fortably replied, "Oh yes, papa, it will be sure to be done before then. It won't take me very long, and I mean to begin it directly after breakfast."

Ah, Katie, "meanings" and "doings!"

The next time her father alluded to it, he looked very grave and said, "Unless those papers are copied, Katie, I shall not allow you to go with the rest of the party on Thursday; you will have to remain at home and do them." Katie looked very grave too, when she heard this, for the language of reproof was not very familiar to her; and soon afterwards the writing was fairly commenced, and half a sheet neatly filled; but there it stopped, and there it seemed likely to stop; for Katie's head was so full now of the anticipated excursion, that she was unusually ingenious in the invention of excuses for delaying the completion of her task.

And so it happened that Wednesday night came, and Katie went to bed without having kept her promise, and with some misgivings about the morrow. She had fully resolved that morning, to sit down and work very hard at her writing until she had finished it; but persons who will not work when they can, sometimes find that they cannot work when they would. And really, events did appear to conspire that day against Katie; a letter arrived from aunt Martha containing sundry little directions, which required immediate attention; visitors unexpectedly came; and the housemaid was sent for home as her mother was ill; so that altogether, Katie's time was pretty well occupied. It was with a somewhat uneasy conscience that she laid her head upon her pillow, for she knew that she had not acted rightly; however, she tried to believe that it would not very much signify, and that her indulgent papa would pass over, as he had often done, her inattention to his requests.

When the morning dawned it brought with it rich promises of fair weather; the sky was as clear, and the

sunshine as strong as Helen, and Katie, and other ardent observers of nature could desire. At breakfast, which they were to hurry over on account of the early time specified for their departure, Katie felt a little awkward. Those unfortunate papers! if her papa should remember them, and ask if she had finished them! The supposition made her so nervous, that she quite started when some simple remark was addressed to her. She talked so fast, and as uninterruptedly as she could, that she might keep her father's thoughts fully occupied ; but her precaution was of no use, for, upon Helen's making some observation about the young friends who were to call for them, Dr. Sinclair looked up quickly, and said, "Are those papers copied for me, Katie ?"

No рара, ," said Katie, with an ashamed downcast glance, "I began them, and I really meant to go on, butshe stopt at this but, for she could not think of any fair reason which it might herald in her favour.

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"Very well, Katie," replied her father, putting on one of his sternest expressions, "then you know the alternative-you must stay at home to-day."

"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Katie, quite dismayed at this announcement, "I will not be so careless again; I will do what you tell me next time, directly."

"How frequently have you given me that assurance, Katie ?"

Katie's eyes drooped, and the colour came to her cheeks; she was silent.

"I am very sorry, Katie," continued her father, "that you are obliged to have this disappointment, but it is necessary you should be taught in some way to correct your sad habit of procrastination; and perhaps when you find that it is the occasion of sorrow and suffering to yourself, you will endeavour to overcome it. It must be broken, if it ever is broken, while you are young, and it is my duty to stop its

if I can. progress Therefore you must remain at home and copy out those papers, instead of accompanying your cousin and your young companions."

At the close of this long and carefully worded judgment, Dr. Sinclair pushed aside his cup and saucer, and without allowing time for any further appeal to be made to his clemency, rose up and left the room.

As he closed the door, Katie threw herself upon the sofa, and burst into a passion of tears.

ALICE H.

MY GREAT AUNT'S PICTURE.

Conclusion.

I LISTENED, and my heart died within me, for I perceived that the sudden shock of that perilous morning, though I had been permitted to rise up from it little the worse, had prostrated my gentle and lovely cousin. Oh, how precious she was to me now! With what anguish of heart I reflected on her generous self devotion; with what bitter tears of useless regret I lamented the paltry feelings which had cost us both so dear.

I stood till the physician returned to her room, and then I went back to my own, threw myself on my bed, and repented. How heartsickening are the tears of repentance when they are shed for those hours which are past recall. Anything else but this I thought I could have borne, but there was no hope, or a very faint hope, that I should ever be able even to acknowledge my fault to Rosie, and so relieve my heart of some of this intolerable pressure; much less that I should ever be able to make any reparation, by future kindness, for my past grudging and envious behaviour. From the nature of things I could never repay her; she had saved my life, snatched me back at the peril of her own, when I was about to fall a prey to my demon mistress-envy.

I lay and wept; a sharp distress will drive many a hard heart to the only sure refuge. As I continued to mourn during that desolate night I perceived my sin against God far more forcibly than I had done hitherto; yet, though my offence I knew was against Him, to Him I was driven for refuge; I besought Him

to spare the life of my cousin, and to pardon the sin which had endangered it. At length, but not till morning dawned, that sweet and broken singing became silent, and exhausted and weak, I fell asleep.

About eight o'clock I was awoke by some one entering my room, it was my mother. My first cry was an entreaty that she would tell me of Rosie. She appeared depressed and utterly fatigued with watching and anxiety; she sat down, and said she hoped I would be calm, and not give my parents the distress of seeing us both very ill. Rosie was much the same-a little quieter, and I was on no account to enter her room. She was to be kept nearly in the dark, and as tranquil as possible.

She presently left me and returned with the physician, who finding me exhausted with weeping and otherwise suffering from the effects of the shock, desired that I should be dressed and taken out into the fresh air, and that a couch should be set for me under the trees. I felt that this was done partly that I might not hear Rosie's voice, but I submitted, knowing how much sorrow there was in the household, and desiring to add to it no more than I could help. I sat out of doors under the trees, with the splendour of the green lawn refreshed by thunder showers stretching away before me, and all the gay flowers, the tall hollyhocks, the dahlias, and the rich clustering autumn roses smiling upon me. I felt my heart strangely out of unison with the freshness, gaiety, and peace of nature; but I acknowledged that I did not deserve to be with Rosie, and I felt the truth of what they had said, that no one's presence was so likely to excite her as mine.

Oh what a long day was that, and how very long were those which followed; never do I remember days of such unequalled splendour, such cloudless serenity, and I was kept out in them from morning to night, with my father or that old servant for companionship. But from my place under the trees, though I could hear nothing, I could still watch the house. I could see the evidences, now and then, of hurry and confusion, figures rapidly passing the staircase window, servants lingering in the hall watching for the doctor, that he might not be detained an instant at the door. I knew that the chance for Rosie's life was small, and I believed that a very few more days of such suffering as I was then enduring, would prostrate me also. Everything that kindness could suggest or love invent was said to soothe me, everything but the one thing I pined to have-the assurance that Rosie was better.

But on the third day of this sojourn out of doors I happened for a time to be left alone, and I could not restrain myself, I must needs go into the house; and there, as I wandered about

restlessly in the lower rooms, I observed a peculiar appearance of suspense in those whom I met. They were so much absorbed that they scarcely noticed my presence, and I asked no questions (for nothing defined was ever told me in reply) but I waited till the physician came to pay his evening visit, and then I sat down on the lowest of the stairs and waited till he should descend.

I leaned my head against the balusters, for I was weak. It was just about the time of day, as I remembered, that we had both been brought home. What days of misery to me, and suffering to her, had been the three which had followed. The physician at length came down. He lifted me up, and gave me his arm into the parlour. Then he told me that the fever had left Rosie, "Twenty-four hours more, with a pulse at such a height," he said, "and her case would have been past hope, but now, with extreme care, if there is no relapse, I trust that, weak as she is, she may yet be raised."

I was very thankful, but that thankfulness was chastened by much fear: that there still was danger was not concealed from me, and when I was permitted that night to go into Rosie's chamber, and look upon her while she slept, I wondered that anything so frail, so faint, so deathly, could be recalled to the land of the living; but I had been assured that there was hope, and I endeavoured not to despond.

Three days had so completely changed that sweet and dimpled face, that no one could possibly have recognised it. Her hair had been cut away, and the unshaded cheeks were visible in all their sunken whiteness, and the wasted hands lay in such a hush of repose, or rather of exhaustion, that but for the evidence that she breathed I could not have thought that she was still of this world. But I looked and mourned; envy had been killed by love; but oh, amid what bitter pangs of self-reproach, what anguish of remorse this love had grown.

It was more than a week before I was permitted to see her in her waking moments, but I cannot describe our meeting, full as it was on one side with the keenest distress, and on both with the strongest affection. After that I was permitted to be constantly with her, nursing and attending on her during her tedious recovery; and then it was that I solemnly resolved she should not love me, being in ignorance of my besetting fault, but that I would tell her of it both for the sake of my peace and that she might assist me in my efforts towards a cure, for I had become more humble now, and fearful as was the lesson that I had received, I still dreaded a relapse.

Therefore, when Rosie first came down stairs and lay on the sofa in the little morning room, I proceeded to finish a drawing