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A NEICE of Robson, beautiful, well educated, and withal of great moral excellency, was shortly to be married. The intended husband was a young man of first-rate worldly prospects, good looking, and kindhearted, but, if rumours were correct, he had long cherished a strong attachment to a few kindred souls, whose social doings were often the theme of considerable censure from the staid, well-doing folks of the place where he resided.

Miss Roy, the lady elect, as well as her friends, were all religious people, and of the close and regular order of the Burghers; her father, indeed, was an elder of some standing, and he confessed he should have liked his intended son-in-law all the better had he been of a more serious turn; but then, said he, he comes of a good stock, and is a regular church-goer, and our daughter will do much towards leading him in the right way. If he should get a wife he loves, and a happy home of his own, he wont require much weaning from the publichouse and foolish companions abroad. The wife of poor Roy had some misgivings on the subject, but as her daughter really loved Nisbet, and he seemed deeply attached to her, there was no obstacle to the consummation of the marriage. Nisbet was sadly roasted by his jovial companions on the eve of the wedding, who declared he would soon be brought to stand on the cuddy-stool of repentance if he did not religiously chime in with the notions of the elder's daughter. He vowed that, however loving he would be as a husband, he would never abandon the companions of his youth; and, therefore, he invited them to spend the evening of the marriage-day with him and his bride. Oswald was also invited by Mr. Roy, in which invitation the bride fully concurred. The marriage took place in his father's house, and it was settled that having spent a few hours with the guests assembled, the bridegroom and the bride would take possession of a good farm-house, which had been fitted up for their reception and permanent home. The wedding, the dinner, the party, were all that could be desired. Cheerfulness and good-natured merriment sat on every countenance. But of course the wine and whisky circulated freely. Nisbet and his companions were resolved not to loose their reputation as good, jolly souls, and it became apparent about nine o'clock that those who wished to return perfectly sober should hasten their departure. Robson, Oswald, and one or two more could not well go until the departure of the newly-married couple to their home. From nine to ten the liquor taken began to exert its inherent force. Some of Nisbet's companions began to indulge in exceptional jests and witticisms, then sundry unfit jokes were passed round, until it was fit time for the lady part of the assembly to leave the room. Robson expostulated in his blandest manner, and Roy joined in his kind and gentle admonitions; but now these wild fellows were not to be restrained; they resolved at any rate to have liberty for fun and frolic on the marriage night of their good-hearted, boon companion. So nothing was left for it but either to break up the party by the intervention of parental authority or to leave these young men to themselves. Could they have persuaded the hero of the occasion away from them, the way would have been

plain and easy, but he joined and took sides with his friends, until it waxed so frightfully noisy that Roy's house was more like a bacchanalian club than the quiet dwelling of a burgher elder. When respect for themselves and the feelings of others had all been outraged the party broke up; and now it was discovered that Nisbet, the newly-made husband, was so drunk that he had to be taken to an inner room, partially undressed, and left to sleep himself sober, while his mortified young wife was passing through a series of hysterics in another part of the building.

Never had there been such a scene in that house. Never were parents and daughter more to be pitied in their deep-felt degradation than these; and had they looked more to Divine authority, and less to worldly prosperity, they would have discovered that they were reaping very early the fruits of uniting in the closet of all earthly bonds a disciple of Christ with an unbeliever, and in such an unhallowed ceremonial, Bacchus had been the chief divinity on the occasion. Nisbet slept and snored till late next morning, and then, with all the signs of the debauch upon him, retired about mid-day with his afflicted bride to their residence. Of course this became the talk of the whole district-was the standing joke of the whisky-shops for many a day, and sowed serpent's teeth in the house of the newly married pair, that produced a sad harvest of melancholy and woe in future years. Had the bride not passed publicly through the marriage service, she would have abandoned her intended that evening; but she was so situated, she seemed incapable of doing anything but submit to the disgrace of her position.

When Nisbet had become fully sober, he acknowledged most candidly the affront he had done his wife and her friends, and said no one more lamented it than himself; but this, satisfactory as it was, did not efface the scene, nor remove the infamy that had been perpetrated, and did not remove those heart-burnings between the parents and friends of the bride and Nisbet and his companions. Could that wedding-night of joviality and unseemly folly lay a foundation of domestic happiness and confidence? We venture to say it could not; and we know that years afterwards there were briars and thorns springing up as the fruit of that evening's doings. How true, how infallibly certain, "Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap."

Robson and Oswald often referred to the event of that evening, but both had only one idea on the subject, and that was, that beyond a certain moderate quantity, it was foolish and dangerous to take intoxicating drinks, forgetting that the extreme moderation of one man was gross excess to another, and that it was moderate drink that opened the flood-gate for the irresistible torrent of intemperance and ruin. People join parties as moderate drinking parties, and not as drunken gatherings; and people take drink itself never as a rule designing to use it in excess; but everywhere we see drunkenness is the result; and it is perfectly certain that the moderate drinkers of the day will supply the breaches death makes in the ranks of the drunkards a few years hence. The progress is often as gradual and equally as certain as the rise of the quicksilver under the increasing heat of the season. We just add that Nisbet became an outrageously confirmed drunkard, and his wife, with her children, had to return to the parental dwelling, as they could not longer safely abide with a man who had neither a husband's affection or a parental heart. fore forty he had gone to a drunkard's grave, and left behind him only the fragments of a good estate, a desponding widow, and fatherless, unprovided-for children. Ah! if a diary of Nisbet's house and married life could be faithfully written, it would reveal scenes of domestic vileness and misery that only the abodes of the intemperate can furnish.

Be

A hundred such scenes are witnessed every year, and will certainly be handed down from generation to generation, unless we can persuade men to avoid as a

OSWALD MANSE.

beverage intoxicants of every kind, and avoid them to the end.

CHAPTER VII.

Nadab and Abihu have been intemperate, and neglected their charge in the priesthood; the sacred fire has gone out; they have "offered strange fire before the Lord," and they have been consumed. In consequence of this one offence, the edict goes forth addressed to Aaron, "Do not drink wine nor strong drink, thou nor thy sons with thee, when ye go into the tabernacle of the congregation, lest ye die. It shall be a statute for ever throughout your generations; and that ye may put difference between holy and unholy (spiritual perception) and betwen clean and unclean; and that ye may teach the children of Israel all the statutes which the Lord hath spoken unto them by the hand of Moses."-Levit. x, 9-11. Priests, like kings, are interdicted from all intoxicants when offering sacrifice. The interdict is founded on mental and moral effects, and with this special reason annexed, that they may have clear spiritual perception to determine between holy and unholy, clean and unclean, and be able to teach all the statutes of the Lord.PROF. MILLER, F.R.S.E.

COLLEGE LIFE CONCLUDED.

Part IV.

Oswald's devotedness to study was now being repaid in his general intellectual advancement, and it was predicted of him that he would be the first man of the kirk to which he belonged. During his attendance on the theological classes he was privileged to form companionship with a number of excellent young men, who, like himself, were preparing for the holy work of the Christian ministry; and there are several eminent men now living who were his associates at this period. His frankness, general openness of spirit, and real generosity made him a favourite with them all. He also joined a very respectable discussion class, where he gave striking evidence of his powers as a keen and brilliant debater.

Several of his theological class fellow-students were given to take freely of the bottle, and though there might be few if any cases of real drunkenness, yet there was a sad conformity to all the drinking customs of the times. But could this be wondered at, when the professors always placed spirituous liquors on the table at the evening parties to which the young men were invited. This gave to these customs the weight of their high patronage, and seemed to say that the customs were not only harmless but of course not to be neglected or despised by the young men who were their own disciples, and who never dreamed of being better than their teachers. There was one of their profesors, a very popular and influential pastor, too, who had in his church several liquor-selling elders, and even the cellars beneath his own place of worship were employed as wine and whisky vaults, so that the same building was the depot alike for the good and the evil, the spiritual and the spirituous--the great instrument for the world's conversion, and the chief agent used by Satan for the ruin of souls. The leading elder, who had waxed fat by this business, was a fine specimen of a generous and liberal spirited office-bearer in the church. Large in his contributions to every cause of religion or humanity requiring help- --one of the best friends of the minister and the poor in the congregation-ready with cheerful countenance, tender spirit, and open hand to respond to every call of charity made upon him. His business was an old-established one. He had large premises, and a great capital invested, so that he stood À 1 in his line as a spirit dealer. Oswald was a great favourite of his, was often invited to his house, and if he had not lost his heart already to the daughter of the proprietor of the hotel at Dalbreathe, he certainly would have have been in danger from one of the four splendid girls that adorned the spirit merchant's princely mansion.

But here was an avowed Christian and a wealthy citizen daily rising into still greater affluence, and yet his wealth was derived from a calling that could not be conducted without pandering to every vice that degrades humanity, and which cursed masses of men by making them slaves to intemperance here and exposing them

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to endless destruction in the world to come. An illustration of the blindness of good men to all this occurred in the said Mr. Galbraith's establishment. One evening at supper, when wines and whisky were freely handed about, he said to Oswald, "I wish you could wait on our late servant, Macdonald, and see if you could do anything to save him from total ruin." He said, "We have dismissed him several times, but have been induced, through his apparent penitence, to retake him into our employment, especially for his wife and large family's sake. But," said Mr. Galbraith, "our lenity has been all in vain, for he has sunk lower and lower in gross intemperance, and he has now added to it shameless impudence, and has become so untruthful that we cannot rely on anything he says. He neglected our business, was sometimes drunk several times in a week, and then the fellow had the audacity to deny it, and to talk of retaining his Church privileges and standing as a religious man. He continued: "I could forgive the man being sometimes affected by the drink, but he need not become a base, unprincipled hypocrite and deny what is evident to all who know him." Oswald agreed to see him, but had little hope of success when his own minister had failed. Macdonald, who had been out of work for two or three weeks, and who had neither money nor credit, was just in a fit state to be admonished by Oswald, especially as he thought it might end in his reinstalment in his former excellent (in a worldly sense) situation. He said he deeply regretted the past, particularly as his employer thought him false and hypocritical; "but," he said, "after I have taken a few glasses of the whisky, I seem to lose all self-respect, and feel that I am so transformed that I am ready for any and every evil course." He added: "I like the drink so passionately that I cannot work among it, and handle it, and convey it, and often have it offered to me, and resist it. And yet," he said, "I ask God to give me grace to keep me from going over far in its use." Over far! But where does that distinction lay? Is it after the first, second, third, or what glass? Is over far" the region of stupor or mad excitement? Is it being light-headed, or reeling, or dead drunk? Where it is truly Macdonald did not know, but he thought he must have reached it, having lost his master's favour and employment, and being now assailed by a wife weeping all day long and several children with little to eat. And, besides, what could he do without a character? And he knew that a drunken, lying reputation would not do him much service. Oswald thought there must be something wrong somewhere, but it did not occur to him that it was in the drink, or in the nature of his employment, but he thought Macdonald's brain was to weak, or his master's liquor too strong, or perhaps both. But how to advise was the difficulty. To tell him not to drink at all would have been folly, when everybody drank. To tell him to stop half way down the incline of free drinking was what Macdonald could not do; so he told him to confess his sins to God, attend his kirk, read his bible, and trust in Divine Providence to help him out of his difficulties. Now, knowing as we do that drunkenness is a physical as well as a moral disease, how inadequate was all this counsel ! Would all these save a man from being burnt if he put his hand into the fire, or from being poisoned if he took arsenic? But that was not understood in those days in this country. In America the earlier rays of Temperance principles were beginning to be diffused, but only just beginning. Even there it was only the approaching dawn, and not really the dawn itself. No; the problem had to be solved how to restore drunkards to sobriety, and how infallibly to keep the sober from inebriation..

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Macdonald was tried once more, but, as Oswald had discovered, the drink was too strong, or he was to weak, so he fell a sacrafice, had an attack of delirium tremens, was sent to the hospital, and there expired,

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BLESSED WATER.-ROUGH WATERS.

raving mad. His wife and children, after having been liberally assisted by the liquor merchant, Galbraith, were left to the kindness of friends, which soon died out, and then their only resort was the precarious charity of the world at large. The desolate widow had never encouraged her husband in drinking, but having had the misfortune to be the wife of a drunkard she had to pay the penalty in the form of penury, desolation, and sorrow.

If any of her children had been sufficiently old and qualified, no doubt Galbraith would have taken them into his service; but they were not, and they escaped by this circumstance both the profit and peril of their ruined father's employment. Ah! singular enough, the servant is destroyed, but the proprietor flourishes; his victim dies, but he lives; and no man stood on better terms with himself, with the world, or with the Church, than Elder Galbraith.

BELFAST.

(To be continued.)

Blessed Water.

Blessed water-liquid gem,
Star on earth's green diadem;
Sparkling, flowing, onward going,
Blessings all around bestowing;
Man and beast refreshing them;
Beautiful thou art to see,
Orb of spotless purity.
Blessed water, soothing power
In the dewdrop and the shower,

Thou art falling-gently falling-
To the thirsty earth out calling,
Waking many a sleeping flower;

Bud and blossom, fruit and tree, Nursed and nourished are by thee. Blessed water, brewed by God, Oozing from the mountain sod,

Lisping, singing, diamond's flinging, Pearls of light and beauty stringing, Laughing at the wild flowers nod;

Rippling, wimpling, babbling still,
Melodizing rock and rill!
Blessed water, bold and bright
In the glacier's dizzy height;

Fearless glancing, reckless dancing, Down the trackless ravine prancing, Silvering snow flakes in thy flight;

Weaving, when thy work is done,
Golden gauze around the sun.
Blessed water-lovely thing-
Dewdrop on an angel's wing;
Rainbows dyeing, stars outvieing,
In the rosebud cradle lying;
Wild deer lapping mountain spring,
Misty morn of summer day
Rolling silvery clouds away.
Blessed water, in the wild
Saving Hagar and l.er child;

Faint and weary, lone and dreary,
Weeping, wandering, uncheery;
From their Hebrew home exiled,
Blessed water, fount of joy,
Life to Hagar and her boy.
Blessed water, doubly blest,
When the parched tongue and breast,

Panting, dying, naught descrying,
But the phantom mirage flying.
Mid'st the burning sands disti est;
Boon of heaven-help at hand,
In the dry and desert land.
Blessed water, with a shock
Gushing from the smitten rock;

No delaying-onward straying,
Prophet's rod and will obeying-
Following still the wandering flock
Meribah with streams abound,
Zin and Kadesh greet the sound.

WM. M'COMB.

Rough Waters;

BY

JAMES WILLIAM RUMSEY, B.A.

CHAPTER VII.

NOTICE TO QUIT.

MAN's extremity has been rightly called God's opportunity. When all hope of succour arising by any human agency is gone, then is the arm of the Omnipotent One put forth.

Angel hands may not come to minister to human necessities-there may be no extraordinary manifestation of miraculous power; but still the finger of God may be plainly seen guiding the trifling circumstances of life to afford relief where it is needed.

Many say they believe in a Providence overruling the affairs of men; but where is their faith in the hour of trial? They trust to money, as long as they possess it; they trust to friends, as long as they remain true; but when every such source is gone, they are reluctant to trust Him who has the disposal of all the wealth of the universe, and can raise up friends when and where they are least expected.

Her

But Mrs. Singleton, though she was deprived for the time-being of all she possessed, still hoped on. faith was strong in a superintending Providence. Her position was most trying- all the articles of value she owned burnt: her daughter almost at the point of death; her elder son a prodigal, and her younger one unable to find means of earning a subsistence.

These accumulated troubles were sufficient to weigh down the strongest heart; but God saw them, Mrs. Singleton knew. He measured their extent, and would not let affliction's wave entirely overwhelm one who loved and trusted Him.

The morning passed-a morning of deep uncertainty and suspense. Mrs. Singleton had written to a friend whom she knew in her better days, and had detailed her melancholy position to him. She asked a loan of a small amount of money, promising an immediate repayment of it. The person in whose house she and her daughter had taken refuge had given her to understand that she could not keep them beyond the following morning, unless some help came immediately.

A letter came the following morning to Mrs. Single ton enclosing a five-pound note. There was written on the envelope, in an unknown hand-" Please receive this small sum from a loving friend."

There could be no doubt about the person it came from, Mrs. Singleton thought. The lady to whom she applied must have been unwilling to communicate with her under her altered circumstances, and, therefore, had chosen this way of sending her relief. It was humiliating to her feelings to have to receive help from an old friend in this manner; but still she must be than' ful. She asked God for help, and He had sent it. It was not for her to dictate in which way, or by what channel it should come. Her conjecture, however, about the donor was incorrect.

Had she known the person to whom she was indebted for this acceptable present she would have been still more pained to have made use of it.

As we expected, the removal of Amy from her warm room into the night air brought on a relapse of her illness. The worse symptoms again showed themselves; her delicate, frail form each day grew weaker. As her golden hair streamed over the pillow, and her pale, white marble face placidly smiled as her mother read some comforting passage of Scripture to her, she looked like one who had already breathed the atmosphere of Heaven.

Her thin, transparent hands were often clasped in prayer, when she might be heard mentioning her elder brother's name. That name seemed engraved on her heart. She knew he had done something wrong, but

ROUGH WATERS.

that could not alienate her affections from him; and now, when she felt that there was no chance of their meeting together on earth, she prayed that they might meet above.

If the prodigals who are squandering their fortunes and wasting their health in sinful and depraved pursuits, knew how many little hands were nightly clasped for them, how many infant lips ascended to the throne beseeching in simple accents for their safety and deliverance from evil, would it not cause them to pause in their career?

The sad news of the fire had not been yet communicated to Adelaide; but now her sister was so much worse in consequence of it, Mrs. Singleton was obliged to acquaint her with the accident.

Poor news it was for Adelaide; poor news at any time to hear of a mother burnt out of house and home, and a sister almost dying; but it came now as a crowning disaster to many other misfortunes.

When Adelaide received the sad intelligence from home, she was herself in the midst of a most perplexing trial. She had been overheard in her conversation with her brother Richard; Anne, the servant, who was present at the interview, did not tell it at once to her mistress, but reserved it for an occasion when it might serve her purpose.

A day at length came. She had been told to take charge of Tommy, but the attractions of the town had induced her to ramble out during her mistres's absence, leaving Tommy to his own devices. That young gentleman amused himself for a considerable time in swimining boats in the pond at the bottom of the garden-a thing he had been strictly charged not to do.

His boat having got a little too far in the middle of the pord, he reached out to stretch to it, and, in the act of leaning over, lost his balance, and plunged head foremost into the muddy water. Fortunately, the part in which he fell was not very deep, so that he easily scrambled out. However, his mishap was quickly made known to his mother when she came home, by all his sisters crying out with one voice that Tommy had been trying to drown himself.

An inquiry was instituted as to the whereabouts of Anne when the accident happened. It was generally supposed that she had gone up town; but this she stoutly denied. Miss Singleton was the only one, it was said, in the house all day, so she was sent for to be questioned where the servant was.

"Please, you're wanted," said Anne to Miss Singleton. "You're wanted to tell on me; but, mind, if you do, I know something to bring out, about you, that you wont over-much like.

Miss Singleton stretched herself erect, and, with her calm, blue eye, looked steadily into Anne's face. "What do you mean, Anne; do you think you can frighten me into telling an untruth?" "Well, Miss, if you are so extra particular, all I can say is it will be worse for yourself."

"I beg you not to speak to me in this way, Anne. I do not at all understand to what you allude, and I tell you, once for all, that no threat from you or any one else, can ever make me deviate from the strict truth. "Obstinacy always brings its reward; and yours, Miss, will, as sure as I stand here."

Without making further reply, Miss Singleton went at once to Mrs. Hunter. She told what she had seen. Anne had gone out, and was absent at the time when Tommy fell into the water.

On that same evening, Mrs. Hunter heard Anne speaking in a disrespectful way of the governess to her children, and reproved her for not speaking in a more polite manner.

"If you knew, ma'm, all as I knows of that young lady, you would not wonder at my not respecting her. "What do you refer to? explain yourself immediately, answered Mrs. Hunter."

"Why, ma'm, I hardly like to say. I never saw

71

anything like it afore; it's so bad to tell of a lady." "Never mind what it is. I warn you, as you value your place, to tell me immediately."

"Well, ma'am, when first the young lady came here, I thought she seemed to be often wanting to go out, and I thought she must have something particular to do, so I just watched her. I stood behind the paling when she was coming down the garden. Some one whistled softly down there, and then I heard her hollow out, Richard, is that you?"

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Stop! are you sure you are speaking the truth," said Mrs. Hunter, looking with a penetrating glance at her servant; "if what you are saying is true, that young lady goes out of my house at once."

"I am positive certain, ma'm, it's all true what I am telling you."

"Can you confirm, by any one else's testimony, what you saw yourself."

"There was not one beside me in the garden; but I heard Master Tommy say that day, as you sent him home from church for pulling the tuft out of the cushions, that there was a man following Miss Singleton behind the hedge almost the whole way. He was very hot when he came in, and he said they were obliged to walk fast because of the man.' "Did you overhear any conversation between my governess and the man she called Richard?"

"Yes; I heard a word here and there.

She seemed

to be uncommon sorry that he was going away, and said how often she longed to be back in their old happy home. I s'pose she meant future home. She gave him some good advice, and told him not to sink any lower. I s'pose she is rather afraid of him taking to drink, or something like that, and so as not to be able to make the happy home as she talked about."

"Don't tell me any more; send Miss Singleton to me immediately."

On her entering, Mrs. Hunter, already swollen with anger. seemed scarcely able to contain herself.

"Miss Singleton, I am almost ashamed to speak to you. I am ashamed that I should have admitted into my house such a character as you have turned out to be. I feel already that my precious children may have received some contamination from your company. You leave my house by the first train to-morrow morning. I give you this afternoon to arrange your luggage, but I forbid you during that time to have any intercourse with my children."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hunter; but may I be allowed to ask the reason of your displeasure? I was beginning humbly to hope that I was giving you and Mr. Hunter satisfaction in the discharge of my duties."

"Hypocrites, Miss Singleton, are more hateful to me than any other class of persons; those who make religion a cloak for their disgraceful conduct."

"I must really ask Mrs. Hunter for an explanation of this harsh judgment you have pronounced upon me. I am quite unconscious of having committed any offence against you; may I be allowed to suggest that the cause of your displeasure may arise from some misunderstanding."

"Explanations I cannot give, Miss Singleton. I could not condescend to repeat what I have heard of you, on the most reliable testimony. I must request you now to leave the room, and to attend strictly to my orders."

Miss Singleton was so staggered with the injustice of the charge that had been made against her. that she did not at first realise the perplexing circumstances in which she was placed.

She had sent the five-pound note which proved so acceptable to Mrs. Singleton in her hour of distress. How hardly that five pounds had been earned-with what difficulty it was spared-only Adelaide Singleton knew. It was her first quarter's salary. and the only money she had to depend upon for the succeeding three months.

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This peremptory order to leave then, she knew not how to obey. To perform a long journey by train on the morrow was, in her present circumstances, an impossibility.

How could she tell Mrs. Hunter this, when only a few days before she had handed her her quarter's salary. If she had formed a bad opinion of her, would she credit her story? Could she believe that a person who was not fit to stay in her house, for fear of contaminating her children, would have exercised such self-denial as to send the whole of her earnings to her widowed mother? There was no alternative, however, but to write to Mrs. Hunter, and lay the case before her. A note was hastily penned, detailing the extreme poverty of her mother and the illness of her younger sister, and stating that, thinking her residence at the Vicarage would have been more prolonged, she had forwarded all that she possessed for their relief.

The next difficulty was how to forward the note to Mrs. Hunter. She could not enter her presence again after the rough rebuke she had received; she could not even ask one of the children to convey it, and she scarcely dare trust Anne with it, who had shown such a bitter spirit of enmity towards her.

She determined to test Anne's feelings in the matter, and rings the bell.

"Well, miss," she said, opening the door hastily, "this is the last time I shall waste breath running messages for you."

"I only want you, Anne, to be kind enough to take this note to Mrs. Hunter."

"You may take it yourself next time. I have something to do besides carrying your notes about, I guess, though you would not trouble me to carry some of them; you know the sort I mean. I believe Missus is gone out; whether she is or not it will make no difference, so you might have saved yourself the trouble of writing any 'pology."

"Please explain yourself, Anne. I am not aware of having done anything which requiress an apology." "You know well enough what I mean; perhaps your memory won't take you back as far as that night when you had the meeting with somebody at the bottom of the garden. You see tell-tales never does themselves no good. If you hadn't told on me, I shouldn't have thought of mentioning your little affair." With this she slammed the door, but shortly returned with a note in reply. It was brief and cutting.

"MADAM,-I refuse to have any further communication with you, and no plausible stories you are able to invent will induce me to keep you one day longer in my house. "E. E. HUNTER."

This crushed every hope Adelaide had entertained of Mrs. Hunter's clemency. She trusted that the story of her mother's distress might move another mother's heart.

She was mistaken. Mrs. Hunter would sooner believe a servant's idle tale than the statement of her governess. What was it also which Anne had alluded to? The meeting at the bottom of the garden? Could the anger of Mrs. Hunter have been roused by this circunstance ?

She ponders over it, and at last the whole charge dawns upon her. What! accused of a clandestine meeting with some stranger? Accused by a servant without being permitted to give an explanation? Yes! it must be this; and Adelaide paced up and down the little chamber in which she was incarcerated; paced up and down till the blood swelled up in every vain, and the heart throbbed with violent emotion. Accused, unjustly accused-accused without a hearing, again and again rang in her ears. The room lay strewed with all her articles of dress, but she could not touch them

now.

This charge so gross, so cruel-had paralysed her strength, had unnerved her energies. She could think calmly before, she could plan deliberately some way of escaping out of the difficulty; but now all

thoughts, all feelings are swallowed up in one troubled ocean of despair and grief. What a life of trouble and difficulty and conflict was hers!

There were others idly resting in the lap of fortune, partaking of every luxury, exempt from all care, with loving friends to shield them from harm, and protect them from the insults to which she was now subjected. Why should fate have dealt out so terrible, so scorching a trial for her? And then she thought, are there not hundreds, yea thousands, like me, whom accidental circumstances have thrown upon the world, and compelled to earn their bread by licking the dust of others' feet?

Arbitrary, unyielding fashion! why dost thou compel the refined, the sensitive, to be crushed by the overbearing conduct of those devoid of feeling and of callous heart? Why is every avenue of employment closed to the educated lady but that of a profession where a living must be earned at the expense of every feeling of self-respect and independence?

Such were some of the thoughts coursing through the mind of Adelaide, but they were the mere ebullitions of the moment. Her spirit was ready to bow in humble submission to the decree of Providence, and willingly endure what He who looks down upon his own with a father's loving eye pleased to permit. The day had drawn to a close; the stars were just appearing in the sky; the moon was casting a silver ray through the open window, when, worn out with grief and harassing thought, she sank into a deep slumber.

CHAPTER VIII.

A SINGULAR MODE OF ESCAPE.

Ragged Schools! how much does the name call up before our mind! Schools alone is a suggestive word. The place in which some say the most, and others the least, pleasant portion of their lives was spent. The little inner circle, the miniature ocean in which all disport themselves for a time ere they launch out on the broader and more troublous sea of life. Much depends, though-boys home for the holidays will never adinit -on the way time is spent in that preliminary sailing. The ship ought there to become seasoned and tempered for the rough seas it will afterwards encounter. Who of us, in looking back to the days when, on wooden benches, we sat thumbing our Cæsar's, or trying vainly to find the cube root or master quadratic equations, does not see in those useful efforts the training which in mature age has been found incalculably useful.

it

But what of Ragged Schools of whom are they composed? What a tale does it tell of misery and want and wretchedness that whole Schools should be called by the name of ragged! How it reflects upon our civilization and boasted advancement to have so many such schools in our midst, and still a crying need for more! Numbers of children ushered into the world to be clothed in rags, to find themselves immediately the prey of want and distress. As they grow up, either rising out of the rags in which they were born, or more generally with the rags still clinging to them, another generation are born as ragged as they were, as povertystricken, as destitute of temporal or spiritual good.

Philanthropy does what it can. It plucks the jewels from the mire, but it does not always succeed in removing the filth which encompasses them. The ragged school in which Jack, Mr. Gilby's office boy, received the rudiments of education, may be taken as a fair sample of the rest. Let us glance around one morning

when the school is

assembled.

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