kindly thinking that her first instalment into office would be more easily endured alone. It is scarcely possible that any one should wish to know how the business of that morning was carried on. Those who have laboured in a school with a sad heart, and a weak body, know that it is an occupation which bids defiance to all the powers of description. Many were the anxious glances turned towards Mary's stately clock that day, both by the scholars and their poor mistress. At last, in its own good time, it struck the welcome hour of twelve; and books were violently shut, and slates clattered, and bonnets with one string snatched up, and nailed shoes grated on the floor, and benches replaced, and all the noisy party took their leave; except little Martha, who, silently stealing towards Anna's chair, and looking up into her face with affectionate concern, said, "I am glad to see you better again, Miss Clare." "Thank you, my love," said Anna, as she tried to lift the little girl upon her lap; but finding she had not yet sufficient strength, she bent down her face to Martha's rosy cheek, while her tears fell fast, and mingled with the glossy ringlets of the child. In the afternoon the boisterous little party come again; but Mary insisted upon attending to them herself during half the day, until Anna was stronger and better able to bear the fatigue. She would very gladly give them up to her in the morning, for she had many other occupations which she could not well neglect; so soon, however, as Anna was able to bear with them all the day, she made no farther resistance, and it was astonishing how cheerful the young schoolmistress found herself when the clock struck five, and she felt that a very important, though somewhat irksome duty, had been faithfully performed. The evenings were now growing long enough for a walk after tea, and Anna could not deny herself the luxury of walking alone, sometimes with a volume of Byron in her hand, and sometimes with the reins of imagination let loose, that fancy might roam at will over the pleasures of the past, and feast again from the forbidden tree; the inevitable consequence of which was, that she always returned from these walks with an additional cloud upon her brow, and a heavier load upon her heart. "Are you going to walk this evening, Anna?" said her friend, one day as they were just finishing an early tea. Anna replied that she was; and Mary then proposed that she should go with her to see a poor girl who had been dreadfully burnt, to which Anna, not being able to state her objections, reluctantly consented. On their way, Mary told Anna the history of this poor creature, whose recent accident, indeed, formed the only incident of any interest, in her whole life; for she was a pauper from a distant parish, about the age of sixteen, who had come to exchange her services for her bread, in the family of a very small farmer in the village of L—. It was supposed, that having risen one morning early to light a fire, she had fallen asleep while blowing it; for when her shrieks had roused the family, she was found lying upon the hearth, but never was able to explain what was the real cause of the accident. The mistress of the house, neither very kind, nor very prudent, could only shriek in concert with the girl; and the master added his bass, wondering why people need have such creatures in their houses; for she had always eaten more than she was worth; and when the doctor was sent for, he would not stir an inch towards the place before he had informed himself to what parish she belonged, and whether he was likely to obtain a full and speedy remuneration for his pains.* "She is a great sufferer," continued Ma ry, "she has been laid upon her bed without the power to move, for ten weeks; and there is no prospect of her recovery. Yet no one cares whether she lives or dies, except for the trouble she is to them. She has so many frightful wounds, that she requires a great deal of support, and I do believe she is grudged by the parish every morsel that she • A fact. eats. And all day long, her master and mistress are quarrelling about her; the one declaring that she cannot do without some help to nurse her, and the other saying all kinds of cruel things in her hearing, about parish beggars hanging on their hands, and eating the bread out of their mouths." cept for the dressings and the movings, as I said before." "And you want for nothing?" asked Mary. "Oh! no, nothing. I have every thing I can desire." "And your mistress is kind to you?" "She's kind in her way, ma'am; but that's very different from your way." Mary then offered to read to her, requesting her to choose out of a number of tracts, or, if she preferred it, a chapter of the Bible. The girl chose the latter, and while Anna sat listening to Mary's gentle but untutored voice, she could not help wondering how it was that she felt so much happier that even By this time the two friends had reached the house. They knocked, and after waiting a long time, the door was opened by a slovenly woman, who let them in, with many complaints, that she was now never fit to be seen by any one. She then showed them into a little sleeping room, on the groundfloor, where, on a narrow bed without hangings, lay the poor orphan girl; her cheerfuling than when she walked out alone, or with rosy face peeping over the bed-clothes that only Byron for her companion. were none of the whitest. Her eyes were wild and bright with fever, her teeth white and prominent, while, with every appear. ance of hunger, she was gnawing a well-replied her friend, "if he who sends afflicpicked bone; not that she was really too scantily supplied, but the state of her body occasioned a continual craving for food.On seeing Mary, she laid down the bone and smiled; for this was not her first visit, and she had never heard any one speak to her so kindly as Mary in her whole life. This you must allow to be a real misery," said Anna, when they left the house. "I should indeed say it was a real misery," tions to try his creatures did not bountifully dispense his mercies too. I have seen this poor child often, yet have I never heard her complain. And if a countenance might be trusted, I should say that she was not only resigned, but cheerful. It is true, she is treated with what we should call cruelty, and neglect; but never having known the comfort of kindness, she does not feel the want of it. She knows that she must die; and yet I do believe this poor friendless creature is blessed upon her sick bed, with such glorious visions of a future life, as a king might wisely give his crown to purchase. Then ought not this, Anna, to be a lesson to us; and a warning to look well into ourselves, and see, when we complain and feel unhappy, whether the fault is not with our own hearts; and try, whether by some act of selfdenial, the giving up of some idol, or the performance of some needful duty, accompanied always by earnest and humble prayer, we cannot remove the burden from our spirits, and look with cheerfulness and gratitude upon a world, where so much is designed and calculated to give us pleasure. Mary asked her a few questions, and then, determined that her friend should see for herself what real misery there was in the world, she folded down the bed clothes before she could be aware of her intention, and exposed, to her astonishment and horror, the whole of one shrivelled arm and shoulder. "I dare say you think it looks very bad, ma'am," said the poor girl to Anna; "but dear me! I'm quite easy now. It's when they move me that I suffer most. Perhaps I don't bear it so well as I might; for they tell me I should not complain: it's they that ought to complain who have all the trouble; and a deal of trouble they have, I'm sure, though it's no fault of mine. It's ten weeks now, ma'am, since it happened; and if it was not for this good lady, I should feel the time long; but she comes every two or three days, and then it's something to think about be- On the following day Anna recollected tween times, so that I get on very well, ex- that she had never yet fulfilled her promise to Phebe, and, therefore, when the evening came, she took with her a tract which Mary had recommended, and went to sit an hour with her old friend, whom she found in the same room, still clean and comfortable, though she was herself busy ironing and preparing an extensive assortment of clean linen for the Hall. Anna sat down, and though her eye sometimes caught the initials of Frederick Langley, and rested for a moment upon the elegant muslin dresses spread forth before the fire, she got through with the tract much to Phebe's admiration, and with some little interest even to herself; and when she rose up to go away, she had the satisfaction of feeling, that a kind duty had been performed to a poor and tried, and faithful servant who richly deserved it at her hands. CHAPTER XV. ANNA Clare now began, for the first time since her illness, to think of returning to her pencil; for the mornings were bright and sunny; the family of Andrew Miller rose and breakfasted early, and her pupils never came before ten o'clock. Her painting room, once to her the happiest spot on earth, had been scrupulously kept by Mary, unoccupied, and undisturbed; but it was a painful thing at first to enter that room, more especially to take up her pencil and her palette, and seat herself again before her easel. For when thus seated, there came back such busy crowding images; such "fragments of disjointed things," so fraught with melancholy interest, that it was almost impossible to proceed with any hope of success. Besides, what subject to choose, became a difficult question, for all were now alike to her except those which she dared not venture to look upon; and then, who that was qualified, either to commend or to correct, would see her performance? suits, the eye whose watchful glance has been as a light around our feet! a light it may have been, which served only to dazzle and bewilder; but what resplendent luminary in after-life, will ever beam upon our path with a brightness like this! Anna at last discovered amongst her drawings, a scene on one of the lakes of North America, which she fancied might be made into a painting; and this being safe ground to work upon, she set about it in a very diligent and laborious manner, although from long disuse, her right-hand seemed almost to have forgot its cunning. With this work she was one day busily employed, about the hour of noon, when Mary announced, with some degree of embarrassment and confusion, a call from Lady Langley. This lady was the daughter of an earl, whose interest had secured Sir Frederick a seat in Parliament; and for this reason, and this alone, some persons were daring enough to say that he had married her. The match, it is true, had been very speedily made up when they were both in Italy, and whatever the lady's merits might be, it was clear to any beholder that beauty had not been the attraction, on her part at least. She was, however, a kind, patronizing sort of woman, active, and busy about other people's affairs, having none of her own, and Sir Frederick being mostly in town. It was her pride, as well as her pleasure, to stand at the head of everything of importance transacted in the village of L-; and having heard much of the usefulness of Mrs. Miller, she had come to talk over with her the management of infant schools, and other charitable institutions, in the hope of finding this good woman a willing instrument in her hands, for the promotion of her many, and often changing plans, for ameliorating the condition of the poor. There was, besides, a lurking curiosity in her mind to see Mrs. Miller's friend, about whom she had heard some very contradictory reports. So soon, however, as this friend made her appearance, all that bad Oh! how we miss, in our accustomed pur- been said to her disparagement vanished "I believe I must decline the honour alto from the lady's recollection; for on the very With her warmest feelings excited, she requested an introduction to Anna's painting room; and looking with every appearance of delight upon the American scene, in which the most ordinary combination of prussian blue and raw sienna, gave a very imperfect idea of the distant heavens, she turned to the fair artist, and asked if she did not feel happy in her sky. "Oh! extremely happy," was Anna's inward response; but she had not ime to make a more audible reply, for the lady ran on with the greatest volubility, not contenting herself with generalizing about tone and colouring, but venturing fearlessly upon the sympathies and antipathies of colour; handling, foreshortening, and bringing out; until Anna, bewildered with astonishment, began to wonder whether her illustrious visiter really knew a great deal, or nothing at all, about the matter. "Ha! you paint portraits, too!" exclaimed the lady, looking up to a likeness of William Clare, painted by his daughter. "Charming study! What a dear old man !-quite patriarchal with his white locks! What would I not give for a portrait of Sir Frederick!" she continued, in a more emphatic and earnest tone; at the same time laying her white hand upon Anna's arm, who felt no inclination to withdraw her own, since it suffered nothing by the comparison. "Why, what is the matter? Perhaps you think I should be jealous. The last thing on earth I should think of; for, between ourselves, Sir Frederick is now so much engaged with public affairs, that he cares no more for beauty than I do for business." "Indeed!" said Anna, with well acted astonishment. There was a looking-glass in that painting-room (ask not why!), placed in the best possible situation; and in this mirror, were at this time reflected the figures of the two ladies, in clear and striking contrast. The temptation was irresistible. One glance was all that Anna ventured; but that glance was sufficient to bring the glow of womanly triumph into her face, heightening the beauty which she would not at this moment have exchanged for a diadem; for Lady Langley was a little, hard-featured woman, with dull grey eyes, and a complexion with which all the colours of the rainbow, either singly or collectively, must eternally antipathise. The different reflections which the telltale mirror had excited, followed each other much more rapidly than they could possibly be described; and all the while the eloquent lady went on. "Did you ever see Sir Frederick? He is, I assure you, the best subject in the world for a picture. His hair is not so dark as yours. Why, bless me! (her eyes dilating to their utmost width) you are exactly like "Is it possible? could I prevail with a picture I found soon after we married, you?" "I never paint gentlemen." "Ah! you mean young gentlemen; you would not mind an old married man, like Sir Frederick ?" "I never go from home to paint any one." "Indeed! that's very cruel; but perhaps, if Sir Frederick could be prevailed upon to come to you; and yet, I don't know, it is almost impossible now to catch him for two minutes." hid behind a trunk. I did not observe it while you looked so pale, but now it's very odd, I never saw a greater likeness in my life. I remember asking Sir Frederick about that picture, and he told me some story about its being painted by an Italian artist." "I should like to see it," said Anna, with well affected curiosity, as soon as she had recovered her self-possession. "You shall, if I can find it; but that is hardly probable, for I believe it was put away in one of those large haunted rooms, at the top of the house, where no one dares to go alone. But I'll go myself, and send it to you. It certainly has more colour than you have now, and looks-I will not say younger, but happier. However, you shall see it yourself:" and so saying, the busy lady wished them a good morning, and hurried home. "A good natured little woman," said Anna, as soon as she and Mary were left to themselves. "Sir Frederick had a fine taste for beauty." broken canvas, which never had been thought worthy of a frame. It was the same picture which had once been seized as a prize, and borne away in triumph, now rescued by the hand of idle curiosity, from the darkest lumber-room in the great mansion of him who had gazed upon it with eager admiration. Anna looked at her poor slighted portrait for a long time, and then exclaimed, "Lady Langley, you have richly repaid me! When I saw you in the mirror I felt a moment's triumph; now yours is the triumph, and mine the humiliation. You are not conscious of “Hush, hush, Anna; take care what you what you have done; but I thank you from say." "Nay, I would not for the world say any thing against this good lady, who seems so graciously disposed towards her humble servant; but did you ever see any thing like her choice of colours-a bright lavender! Nay, do not look so grave, Mary, I will not say another word if I displease you; but do you know I have been solicited to paint a portrait of-Sir Frederick." "Impossible!" "Yes, I assure you it was so; and now, Mary, what do you say, shall I dress myself 'all in a green mantel,' as ladies do in story books, "And hie me to Sir Frederick's Hall, And ask the menials great and small, "I think I can trust you." "Trust me, Mary! you may indeed trust me. For all the wealth this lady possesses, and her rank, if she could bestow it upon me, i would not place myself in such a situation. In the course of a few hours a parcel was brought to Anna, which she took into her painting room, and unfolded alone, with the door barred, her chair placed beside the fire, and her feet resting upon the fender. It was indeed her own picture: too like herself: for it was much the worse for the time which had passed since it was painted. "You have been ill treated too," said she, as she looked at the dusty edges, and the my heart; and so saying, she laid the picture on the fire, and was quietly watching the smoke and flames curl over it in fantastic wreaths, when, suddenly recollecting that it might be enquired for, she folded it again in its cover, and never looked at it from that time; nor is there any reason to suppose that it was ever thought of again, within the proud walls of Langley Hall. CHAPTER XVI. WHEN the first difficulty of returning to her wonted pursuits was over, Anna applied herself to them with as much diligence as ever; and in this manner the summer passed away cheerfully and contentedly, with all the household of Andrew Miller; but most of all, with Mary, for she saw that her friend was returning to her former, nay, to her better self; and this had long been the first wish of her faithful heart. Lady Langley called often, and really took a good deal of pains to cultivate an intimate acquaintance with "the lovely artist," as she called her; but Anna had the loud warning of experience still sounding in her ear, and in this instance there was little temptation to risk a second trial of her strength; for, added to her great repugnance to go to the Hall, or to meet Sir Frederick in any way, she felt so little interest in his lady, as sometimes to meet her civilities with |