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nor have the false pride to refuse you; but I am very poor, and can only try to be able to keep you with me. Will you take the baby for a little time?" she added, putting the infant into Mary's arms as she left the room. Lucy had really no reason that called her away, but with the feelings of a truly delicate mind, she wished to prove to Mary that she trusted her. Mary quite understood her; for persons of her disposition have usually superior quickness iu comprehending every little slight, and every delicate attention.

Lucy soon removed to her lodgings; and, at Miss Nugent's recommendation, she gave daily instructions in several families. The exertion was frequently wearying; but, after her long walks, often through rain and snow, she always found her little girl healthy and smiling, and she could not murmur. That winter, she received letters from her husband, informing her that he had been offered a very advantageous situation, and had accepted it; he could not, therefore, return home for some years.

Lucy had just taken off her cloak one evening, having been very fatigued by a cold wet walk, when a message was brought, that Miss Nugent was ill, and wished to see her; she instantly obeyed the summons, and consented to her poor friend's entreaties to remain with her. Lucy became sincerely attached to her amiable friend; the gentleness and firm piety with which she bore a long and severe

illness, only added to the trials which Lucy underwent, for Miss Nugent died. She had lived on a life annuity, but she had left every thing she could to Lucy; a house in one of the principal streets at Bath, and one hundred pounds.

Lucy deliberated long; but at last she decided on removing to Bath, and setting up in business there as a milliner.

It would be needless to speak of the difficulties which Lucy struggled against and surmounted; she was, however, after a few years, surprisingly successful. Her sister Ellinor had left home to join her; and the unwearied industry of these two sisters would hardly have been credited. While all around them was elegance, and even affluence, they alone were ever simple and frugal. They did not indulge in one selfish expense; their charity, however, was so universal, that they could not prevent its being celebrated. Mr. Johnston was highly connected; he had many friends at Bath, and Lucy was every where recommended her taste was so admired, that she became fashionable; and when her character and story were known, she became generally loved and respected.

The education of her daughter was her chief delight she had, when a daily governess, regretted being obliged to leave Edith, then a little infant; for she thought even the first months of her child's life an important time. How much after-trouble


might be spared, if mothers would watch over the minds of their infants, directly they begin to notice surrounding objects; if fretfulness were instantly soothed: "the sympathies, even of infants, are quick, and powerfully affected by the manner, looks, and tones of voice of those around them; though the minds of children, as their bodies, are not to be forced; we are to follow the leadings of nature, go her pace.' Edith had the advantage of " those which are the golden hours of childhood, those which are spent in the society of a good mother :" she became an affectionate, obedient child.


Year after year did Lucy receive accounts of her husband's increasing prosperity. At length the period of his return approached he wrote to tell her he had taken his passage for England in the Mowbray Castle; but many ships, which had sailed with her, had arrived; the Mowbray Castle was not among them. One morning Lucy looked, as she had long anxiously done, at the shipping accounts in the newspaper; the Mowbray Castle was mentioned, but, alas! it was wrecked. Morton, however, was not lost he and one or two of the crew were preserved; he, indeed, had brought the news of the wreck to England, and she soon received the news of his safety from his own lips.

"How true, how very true, were my father's parting words!" said Lucy, "God is a God that hideth himself; but, God is love.'"-C. B. TAYLER, M.A.

The Undivided.


NIGHT dropp'd her pall. O'er moor and lea
Loud swept the rushing gale,
And louder roar'd the troubled sea;
The shrouded moon beam'd pale,
And dimly, with the stars on high,
Look'd timid through the stormy sky.

I wander'd on the shore, and heard
The strife of wind and wave;
The wild scream of the lone sea-bird,
Beside her rocky cave,

In which a cold and murky gloom
Frown'd dark and cheerless as the tomb.

Huge rocks scowl'd o'er the cave below.
Hark! from its prison drear-
A voice, like one from a heart of woe,
Bursts on my startled ear!

In tones which, heard but once, remain
Like thoughts of unremitted pain.

I sought the cavern-enter'd there
As from the struggling moon,

Pass'd a dark cloud, while softly fair

Her beams uncumber'd shone;

And, gleaming in the lonely cave,

Reveal'd a sight would daunt the brave !-

Against the cold and barren rock

Lean'd a huge swarthy form;

His fearful scowl bespoke the shock,
The dread, the inward storm,

That sweeps the mighty waves which roll
Tumultuous o'er the troubled soul.

Lurk'd horror in his louring eye;
His brow was scath'd with pain,
As though a fire, that could not die,
Were withering up his brain!
His livid lips, and blighting breath,
Sent forth the pestilence of death!

A ghastly hue spread o'er his cheek,
As turn'd his eye on one

Who sat beside him, pale and weak,

A Maiden, woe-begone;

From whose swoln eyes the scalding tears

Fell, and must fall through changeless years!

Her cheek was blanch'd, yet coldly fair;

Her trembling bosom rose

With sighs, as though a serpent there

Had poison'd its repose;

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