"Which is pretty Miss Clare!" said he, before the lady had concluded her encomiums on his love of literature. "I came to see Miss Clare, and I'll take my oath there isn't a pretty face in the room. Jim Bowles tells me she's grown confounded plain, and hasn't any colour at all. "Speaking of the Langley's" said the aunt, "what can have brought the young gentleman into the country again at this time of the year ?" "Why, don't you know that his horses are kept at Langley Hall, and that Lord B-'s hounds will throw off on Preston Common on Thursday; and a glorious run we mean to have!" and then the young Nimrod set up his hunting yell in the very ear of her who had just begun to hope that he would at last "get understanding." As soon as this noisy intruder had with drawn himself, and the old ladies could again hear themselves talk, they went on, with lowered voices, to hope, but really they could not help fearing, that young Mr. Langley had come down with some particular view. "It was a sad affair, very sad, but such things must be expected from bringing people up so much above their situation." They had long thought the girl was more like a play-woman than a respectable farmer's daughter. Respectable, indeed, he was not; for it was well known he could not meet his payments this Christmas, and that all would have to be sold up; and then they wondered how much the moreen window curtains would go for; and then, more interesting still, they branched off into the merits of some articles which they had lately purchased for themselves; comparing the price, and the quality of each, with many other items not noted in the records of the booksociety of L CHAPTER IX. would say that she was bold, imprudent, and sought what she deserved to find, her own destruction. But surely, they can never have known how plausible is the first appearance of earthly love, to those whose hearts are yet warm with the glow of youth, and unhackneyed in the ways of the world. So pure, so disinterested, so entirely divested of every thing either gross or mean, is the first growth of this dangerous passion, at least in the breast of woman. Anna felt all this, without one suspicion of the candour and integrity of her lover; nor had he hitherto harboured a thought that was injurious to her. In him she saw only the kind friend and companion of her summer rambles, come back, to her, when friends are dearest in the winter, when there are few external sources of enjoyment; and oh! more than all, in the winter of the soul! To the gaze of vulgar admiration Anna had indeed lost much of her beauty with her bloom; but to Frederick she was more lovely than before. It is true, she was much paler; her look of rosy health was gone; yet the colour had not so entirely forsaken her cheeks, but that it was ready to come back with every varying emotion, brighter and purer, and more spiritual in its variations. There were traces of deep thought too upon her clear forehead, but so gently marked, as to seem only as if the finger of sorrow had lightly touched, and then withdrawn itself, unwilling to mar the beauty of so fair a picture. Perhaps she was graver too; and it was evident from her whole deportment, that experience had been her sage companion-experience, whose counsels are, or ought to be, so salutary; whose rejected lessons are so appalling when they rise up in judgment against us. When Frederick first beheld her, she was like the creature of a poet's dream; but now a stranger might assign to her the station of a wife, a mother, or a friend. She was then more beautiful to gaze upon; now, more fitted to be loved; and he had come back with the idea, almost amounting to conviction, that it was impos THERE are harsh natures that cannot enter into a situation, such as Anna Clare's, who ❘ sible to live without her. "Respice finem," is a motto, that we should all do well to adopt, and never lose sight of through the dangerons pilgrimage of life; but, most of all, it behoves the woman who listens to a tale of love, to "look to the end." Anna Clare had no such extended vision, nor ever asked herself of what intrinsic value the love of Edward Langley could be to her; but listened, as weak and foolish woman will listen, while the only man who had ever fascinated her young imagination, poured forth his soul in high sounding professions of never ending attachment. Mary Newton was now forgotten; the bleak winter vanished, the snow melted, and all but her aged father, seemed to wear the cheerfulness of spring. Frederick had said all that the most ardent lover could say; he would leave Cambridge in April, and then his travels would commence. She was to go with him to Italy, where her health would be restored, and her skill in painting perfected, under the first masters. Nor was it until some days after his departure that this thought occurred to her, he had never mentioned one word about marriage, of the consent of his family, or any of those business-like concerns, which she was willing to believe did not often intrude upon an attachment, pure and romantic like theirs; and therefore she was satisfied, at least, she told her heart a thousand times that she was so; but still, whenever she determined upon telling Mary Newton all that had passed, there was something which put a stop to her words, and she never could bring herself to make a complete disclosure, even to this faithful friend. We know, that when there exists between two intimate friends a resolution not to converse upon one particular subject, which is intensely interesting to one or both, a separation, or suspension of intimacy, is the natural consequence; and thus it was with them; for Anna felt that she was keeping back what ought to be told, and Mary was a little piqued that so slight a circumstance, as the visit of a young gentleman, should have destroyed their long cherished confidence: nor could any thing less than illness have brought her again to be so frequent a visiter at the house of William Clare, until some confession had been made. But the old man was failing fast, and she could not allow Anna to be left alone with him; and therefore she came often in the day, and sometimes staid through the night, and yet the two friends would frequently sit in silenee together, both feeling that they were not to each other what they ought to be. At length, however, the death of William Clare, put an end to all reserve, for they had more serious things to do, and to think about, without consideration of their relative situations. James Newton and Andrew Miller were his executors; and when they came to the winding up of his affairs, it was discovered that there would barely be sufficient for the discharge of his debts, without leaving any thing for the maintenance of his daughter. When Anna was first told of this, she heard it in silence; but she never slept on the following night, and her feverish symptoms returned, with an accumulation of distressing feelings, which terminated in a severe attack of the same disorder from which she had suffered in Scotland. Mary was her faithful and unremitting attendant, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her restored; her mind too, was more at ease, and she could speak calmly of the past, and of the future; though not of Frederick Langley. About him there was still a mystery, which Mary could not fathom, especially when Anna, in speaking of the future, added a hope, that she should not long be burdensome to her friends. "Anna, dear Anna," said her friend, "let me never hear that word from you again. I cannot make professions, nor say that you shall come to live with my father and me; though I am sure you would be welcome to every one of us; but we live so differently to what you have been accustomed to, that I know you would not be happy. I have, however, not been idle during your illness. I have determined and acted upon a plan, which I hope will make all things easy. I will marry Andrew Miller. I suppose you know that he has taken this farm; and then you can live with us. We have only been waiting because I thought the girls were too young to take charge of the family at home; but now, I dare say, they will do very well, with me so near them: and if you do not like to be altogether what is called dependent, they shall come to you every day, and you shall instruct them in those things, which either I did not know myself, or had no time to teach them. Anna stretched out one thin and burning hand to meet that of her friend; while with the other, she strove to conceal the tears that were now fast falling from her eyes; but she could not speak, for thoughts rushed upon her, some too painful, and some too pleasing for utterance. Andrew Miller. A large concourse of friends and relatives assembled, and Anna put off her mourning, and figured for that day as a bridesmaid. The tables of James Newton groaned with plenty; good fare, and hearty welcomes, were bountifully dispensed; the children laughed and played tricks with every body, and the old people hobbled in to give the happy pair their blessing. There was not a repining spirit in the whole party, and even Anna looked pleased, and strove to smile at the coarse jests of the neighbours; for, blush not, gentle reader, such things will prevail in times of festivity, even among those who were formerly shepherds, and shepherdesses; Damons and Pastorellas. Andrew Miller was a man of strong, useful understanding; cultivated, at least informed, but not refined; perhaps in his share of knowledge, as much above his wife, as she was superior to him in the delicacy and sensibility which belong to her sex. "I have told Andrew," resumed Mary, with her wonted simplicity; "and he, poor fellow, is pleased enough. I wish you could just tell me that it pleases you, for I cannot tee why you should weep so, when Andrew, and I, and my father and the children, will | charity, and good neighbourhood; he scarce all be made so happy. Perhaps you will consider of it;" and so saying, she left the room, and Anna, giving full vent to her feelings, sobbed aloud. "She is too good to me," said the poor girl, a little recovering herself, "they are all too good; it is my rebellious heart, that will not let me be happy. Oh! Frederick Langley, what have I to do with you? what have I to do with any thing but sickness and poverty?-why cannot I sit down contentedly, to be what they called me, the 'village schoolmistress !" " CHAPTER X. THE next circumstance of any importance, which took place at the village of L-, was the marriage of Mary Newton and Though constant in the performance of every duty, whether religious, or social; by no means forgetting such as belong to ly knew how to extend his pity to those who suffer from imaginary evils, and strew thorns in their own path. Thus, his gentle helpmate was often obliged to screen her friend from his censure, and even in spite of her good management, he would sometimes, without the least idea of causing pain, give utterance to plain truths, which wounded Anna's pride, and Mary's feeling. There were besides, little points of vulgarity about him, continually striking upon the delicate nerves of the fair heroine; and one single weakness, by no means confined to Andrew Miller, was a constant source of irritation and annoyance, he was extremely fond of hearing himself read, though by no means a good reader, at least, in Anna's estimation; for she thought of Frederick Langley, and the fine tones of his well modulated voice, when he read to her in that little village in the Highlands, and the moments flew so rapidly along. Perhaps there are few things in which the cultivation, or refinement of the intellectual powers is more perceptible, than in the style of a person's reading; for how well soever these untaught readers may understand the meaning of the author, it seems impossible to give his words the proper tone and emphasis, without a regular parrot-like training; and when they read from a book, precisely the same expressions which they make use of every day, they seem bound to torture their words into a totally different sound, merely because they are in print. The books too, which Andrew Miller made choice of, were more ancient than the grandmother from whose library they had descended; and then he would give long histories of that grandmother, who had been a great personage in her day, and figured as mayoress in the town of; of the alderman, and what property the different branches of each family then possessed; with accounts of houses that were pulled down, chapels that were built, levels that were drained, navigations that were made, and commons that were enclosed in his father's time. And yet Andrew Miller was a good man, and ought not to have been despised; for the number of good men is not so great as to make them worth less. Yes, he was indeed a good man, for he endeavoured to keep the service of his Maker continually before his eyes: to make it the rule of his actions during the day, and the subject of his prayers at night. A strict supporter of the established religion of the land; he served his king with integrity and uprightness, and his God with fidelity and zeal. If he made an idol of any thing, it was his wife; and well he might, for she was a good and kind one; and he was proud and happy in the possession of such a treasure. But her sickly, pining friend, he could not understand; nor why she was not as cheerful as himself and Mary; so he fixed upon the absence of religion as the cause, and perhaps he was not so far wrong, as in the means he adopted to remedy the evil, for he read the Bible to her till she was weary of hearing it; and good books in such numbers, that she forgot both their nature and their names: and all the while her wandering spirit would fly to happier climes, and clearer skies, leaving the dull realities of life behind. The first coming of spring is peculiarly delightful to those whose minds are at peace; who feel the importance and the pleasure of entering upon another year of duty and enjoyment; and can look up to their Creator with thankfulness, that he has given them a taste to enjoy the one, and a reasonable hope of being able to perform the other. The first pale snow drop that burst from its icy prison, Mary gathered, and presented to her friend; and the first motherless lamb that Andrew brought in, she would have given her too, thinking it might amuse and interest her; but Anna's heart was far away from the simple pleasures of the cottage, and she cared for none of these things. When the first song of the lark was heard one bright sabbath morning, as they walked to church, Mary looked up to the skies, and inwardly blessed the God of nature, who had placed her in a world so beautiful and happy; while Anna bent her eyes upon the earth, and wished that little bird was singing over her grave; and yet, she had the firmest reliance upon the truth and fidelity of her lover; but for all that she was not happy. She believed, too, that he would come again, and find her, even in her obscurity; and yet she was not happy. All around her was contentment and peace; and yet she was not happy. Ah! that we could always compel ourselves to institute a strict, impartial, and thorough investigation, into the causes of our unhappiness. That we would make an enquiry which admits of no tampering, why we are not, as the merciful Author of our being designed we should be, numbering our blessings, and counting the favours which his gracious hand bestows upon us? Would not such an enquiry generally produce the conviction, that we are not giving up the whole heart to him, who has an undoubted right to rule over it? That we are making no better than a conditional covenant, that, if he will grant us some particular request, we will then serve him; or, turning to idols of perishable clay, which in a single moment may be broken into fragments at our feet. "What am I, O Lord, that thou shouldst thus be mindful of me? O make me more worthy to partake of thy mercies!" was the simple and earnest prayer of Mary, every night before she retired to rest; while Anna became a stranger to the duty of prayer altogether. For the present she knew of no blessings, at least she felt none, for which to be thankful; and for the future, she had but one overpowering wish, and if that should be denied, she believed it so utterly impossible to be resigned, that she never even supplicated help from that Being to whom all things are possible; → and thus being unable to say, with full sincerity of heart, "Even as thou willest, O my father," she forsook that Father in the morning of her days, and went on her way repining. April came at last, to Anna's anxious wishes; and with it a letter announcing the intended return of Frederick Langley. He was to take up his residence at the Hall for a few weeks, until all arrangements were made for his journey-for their journey; for he never spoke of going abroad, or of the future, with out associating Anna with his plans of pleasure; and yet, there was nothing said of marriage, but a hint was delicately dropped, that their meetings must be neither public nor fre quent. The thrill of delight with which Anna first read the letter, was soon turned to sick ness of soul, for she could not show it to her friend; and she must carry on a system of deception with that friend to whom she owed so much. Well may the anguish of a troubled conscience be compared to the gnawing of a worm, which dieth not. To bear about with us continually the consciousness that we are harbouring some sinful purpose, which we dare not reveal, lest the kind hearts that are beating for our happiness should stagnate with horror, or shrink away with disgust;to fix our weary eyes upon any object, rather than the countenance of a well tried friend, who is watching us with looks of tenderness and trust; to seek, yet dread the darkness when we lie down at night, and to awake in the morning with a trembling sense of exposure, in the bountiful and glorious light of another day. Surely, of all the hard portions which the human heart has perversely selected for itself, there can be nothing to exceed this in piognancy of suffering. The day arrived, on the evening of which Anna was to meet her lover, and she could not help thinking, that Mary's eye followed her with uncommon scrutiny; and when she stole out in the twilight hour, she felt like a guilty thief who is about to wrong his trusting master. Is there any beauty in a beloved countenance that can clear away the darkness of a troubled spirit? Or is there any music in words of love that can charm away the reproaches of the still small voice? Anna felt there was none; and returned that night to her solitary chamber, with heaviness of heart; but yet there was a spell upon her, which she could not, would not break, and all night long she wearied herself with dwelling upon and comparing such pictures of the future, as love, romance, and contempt of humble life, combined to present. On one side, there was her poverty, her dependence, her weak health, and inability to struggle with the rough accidents of life; her loneliness, for she felt alone, with those who could not enter into her heart of hearts; and the loathing with which she looked round upon the common herd, with whom she must necessarily associate, with all except Mary, and Mary was-married. On the other side was a bright vision of golden uncertainties, too dazzling to be looked upon with steady eyes. All that the poet dreams of when his soul is most elevated above the gross things of matter,-all that the painter pictures, when his spirit takes the wings of the morning, and soars into its native regions of light; and, above all, there |