garden, perhaps, at back; and we went in; for she told us always to go through, when the door was open. And when we got in, there she was sitting in the parlour, leaning her head on her hands, and her eyes were all swelled; and when Rosey ran up with the chickweed, she lifted her into her lap, and began to talk to her; and Rosey put up her mouth to kiss her; and Mrs. Hinton leaned her head on Rosey, and burst out crying. Oh! she did cry so!"

"Yes-and the table is broten." "The table broke!"

"Yes, mother," said Philip gravely; "the table and a chair is broke; and one of those pretty glass things on the mantel-shelf, that was full of flowers, is smashed in the grate."

The boy cast his eyes down, as he spoke, and his colour rose, as if he had been in fault.-The blush was reflected too, somehow, in his father's face, who was busy with his little daughter, and made no remark.

"Come to your tea now, there is a good boy," said his mother-the words hastily covering a sigh.

It was a dull evening with them all at Birdiethorn. Father did not care to play the music. Mother was dull; and when Philip got a book to read to her, it did not mend matters: he had to ask her the meaning of a word many times before he got an answer.

Then the little chap, with the tact that was habitual to him, child as he was, perceiving she was deeply thinking, laid away the book; and he and Rose set to gathering flowers, till they had filled their mother's lap, and occupied themselves in making them up into bunches.

"Shall we take one to Mrs. Hinton, Rosey ?" he half whispered.

"No, dears, no: you must not go to trouble Mrs. Hinton. I shall see her to-night; I will give her the flowers."

"Will you say we sent them, mother ?”

"Yes."

"I uve Mrs. Hinton-she am so pretty."

"Oh! Rosey! Rosey, my child!-do you love none but those who are pretty? You love me and your brother; and we are not pretty."

You am

"Es, my Phil am pretty! I sure he am. pretty, my Phil, aint you ?" And down went the flowers, while the earnest child, holding her brother's face with both hands, looked into it with the air of a connoisseur.

She repeated her question: the good-natured boy laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

"Oh! you funny girl, Rosey! No, I ain't pretty, no more than that old stump with the thorns round it : You're pretty;" and he kissed her.

"Well, I uve you-I do, my Phil," said Rose, hugging him round the neck, with all her baby strength, and kissing him.

They were in the garden: George with his paper, just outside the little arbour where his wife sat, at work. And as the sun went down, came on the old evening choir, led by dame nightingale; and for the bass, the everlasting sea, with its never-ending moan to the flinty rock, casting back the impetuous worshipper again, again, and unceasingly.

Little Rose had run away to gather a sprig of the blue forget-me-not, which her mother was so fond of, and which grew in clusters only in one spot-singularly enough at the foot of the huge thorn which filled up the farthest end of the garden.

Singing a half-song to herself, the pretty creature hopped and jumped away-when she suddenly uttered a loud shriek, and came running back, but fell before she could reach the arbour.

Her brother was at her side in a moment, and had her in his arms; she was trembling all over, but it was some moments before she could cry or speak. Meanwhile, Mrs. Steyne had touched her husband on the shoulder-" George, who is that man? do you know him ?-there, going down by the field towards the church."

Steyne rose, and looked over the fence. "Yes, it's Hinton, Tom Hinton, the husband of that pretty girl you know."

"Is that Hinton? Have you offended him ?"

"Offended him! no, not I! Why-what's the matter with Rose; something stung her ?"

"No; that man scared her. He was looking over the pales, there, between the thorns at the bottom of the garden; and the child caught sight of him. I started up as she cried out, and saw him pass round at the side; and when he saw you, he shook his fist at you, and looked, oh! so savagely! I do hope he has not any spite against you."

"My dear, I never spoke above twenty words to the man since we've been here, except in the work. What could he want round at the back here, I wonder ?"

Little Rose had by this time pretty well recovered herself; she sobbed a little while, and told how the man "fightened me tho!"-and then fell asleep in her father's arms, whence he transferred her to her bed, and then returned to his paper.

76

CHAPTER SIXTH.

FROM THE HEARTH.

"I fain would die !

To go through life unloving and unloved;
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul
We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse,
And struggle after something we have not,
And cannot have; the effort to be strong,

And, like the Spartan boy, to smile and smile,

While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks :
All this the dead feel not-the dead alone!
Would I were with them."

LONGFELLOW.

It was still early in the evening when Mrs. Steyne, leaving her son with his book to keep his father company, quitted the house, and took the path which led direct to the pretty cottage of Cary Hinton. It stood somewhat out of the village, which saved the owner from much of the inquisitorial infliction to which each housekeeper was in turn subject; but it was not too far, as we have seen, for those who, while doing their best to detract from the poor girl's share of merit, did not scruple to avail themselves of her good nature: in fact, poor Cary's shelves seldom displayed their full complement of those useful articles which belonged to them, being generally, in turns, on a progress through the village.

If dutch-ovens could blab, and copper kettles, in

their pleasant songs, echo a little of the tea-table chat at which they had assisted, the mistress might have been enlightened at times, if not particularly gratified.

But it had never troubled her, what they did or said: the sunshine in her heart had reflected itself in everything around her, till she could see no spot or blemish in anything. All was bright and good, and pleasant; and it was a beautiful world.

And now-as it ever is with these brightest spirits, and most lavish hearts,-they pour out their all ungrudgingly, they are beatified even in the bestowal, they sing hallelujahs to the glory they have shed about themselves, and fancy heaven is come to earth, Paradise restored for them-but human nature is human nature still-its laws are not reversed in their behalf. Too generous to ask, they still do hope, that for all given much may be returned. Nothing comes-and, lo! they are bankrupt.

A stronger head and cooler heart might have reasoned; but with the poor girl, to reason was but to drive still further the cruel goad that tortured her.

When Mrs. Steyne went in, after tapping at the door, she found her sitting before the table, on which tea was set, though she had evidently not tasted it. Her face was hidden in her hands, her hair, generally so neat, was pushed aside and roughened; the room was in disorder, the broken chair and table in one corner, the little vase, as the children had described, smashed in the fender, and the water spilled, while the poor flowers lay scattered and dying on the floor.

As she stood up, and took her hands from her face, Mrs. Steyne was shocked to see the change grief and