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rheumatic fever brought on by sitting fourteen
hours a-day in a damp under-ground room,
teaching music at a boarding-school.
what does this young man expect me to do?"


"Well, I really ought not to say he expects anything, he hopes all. He does not of course like her to be where she is."

"Well, I must go back, I suppose, learn whence she came; and after inquiry about her, if we find all right, we will give her a shelter till she recovers; that is, if you will, Annie ?”

"Oh, most willingly; Willy thinks she is an orphan; and if so, we surely ought to show her kindness, particularly as our son led her into trouble before. Perhaps you will take me with you: I can talk to her, while you are gone to the

school she came from."

"Yes; but I must have something to eat first; it is only four o'clock-an hour makes no difference this summer weather; and anyhow, we cannot move her till to-morrow."

"Very well," said Annie, a little surprised; for she had fallen in so thoroughly with her son's impetuosity, that she thought all could be done in an hour. Willy was called down, and told what his father purposed.

"Any more than to give her a shelter till she recovers, I cannot promise till I know her better," said Dr. Campbell.

"I am more than satisfied with that, my dear father," said William.

All was found to be correct as to her character and disposition.

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Fanny gathered strength daily; and Dr. Campbell suggested to his wife that they should offer to her the situation of governess to their little boys.


"I am really interested in this girl," said he, "for her own sake, no less than Willy's; and for him. You have enough to do, I am sure, you see at present she feels no particular love Annie, in receiving the visitors my position obliges me to entertain, and in directing such a house as this. Let her teach Annie and the two little boys. If they have not settled their affairs before then, by the time the two boys are old enough for practice, baby will require instruction."

"Poor little fellow!" said his mother, as all mothers say when they contemplate the commencement of the baby's studies.

In a few weeks Fanny was settled in her new position. It had crept abroad among Dr. Campbell's pupils, that "No. 17" was located in his house. With the quick memory of youth they remembered Willy's sudden illness on his first morning at the hospital; and "here comes No. 17," was the greeting that met him every morning when he reached the scene of his studies.

"A sweeter girl never lived," Mrs. Vincent said; "but as we feared she would have a fever, we procured her admission to the hospital, where she would have the best advice." Fanny was carefully removed to Dr. Camp-honours of babyhood, her quiet influence kept bell's next day. For three weeks, death, like a all the wheels of the household in silent but gloomy shadow, seemed to hang over the efficient operation. The children improved too, house-it passed away, and Fanny, pale and and so far all was well. She was really treated trembling, learns that she is in the house of the as "one of the family," and therefore her lover very boy who procured her dismissal from Miss met her three times a day at his father's table. Pinchbeck's; for she was slightly wandering He was contented for some time to see that she when Annie visited her at the hospital, and the took pleasure in his conversation and company. delirium had increased until the fever turned; To tell the truth, Fanny began to think him the then she was so sleepy and silent, that she never wisest and handsomest young man she had ever asked where she was until she was really out of seen; and under pretence of curing his cold, danger. she levelled at him one winter an incredible quanof "gentleman's breastplates," "muffatees," and other light missiles, in the manufacture of which ladies employ their time and knittingneedles.

Fanny found very many ways of making herself useful to Mrs. Campbell; and on the occasion of the advent of a new claimant for the

They found she had no particular remem-tity brance of Willy to disturb her, so they brought her down into the drawing-room as soon as she was able to bear it. She was so pale, and the thick golden ringlets hung so like a halo round her pretty head, that William's sister said, "She looks good just like an angel." This speech procured her a present from her brother the next day.


We are glad to see you down," said the doctor, very kindly. "Thank you, sir," said Fanny; and trying to kneel at his feet, she said, with a painful effort, Oh, how shall I thank you for your kindness to a desolate orphan! God will reward every one of you; and I will pray daily, as long as the life lengthened by your care shall last, that sor


Gradually he gathered courage to tell her that he loved her; he "knew he was not worthy of her,” he said.

"Oh," answered Fanny," how can you, who are so good, say that? You are a great deal better than I am. You never give your father or mother the least trouble, and every one says how kind and thoughtful you are."

So the young people went down to supper, and Fanny received, for the first time since her orphanhood commenced, a father's and mother's blessing. They promised that in two months, on William's next birthday, when he will be of

When Soft Winds are Sighing.

age, the marriage shall take place, although he will not be quite out of his professional leadingstrings.

To say that Dr. Campbell, by this indulgence, has secured to himself a more active coadjutor, would be to wrong his son, but he will certainly have a more cheerful one. On hearing of his brother's good fortune, Frank has threatened to lose his appetite, and grow pale, to secure the same advantages.

Poor Miss Poinsett, who in the midst of the love-making has been sadly neglected, is still living, at the age of eighty-two, and went out only once all last winter, that was on the occasion of the last christening at Dr. Campbell's, when she insisted on standing god-mother, and created a laugh after dinner, by bringing out in mistake her ear-trumpet, instead of the silver mug she had provided as a present.

A word in parting for Dr. Campbell. Through a life of much comfort, mingled with some hardships and trials, his firm, manly pursuance of right, even amidst unfavourable circumstances, his efforts to do all possible good while labouring in his profession, his forbearance and decision in managing his household, have been appropriately rewarded. Many a wife, not more imperfect than Annie was when we first introduced her, has spent a life of separation and misery, because the tyrant who wielded the sceptre of her destinies, instead of holding out to her a helping hand to overcome her infirmities, has pressed with all his brute strength the thorns of discomfort into her faint and bleeding heart. Not so our good physician. May the outspread wings of the Angel of Peace long cast their preserving shadow over the dwelling of a good man!

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Still as I wait on Pleasure's gilded train,
And hear the luring converse of the gay,
Strikes on my ear the soul-inspiring strain,
That wakes the memory of a by-gone day;
As comes a dream o'er dark oblivious sleep,

As comes a joy to heart that knows but woes, As transient, yet as changeful, and as deep, Its mystic influence o'er my senses flows!

Regardless of the glittering masque around,

The pageant splendour of a court parade, The mimic form of Fashion's giddy round,

And all the courtly honours wealth hath made, Regardless of the all-admiring eye,

That seeks within its gaze some mark'd esteem, My heart responds alone the minstrelsy

Of her that woke my spirit's earthly dream!

Oh! wake once more for me the dulcet air,

And through my bosom let its magic ring, Though it be mockery of my own despair,

And borne on flickering Fancy's wayward wing, Still I can dream as I have dreamt before,

And strive with grief as I before have striven, Until my soul, aspiring high, to her will soar From the cold regions of this earth to Heaven! ROBERT H. BROWN.




Men say the world is beautiful,
And full of glorious things;
That Nature's works are works of love;
That good from evil springs;
That comfort follows each regret.
'Tis false! I never found it yet.


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(A Story from Life.)

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The time was twilight, and the season summer-brightening and heart-lightening summer, and the scene one of those gardens surrounding an ancient, ivy-grown hall, to be met with at the time our tale commences, and doubtless standing now, in this our sterner age, when romance and chivalry and old legends are overlooked, in considerations of "elegibleness for improvement" by virtue of canal and railway. Unknown, unmarked by the destroyer Fashionchanged only, as years passed by, by the hand and will of Time, who decorated while he flung round the old pile his robe of moss and ivy, Woodland Hall upreared its white turrets amid the clustering foliage, and seemed to the eye of the gazer, to the ear of fancy, to gleam forth in proud contentment-to tell a tale of happiness. There should be but such feeling amidst that fair scene surely, in two hearts at least, beating more gladly as each fresh charm in nature was recognized and acknowledged, on that glorious evening, it must have been swelling, till joy had become exhausted, and sobered and saddened down to a pensive calm, almost a sweet melancholy; the cause, a rising vision-such as will rise in hope's sky when most cloudless-of that saying, trite and true, that there is "a rich ingredient wanting in the cup of perfect bliss, never to be found on earth ;"-that, if we "grasp the flowers of happiness with too hot a hand, they are sure to wither almost ere they reach our bosom." Perhaps such warning was ringing in the hearts of those two gazers on that bright scene. On the features of one the shade had deepened, even then, to a sad thoughtfulness, which far-spreading beauties, communion with nature in her loveliest phase, low-breathed words, telling of the heart's deep trust and tenderness, poured forth to win her ear, failed to drive back. Juliet Lee was happy too, most happy, for she held the hand of the being dearer to her than the whole world; and looking in the frank and manly face of her betrothed husband, she read, as in a book, of that "perfect love" that "casteth out," not only one dark feeling, but every act and deed and thought in which she had not part. And thus, could it be other

than happiness to the young dreamer-that scene of such rare beauty, that trusting gaze to meet so much of affection? It was so deep a bliss, that Present of calm joy, that the Past and Future flung their shadows over the heart, as tempting comparison; in secret was it making, then, within the young girl's breast, and the decision came at last amid tears. The Past had been to Juliet Lee no sunny period, for memory to fly back to yearningly. It had been one of pain-the spirit's pain and suffering. Bitterest of recollections! she had never known what it was to win back, by all affection's wiles-by those small, nameless acts of filial love, which make so large a sum, by some hearts' reckoning, though little in themselves-a gleam of parent's love. She remembered that she had once a sister, whose brighter cheek, whose gayer laugh drew smiles of pride; where there were, for her warm kiss, and clinging, yearning embrace, the unmoved features, the passive submission to that fond burst of passion. She remembered how she had loved that favoured child-how she had crept back from the contrast with that joyous one, wondering if wild, deep love, like her own (it is ever the deeper for its secrecy), was of no avail in winning the kind word and loving glance?-if the true and boundless reverence she felt bursting from her young heart, ready to cling round the first that should open to her sight its love for the forgotten one-if that devoted reverence could be false, a mere delusion, since the lips that spoke of it but rarely smiled-the eyes that watched love's coming were often care-dimmed?

Poor Juliet! hers was no fiction-fate. There are some who, like her, have passed from child's estate with the same question, asking answer of the yearning spirit-"Must it be the blossoming tree, the waving flower alone, that shall be tended, cared-for, and cherished?must the moss, which clings till death, closer as time passes, verdant when the flower is faded, the blossom shed-must the humble moss alone never find the dew of affection?”

It was the conceit of one of our most gifted writers, that the season of our birth sheds its

The Trials of Juliet Lee.


influence over our spirit throughout life. | if it be only in memory, which the spirit, that Byron was born in the cold and gloomy winter struggles up the path of right, can always look of shade and storm; Napoleon in the fierce and to as a resting-place from its sorrows: and thus fiery month of August." October, when the was it with Juliet Lee and her heart-griefs. The leaves fell from the trees-when all spoke of a one receptacle of her childhood's sorrows, the saddening change from brightness to shadows- sole guide and adviser of her youth, the cheerer October was the birth-time of the young girl and soother of the sterner troubles of her who had learned to look back to the past with womanhood, had been granted to her, in her the dimmed gaze of silent and secret, but not bitterness, in the person of one who had grown the less bitter, suffering. Truly and beautifully with her from infancy-a young ward and relais it said, that "it is unhappy for the man in tive of her father. whose mind age and youth can change places, even for an hour. God wills us, while we are young, to view things youngly: and when the thoughts of age force themselves upon us in our youth, we are like the living clasped in the cold arms of the dead."

66 The green spot" in Juliet's desert was her seat beside that guiding friend, with the tale of care, or the half-formed hope, or the trustfully received warning. In the case of Ernest Graham she had never asked herself what were the wanting graces which should make Juliet was young, but she could not read her memory dear to his heart. She forgot to "youngly" the book of the future opening be- doubt whether his brotherly love for her could be fore her, because the bright, fresh trust of youth true and deep, since she knew not the wiles of had been flung back upon herself, till she fan- gaining affection. Juliet had not yet tested this, but cied herself wanting in those graces of the spirit the test came at last. The only secret held from which can win back love; and the wild affec- Ernest was the fearful doubt of a parent's rection, which weighed so little in the scale of a titude and honour; and this broke on the young parent's love, utterly incapable of binding to man's mind, at length, when he met the tearhers a stranger spirit, which could read to the glazed eyes of the poor girl, and noted the white depths of her yearning soul, with "under- cheek and broken tone of anguish, and at last standing," and be content with that so long-listened to the poured-forth griefs and the despised worship. Poor Juliet! so had she firmly-spoken wish to leave that saddened home, passed from youth to womanhood; and then, as no matter for what wretchedness, so that the she "put aside childish things," she stood wanderer might return from his evil haunts, "face to face" with other home troubles, which and sit again by his deserted hearth, freed from fell not the less heavily that the stricken spirit the blighting influence of his unloved child. had been bruised in so heavy a former struggle. And that heavy secret told, it was for Juliet to The joyous one was gathered from her scenes listen to another, as well and truly kept, but of mirth; and when the laugh was heard no one that needed not tears in the telling-of how longer, the solitary sister knelt in her agony, the link, binding her nearer to his guardian's and would have yielded every wild dream of home, had been the gathering of her love's pictured bliss-her life, which had as yet known despised flowers-of how the guidance of that but of suffering-all, oh, how gratefully! to simple heart had been, and must be, the motive have called back that beaming light which had of life to him-of how the man's high spirit had so long shone before the father's eyes, to blind feared and trembled in its yearning, lest the them to all else than his idol! Alone, the only worship of that gentle being should turn from child, Juliet moved silently and sadly about the him in the telling of that secret. And did Juliet old hall, upon her mission of patient endurance, look beyond that moment for the "green spot?" watching for a gleam through that dark cloud of We think not. We know that there were afterestrangement. times, when the young girl prayed, within that loving heart, for pardon for the wild despairing thoughts which had arisen in her anguish, when there was, even then, the boon of one true heart" in store for her.


At the time our tale commenced, five years had passed since Juliet had first striven to test the power of an "only child," by touching with the wand of changeless love that stern rock round the father's heart; five years had passed And so our tale commences, when shadows since the knowledge broke upon her, that from of the dark past come flitting across the sun of her and her despised love that father fled; when Juliet's bliss. It is true that the shade had its days and nights saw him absent from his house- cause, and, to the young girl's heart, a fearful hold roof, and rumours reached her of rioting one. She had given hope and trust, and and reckless living, where he had rushed as plighted vow; and the memory of the stern refuge from her gentle watchfulness. And parent had not risen, in all its terrors, till all during that five years, as she had marked the was done. There was another and startling moss creep round the rarely-entered court, the cause for the foreboding of evil, which crept tall weeds spread across the neglected walks-into the heart of Juliet Lee. She had not dared as she read each day more distinctly the tale of to count the weeks which had passed by since ruin, the weed and thorn of despair sprung up she had looked upon her father's face; and this in her bosom at last, amidst the fair flowers day-for the first time in her care-shadowed there, well nigh to make it a waste and wilder-life-he had so far remembered her existence, as ness. But not wholly could it be thus. In the to ask her presence in his library, where, conmost chequered life there is some bright spot, trary to custom, he had remained closeted with

his own distorted fancies. And the only child of Edward Lee had stolen forth that evening to pour forth with trembling the dread of meeting a parent's glance. Alas, poor Juliet! The homeward turned step was a slow and faltering one, when the hour of meeting drew near; and the young girl, with a beating heart and whitened cheek, awoke from her dreamings-to recollection of her coming trial.

It is marvellous the might of action which is accorded, sometimes, to the fragile-spirited among mankind, when the test is before them. How often is it taken, with a courage that puts to shame the bolder-hearted portion of creation! The calmness with which Juliet surveyed the ever-closed door of the dreaded cabinet, as she stood waiting permission to enter, was astonishing even to herself. It is true that the loud, hurried voice bidding her enter chilled the blood round her young heart. It was no slight trial to hear the sound, even of that harsh welcome-for the first time in recollection-and obey the first summons ever given to her father's presence. Passing in, she stood before him, gazing greedily upon the features which had so long been veiled from her, and drinking in the tones of a voice which had so long been

child-" I vowed a mighty vow, that there should be no other child for me-no, no! And I was right, girl! I was right. There never has been." He seated himself imposingly in his ancient lounging chair, when he had spoken, and looked expectantly upon the marble features of his visitor, as if waiting her congratulations on his strength of purpose. Whether it was that a passing gleam of reason lighted up the bitter anguish of his child within his mind, or that the motive of their meeting returned to his memory, a change passed over his face, and his voice was clearer, as if roused to excitement, when he again spoke-" You've had none of my love, Juliet, you know that. What say you to gaining it now-eh, girl?"

"You're amused with the faces of these old friends, eh, girl?" stammered forth the profligate, striving to appear unconscious of his child's wild gaze of horror. "Well, you've not had much either of their company or mine. I never loved you, you know that, Juliet." A spasm of agony shot through the frail form of his hearer at these words of cruelty. "No! I vowed when that child went," and the speaker raised himself with sullen gravity, and pointed to the portrait of the lost

The memories of years past-the horrors of that fearful present-the dread picturings of a future, linked with the fate of that degraded but still beloved being-were blended in the few soul-spoken words, trembling from the white lips of his child—“Oh, my father!" And before he could prevent her, she was kneeling at his side; the "hoarded agonies of years raining from her heart's urn." Cold, indeed, must be the soul, to whom those words could be spoken, in such bitterness, without one gush of feeling.


It was well that the father's greeting was repeated, and somewhat loudly-as impatient of that earnest watching-to rouse the young girl from her heart-questioning. The harsh tone sufficed at once for this, and Juliet struggled to walk calmly to the appointed seat; her eye wandering round, from one remembered thing to another, till it rested on the portrait of the mother she had never known, and the joyous child, who too had passed away; bearing, in its flight along, the last traces of kindliness for the living, from the breast of the misanthrope father. Following her gaze, a bitter laugh rose to his lips in answer; and, listening to his sarcastic mirth, Juliet had time to read the dreaded book of his harsh features more distinctly. The earnest eyes searching his own were tearless, but distended with a wild fear, that checked that burst of bitterness; and her lips, tightly compressed, seemed forcing back a cry of anguish; for the clasped hands, the quivering features, told of this, as-reading through the blood-shot, vacantly-rolling eye of her father, the swollen features, the half-smothered tones, the unsteady gait, the flickering smile, instantly displaced

"Ruin!" burst from the quivering lips of his daughter, while again she strove to clasp the outstretched hand, and pour forth her longpent-up love and filial duty.

"Ruin!-ay-utter ruin! House, lands, mo

by the impatient frown-the character of habi-ney-all gone! all gone to him, and I a beggartual intoxication and mental frenzy burst on her Edward Lee a beggar-here, in his father's heview. ritage! What then, girl! you thought me raving, did you, when I said ruin? What is it to have lost not only this"-and the voice dropped suddenly to a hollow whisper of ironical bitterness- not only all this, but to know I may find a home in prison at his will? Ha! girl, will your love carry you there, when this comes to pass? and it will come-it has come." A wild ringing cry burst from his helpless listener, checking the fearful revelation.


With a flush upon his cheek—it might have been sorrow, or shame-the father stooped to raise the drooping form. Oh! what was there in his heart? Was there a whisper of the good genius, (which is hovering round every soul, even at its darkest night,) a whisper urging him to

"Pay not back with ice the gentle heart

That pours the sunshine of its love on him"? There was a gentler tone in the voice, bidding her "sit down, and not be foolish again." There was, too, an evident constraint in leading back the conversation to its source-" What's done can't be undone, Juliet," muttered her father, looking with a kind of vacant surprise upon the streaming tears and bowed form of his hearer. "The only thing now is-yes or no, ruin or safety; which will you help me to, girl?"

"Father! in mercy, not this! you are trying your poor child! say-say not this-not ruined!"

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