kindness she had rejected, purely from a desire to resign herself more entirely to the indulgence of her own secret and selfish sor row. "Aye," continued the old woman, "I knew you must be very bad, for you were never one to neglect a tried friend; but thank God, I have lived to see you out again, so we won't spend the time in talking over troubles. Sit down, and I will tell you how I am getting on, for I dare say you are anxious to know." Anna sat down, and though she could not force herself to express much anxiety, her talkative companion nevertheless went on. "Well then, when all was sold up,-but I said I would not talk of troubles-the executors provided me with this cottage; and the next thing was to find something to do. For a long time I was, I must say, rather hardly put to it; but as soon as I heard of the family coming back to the Hall, I made bold to go and ask for the washing. And, though I did not think the lady very pleasant at first, my request was granted, no doubt, through the kindness of Sir Frederick; for he followed me out by the back gate, and asked about the family, I mean about you, and I told him you were dying of a bad illness, all owing to that cold you caught when you were away so long in the North; after which he asked me no more questions, but told me my request should be attended to, and went back into the house. The very next day who should I see coming in at my door, but Sir Frederick himself. He looked round at first, as if to be sure that no one was here; and then taking out his pocket book, unfolded several notes, and choose out a bill of fifty pounds. He then began, I thought rather awkwardly, to say that he feared Miss Clare might want many things in her illness, which the Millers could not afford; and therefore he had come to leave some money with me for her especial use, to be laid out without her knowledge, I looked at the note, and I saw the fifty as plain as I see that book; nay I believe, I looked twice before I ventured to speak my whole mind; but I did at last; and told him, that Miss Clare would never thank any body for taking money privately for her; that she had friends in her own station of life, that would not see her want; and if they failed her, there was me; poor, and old, though I was; yet I thanked him he had put it in my power to work for her; and I knew that Miss Clare would at any time, rather have a sixpence of my earning than a hundred pounds of his. I then begged his pardon for my freedom, but I said I had lived long with your family, and I had never known any of you stoop to do a mean action; and I did think it would be mean for me to take money for those who had no right to it. Now tell me if I did wrong, for I had you in my heart all the time, and I tried to speak as you would have spoken; else, may be, I might have taken the money, for I knew you wanted it ill enough." "Thank you, thank you," said Anna, “you did perfectly right." And the indignant flash of her eye sufficiently confirmed her words. They then talked on other subjects, and Anna felt more cheerful than she had done for many past months. "You shall not go home and tell them that I would not give you a cup of tea;" said the old woman, and she rose up and bestirred herself, that her young mistress, as she always called her, might be refreshed in time to return before it was late. Anna could not refuse her hospitality, and it was wonderful with how much relish she partook of Phebe's tea, and cakes hot from her oven. It was a clear and quiet afternoon in April; so still and cloudless, that all things seemed to acknowledge the influence of the sabbath, except the rooks, that were wheeling about over-head with as much noise as if the world depended on the building of their nest, and the rearing of their young. "There is but one thing that troubles me," said Phebe, as they walked together down the lane, "and if I might make bold to ask you, I think it would be a comfort to me; just to come and read to me, sometimes, when you are quite well; but not before; for I never was a scholar, though I can spell something out in the Bible, but the tracts that Mrs. Miller leaves me, I cannot puzzle them out at all. This good woman does sometimes read them to me, and says she would do it oftener, but she has no time; for it is wonderful how much she does in the village, besides attending to her family, and teaching her brothers and sisters their lessons." "Teaching them their lessons!" exclaimed Anna, for a loud peal was now rung upon her conscience, and she seemed in one moment to awake to a full and perfect sense of her own negligence and ingratitude. "Good night, Phebe," said she, when they parted at Andrew's door, "send for me whenever you are at liberty, and I will come and read to you." With an unaltered manner, Anna that evening joined the family of her friend. She was, it is true, much distressed, when looking back upon her past life; and while they all knelt down in prayer together, her cheeks were bathed with tears of sincere and heart- | felt penitence. But now it was an active sorrow that she felt; a sorrow that powerfully urged her to begin a new life, and redeem her lost time. In the morning, however, the difficulties attending upon the commencement of a different course, appeared much greater than they had done, with the stimulus of the evening to oppose them; and she lay awake a long time, pondering upon the possibility of performing the arduous duties which presented themselves. Could she really go down to Mary, with a formal proposition to take upon herself the education of her brothers and sisters? It was almost impossible! For besides involving herself in a long series of disagreeable occupations, it would seem like an acknowledgement of her past culpability, and neglect; and she felt little disposition to bear the triumphant looks which she knew that Andrew would throw towards his wife, while he seemed to say, "So she has come to her senses at last." No, no," said she, covering up her head with the bed-clothes, "I cannot do it yet!" and then she thought of all the little Newtons, one after another, their red faces, and coarse hair, their chilblains and worsted stockings, and corduroy trowsers; and she was quite sure it was impossible; so she took her breakfast once more in her own room; but the morning was fine, and she soon after arose, and opening her window, looked out into the garden, where Andrew was digging, and Mary standing beside him in earnest conversation. "I should be very glad to do it," said the husband, as he stamped upon his spade; "but these times are so pinching, and really our expenses this year will be very considerable. Let me see: how much would a quarter's schooling be!" "I would not ask you," said Mary, "if I had time to teach her, but you know I have as much as I can manage with our own young people." "I wish that trouble was off your hands:" said he of the spade. "That it might be," replied the wife, "if I would consent to let my father send them to school; but I always put him off, thinking it will be a nice thing for Anna when she recovers." "In my opinion she never will recover," murmured the husband; and then they went to another part of the garden, leaving Anna to digest, with what appetite she might, the bitter food they had so unconsciously set before her. After a struggle of a few moments, her decision was made, and she went down to her friend, who was already surrounded by her little flock, Mary's own words, "a nice thing for Anna," still ringing in her ears. "I have come to help you, Mary," said the invalid. "Thank you, thank you," replied her friend, "but you must take this chair by the fire," from which she arose, and placing before Anna the table, and the desk, left her for a while, on the plea of other engagements, 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 to wards 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 only Byron for her companion. 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 were none of the whitest. Her eyes were wild and bright with fever, her teeth white and prominent, while, with every appearance 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. 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 between times, so that I get on very well, ex "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 trỷ, 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. On the following day Anna recollected that she had never yet fulfilled her promise to Phebe, and, therefore, when the evening suits, the eye whose watchful glance has 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? 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 had Oh! how we miss, in our accustomed pur- been said to her disparagement vanished |