain and homely words, that the poor victim of self-deception, who had been cheating her understanding with the language of poetry, shrunk back, wound- | ed and terrified, from Mary's strict and determined investigation of the truth; while all that she could venture in her own defence, was a few words about her lover's devoted and generous attachment.

who loves you most tenderly, when you are serving God, even though you should at the same time, be neglecting him; with this man, you may reasonably hope to live happily on earth,—with this man, you may hope to live more happily in heaven. I know that you look down with contempt, upon the affection which subsists between Andrew Miller and myself; but that humble man, whom you despise, would sooner part with his right hand, than he would make me a fit object for the finger of malice to point at, with scorn and derision."

"Then will you, Mary, never look upon me nor call me your friend again?"

"That is a question which I am hardly prepared to answer. I have striven to reason with you coolly, and without throwing into the scale the least particle of individual feeling, for we ought to look up to higher considerations; but since you have asked me, I will say that I do not believe there is any circumstance in life that can tear away my deep-rooted love for you, Anna, nor any situation in which I would forsake I like not professions; but I do feel that in the lowest pit of wretchedness and vice, I should be ready to seek you, and if it were possible, to save you. Nay, do not weep, Anna, you

you.

"Oh! trust him not;" replied Mary, "the generosity of man wakes only while his passions sleep. And as for his love, think not of it. A few years will pass away, and he will laugh at the village girl who was the plaything of his youth; and she will be dy-surely must have believed as much as this of ing in that far country, where there is not a single friend to protect her."

"Mary, you do not know, it is impossible that you should know, the strength of a love like ours."

me before, or else my conduct has sadly belied my feelings; but I will talk no more of myself; it is for you, that I feel this torturing anxiety; for you who have dwelt in the bosom of a kind family-who have been brought "Then, because you wander out by moon-up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord light, and read verses, and sing love-songs -are you prepared to meet the common adtogether, you think you know better than we versities of life, without a home in your sickdo, what belongs to true and faithful love. ness, a friend in your sorrow, or the consolaListen to me, my poor infatuated friend. I tions of religion in your remorse? Are you cannot speak in polished language, but I will prepared to live on, from day to day, without tell you a plain truth. The man who leads asking the blessing of your Creator, at your you from the path of duty, and calls upon lying down, and your uprising? Are you your generosity for the sacrifice of your good prepared to be hurried to the grave, by the name, is not your lover; he is your enemy. hands of unpitying strangers, with no tear No, though he may follow, flatter, and serve shed over you, no memorial, but in the you, I repeat what I have said, he is your wounded spirits of those who would gladly deadliest enemy; but he who strives to cor- remember you no more? And this, Anna, rect your foibles, who points out your faults, is but an outline-but a faint sketch of the

fate to which you are about to consign yourself. Fill it up, with all that you can imaagine of wretchedness, and the picture will not be less true. I know too well that I have little to offer you on the other side; little, as regards the things of this world; but oh! let me intreat you to trust in Him, who can make a path for his people through the wilderness. We cannot tell when the precious manna will fall, nor discern which is the rock that will be smitten, nor say in what quarter the pillar of fire will first appear; but we know that his promises are sure, and that he will never leave, nor forsake his suffering people. Into his hands I commit you, beloved friend of my youth, farewell, and may his blessing be upon you."

On the following morning, a note was brought to Anna, which she read hastily, and then presented in silence to her friend. It ran as follows.

"Dear Anna,

"I have but a moment of time to tell you, that I still keep to my purpose of going to night; and as a proof how much I leave you to the liberty of your own choice, I propose the following plan. At eleven my carriage will be at the gate. You of course, will be at your window. If you are still generous enough to make me happy, you shall wave a white handkerchief, and I will fly to you; but should anything have occurred to alter your determination, and I see no sign, I will pass on, and the world will be to me a wilderness.

"F. L."

"Thank God!" exclaimed Mary "you are not forsaken. Here is an easy escape for you. Strengthen yourself for the trial, and all will yet be well. This plan is admirable, for you will never meet again, and the temptation will be so much less." But Anna turned away from these congratulations to hide her tears; for Mary, in her uncontroulable exstacy, had hit upon the expression of all others least calculated to convey anything like pleasure to the mind of her friend. "You will never meet again."

Finding it almost impossible, for minds un

der the influence of such opposite feelings, to meet together through this critical day, in anything like confidence, Mary busied herself more than usual with her domestic affairs, and Anna spent nearly the whole time in the solitude of her own room. Once, or twice, Mary knocked at her door, but as Anna opened it without saying a word, she made some indifferent enquiries about ordinary concerns, and left her to the meditations of her own heart; wisely judging, that after having said all she could when the ear of friendship was open, to urge her with repeated arguments and entreaties, would only be defeating her own purpose, by strengthening the opposition of her friend.

It was a quiet day in April, but there were no showers nor any wind, and the sun shone out upon the opening flowers; the buds burst forth, and the bees were awakened from their long sleep; the birds were busy with their nests, singing as they built their summer homes; the fields were green, and the lambs, in merry troops, gambolled over the smooth lawn that lay beside the garden and orchard of Andrew Miller, who stood for a long time upon the threshold of his door, as if hesitating which he should most enjoy— the fair face of nature smiling in her loveliness without, or that which perpetually blessed his peaceful home within. You would have thought, to see that man, when he looked around him, that his cup of happiness was full, and yet, when he turned to enter, there was an expression upon his countenance that seemed to say, "I have yet more."

At the pleasant window of a chamber in that same house, a window that looked out upon the same lawn, and was lighted up by the same cheering sunshine, sat a melancholy creature, almost without life, and apparently without motion. That glorious sunshine fell upon her cheek, as upon a marble statue; that fair landscape smiled before her in vain; and those merry birds,— what was their ceaseless song to her who knew neither sound of joy, nor sight of loveliness; to whom the heavens were darkness, and the earth a desert?

The evening came, the gray, still evening; and the birds that had been busy all the day, folded their weary wings to rest. The curtain of night fell silently, and Anna was alone, alone, in the presence of her God.

It is not difficult to cherish in our hearts an evil purpose, while engaged in the active scenes of life, and associated with beings, frail and erring as ourselves; for the bustle of business, and the dissipation of society, both tend to drown the whispers of the still, small voice. But in the solitude and silence of the night, when we are taught from our cradles to believe, and feel in our inmost souls, that an Almighty being is watching over us; that he who spangled the blue vault with an innumerable multitude of stars, and led forth the silver moon along her pathway in the heavens, and spread the silent and refreshing dews upon the earth, and hushed the winds at his bidding, is regarding with eyes of benignity and love, the creatures whom he has sent, for some wise purpose, to trace out their pilgrimage through a life of trials and temptations. Ah! it needs a heart of adamant, to look out upon a slumbering world, and up to the glorious heavens, and yet keep this evil purpose unchanged.

Anna Clare was more than commonly alive to the sweet influences of nature, and perhaps no other medium could have been found so effectual, to restore, to its proper tone, her wandering and distracted mind.

There was a sound of distant wheels. No! it must have been the rustling leaves of the poplar, for this was not the hour; again, it was no deception, she heard them afar off, and they came nearer and nearer, to the appointed place, and stopped. For a few moments all was silence, and then the carriage rolled on, and the sound died away upon the breeze. It was but for a few moments that her spirit had to struggle with temptation, but were they not ages in their intensity of suffering.

CHAPTER XII.

LET not those who make great sacrifices to duty, be led on by the hope of immediate reward. When a limb is severed from the human body, the first terrible stroke is not all that has to be borne; there are after seasons of pain and suffering, that must, inevitably, be endured: and when an idol of clay is broken in the dust, it requires time for humbling reflection, before its votaries can be convinced of the reality.

Mary had not entered the chamber of her friend, because she wished her to look for assistance to a higher power. She therefore retired into her own closet, and spent the dreaded time in prayer; but she too heard the carriage wheels, and knowing when they passed on, that her friend was no longer in danger, she rose up with the thankfulness of one who has experienced a merciful deliverance.

Those who would devote themselves to the service of their fellow-creatures, must be prepared for many an ungrateful return-for many a heart-rending repulse; to which, nothing but the consciousness of being about their Master's business, can reconcile the sensitive mind. Those who would save a sufferer from death, must often present an unwelcome draught to lips that loathe its bitterness; and those who would save a soul from sin, must bear with that rebellious soul in all its struggles to return; for it is not by one tremendous effort that the bonds of earthly passion can be broken. The work in which they are engaged, is a work of patience, not of triumph; and there must be long seasons of painful endurance, of watchfulness, and prayer, which nothing but a deep and devoted love to the heavenly Father, whose service they are engaged in, can possibly enable them to sustain.

When Mary entered the chamber of her friend, early on the following morning, she found her agitated, feverish, and restless.

"I am not resigned," were the first words that Anna spoke; "I wish I had gone."

"But you must be convinced, that the choice you made, was a right one."

"I can hardly say that it was my choice. I wished to go, and yet had no power to wave the handkerchief; there was something so still, so calm, all around me: and I thought of that beautiful hymn, which we learned when we were children, 'Though no man seeth thee, yet God seeth thee;' and it seemed to strengthen me for my trial."

"Then let us together offer up our thanks to Him, who stretches out his hand for the deliverance of his rebellious creatures, when they will not struggle for themselves."

"But I am not sufficiently thankful yet, Mary; perhaps the time may come when I shall bless you for what you have done."

"Oh! not me, Anna; you have nothing for which to bless me; you should only bless that Being, who gave me a heart to love, and a wish to save you.

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"But I am not saved yet;-I commit no sin, because I have no temptation. I submit, because resistance is vain, but I do think, that if Frederick Langley would come back and speak one kind word to me, I would go with him at this instant."

Mary inwardly thanked God that such a trial was not likely to be repeated; and she bore with Anna's murmurings, day after day, without reproach, and even without repining; for she believed that brighter hours would come, and that her beloved friend would live to see more clearly, and to feel more calmly. And here let us pause awhile, to enquire what is the cause, and the root of that suffering, which an inexperienced writer has attempted to describe, it may be, from her own want of mental power, with a feeble and useless pen. Is it not in the cultivation and encouragement of those feelings which are not calculated to afford either satisfaction to ourselves, or benefit to others;-in the planting in our own garden, those seeds which are only capable of ripening in a totally different soil?-in an inordinate desire after those pleasures which, however lawful in themselves, are and ought to be, unattainable to us; and a consequent looking down upon such

as are set before us, with indifference or disgust? Oh! that we would teach ourselves— that some kind friend would teach us, rightly to value, and properly to use, that wisdom that is given to man, that he may profit withal;-that wisdom which compels us to believe that he who created us knows best for what situation we are most fitted, in a world where so many different degrees of moral and physical beauty are, no doubt for wise purposes, permitted to exist; and that when we are desiring what belongs not to our own sphere, and indulging in the vain thought, that in some other station we could be more virtuous, and more happy, we are in fact murmuring against the decrees of Providence and arraigning the wisdom of Almighty God.

What is the sum of misery brought upon the world by this dreadful delusion, no pen can describe. How many with wounded spirits and aching hearts, have looked back to the morning of life, when this important choice was made, betwixt contentedness with the things that are, and desire of those which might be! In thousands of instances it has been the root of that fatal malady, which is called a broken heart; and in the present, it well nigh cost the sufferer her life;-her wretched, earthly, perishable life, not that which is eternal: for in the quiet hours of a lingering illness, other thoughts arose that wore a different character. The strength of earthly passion was subdued, the clouds of earthly prejudice were swept away, before the clear dawn of undeniable truth; late, awfully late, when it first shines upon the steps that are descending to the grave,-when it first lights up the eye that is about to close for ever.

CHAPTER XIII.

WHEN the jocund summer came, and spread her smiling flowers in the path of Andrew and Mary, Anna was not able to participate in their enjoyment. She was too

feeble to take exercise, and the evening dews, to others so cool and refreshing, to her were chill, and damp, and cheerless. But she never allowed herself to complain; she never spoke of Italy, and the name of Frederick Langley never passed her lips; only, sometimes when she drew shivering to the fire, Mary could see that the tears were in her eyes, and then she knew that her spirit had flown away to distant lands.

It was but twelve short months since that proud family came into the neighbourhood. Since Anna was rich in the possession of youth, and health, and happiness; and now what a picture of melancholy did her faded form present;-of melancholy, but not of despair; for she never murmured, and sometimes her countenance would be lighted up by a smile, that showed how much she was striving against the tide of painful and contending emotions, which often seemed ready to rush in and overwhelm her reason. It was a faint and sickly smile, that told more than tears, what her heart had passed through. Like the first gleam of sunshine, on the landscape which the tempest had laid waste:-the first budding of the trees, when the whirlwind has torn their branches.

The autumn of this year was unusually mild and genial; and so gentle and imperceptible was the progress of Anna's disorder, that Mary saw no reason for alarming apprehension. It was, undoubtedly, a frail tenement to which her spirit held, but there were no symptoms of immediate danger. Much depended upon care and quiet; and here all circumstances were in her favour, for no one could have a better nurse than Mary, and no place could be more quiet than the village of L-, when the Langleys were not there to disturb it.

Day after day passed on with its little routine of domestic duties; rumour was silent, and scandal slept, for Anna Clare was ill, and

poor, and those who had once envied, could now afford to pity her.

On one fine Sabbath morning in September, when Mary returned from church, she found that her friend had risen without any

assistance, had dressed herself, and was seated in a high-backed arm chair, formerly occupied by her father.

"You should not have done this," said Mary; "you know it is too much for you." "I believe now that it is too much for me, but I did not think so an hour ago. Perhaps it might be the effect of fever, but I felt capable of any thing; so much alive, that while the church bells were ringing, I fancied I could really go along with you; and now I have hardly strength to tell you how foolish I have been."

Mary begged she would take some refreshment and tell her at some other time; but it would not do, she was all animation and excitement, and could not be silent.

"Mary, I have been praying this morning that I may live till-till he returns from Italy. You will allow me to see him then, for there can be no harm in seeing him when I am so near the grave. I have thought of all that I will say, and indeed, Mary, it is not of earthly love, but of heav enly, that I shall talk to him then; and it may be, when he sees how I am changed, that he will listen to me. I will tell him of the hours we have both wasted, of the time that may yet be redeemed, and surely he will listen to me; and oh! Mary, if it be the will of heaven that I should at last be instrumental in his good, it will repay me for all that I have suffered."

Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a neighbour, a young woman who was on friendly terms with both, and often came to sit with Anna, when Mary was engaged with more active occupations. The young woman took a seat, and they talked together about the affairs of the village, the Sunday School, the clergyman, and the sermon, to which they had that day listened. Mary all the while stealing anxious glances at the countenance of her friend, now more than usually animated, and beaming with a strange and radiant beauty, that was almost supernatural. On her cheek there was a glow so bright and vivid, in her eyes such clear and dazzling

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