It was a raw misty morning, such as we have too many of during the winter months; those whom business compelled to be out were hurrying along their separate routes with purple lips, and bluish noses; the men buttoned up to the throat-their chins buried in comforters, and their hands plunged into their pockets; the women shawled, and furred, and wrapped up as best they could be.

But there was one in that busy thoroughfare whose thin cotton gown seemed the only protection her limbs had from the cold, and whose tattered shawl scarcely covered her neck and shoulders, for it was drawn round an infant. This poor creature hurried not on in the restless stream, but stood in the doorway of an empty house, pale, shivering, and sad; now bending over her child to try to impart some little warmth from her emaciated bosom and thin white lips, now in a feeble and faltering voice uttering her supplication:

"Have pity on us, we are starving!" Surely the demon of selfishness was unusually powerful this morning, for few vouchsafed a glance, still fewer responded to the plea, and none remembered perhaps, that if they who had breakfasted well and were well wrapped up felt the cold, what must that poor, hungry, ill-clad mother feel, whose frame thrilled as keenly at every feeble wail of her famishing offspring as it did from her own sufferings?

A young girl, neatly attired, although all she wore had the appearance of having done service, was passing by just as the unfortunate once more uttered her cry of "Have pity upon us, we are destitute !"

There was an accent of despair in the voice which struck to the heart of the girl, yet she too passed on.

"Would that I could afford to be generous!" was her thought. "Poor woman, surely in a crowded thoroughfare like this hundreds must pass who can and will relieve her. I wonder if she is really in distress, or only an impostor: they say that hundreds make a trade of beggary." She stole a look round at the woman; for, long as we take to tell it, the progress of thought is like lightning. "She does look wretched, poor thing! I have a great mind to walk to Kennington, and give her this sixpence;

the walk will do me no harm. But then perhaps the lady will have seen some one to suit her before I get there, and then what will become of me? Never mind, I'll risk it; she may be suited already, and then I should be none the better for my ride, and that poor woman would be worse."

She entered a baker's shop and purchased a twopenny loaf, and then returning to the beggar placed that and the fourpence in her hands, and was more than repaid by the look of heartfelt gratitude with which her offering was received. The woman strove to speak, but burst into tears; and an almost inarticulate "May God reward you-you have saved our lives!" was all that was audible.

"Tell me your address, and I'll see you again," said the girl. And having received it, she hurried on the road.

Margaret Gordon was an orpan; her parents had been respectable tradespeople, and had given her as good an education as their means would admit of; and this had been improved upon by practice, study, and a naturally fine capacity. Well it was for her that it had been so, for this education, at her parents' death, became her only fortune. Like many others in similar positions, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon had lived up to their income; lively and agreeable themselves, fond of society and society of them, they loved all the little pleasures of life; and on pic-nics, parties, excursions, theatres, &c. &c., was lavished the money which would have placed their child at least beyond the reach of actual want, if regularly saved and invested for her.

There are hundreds of such parents in the world; they love their children, the husband loves his wife; they would lavish any sum within their means to procure them a temporary gratification, a superfluous pleasure or luxury, but have not sufficient self-denial to forego the pleasures, the luxuries, the gratifications of the present. They pass for generous, open-hearted, hospitable individuals, and rejoice in a multitude of friends-if it be not desecration of the word to call the summer-flies who flutter round them by that name. The father dies, and his business or profession dies with him, unless there be a son to succeed him; and if there is, the young man will wed and have his own children to look to; what then is to become of the widow and

orphans, nursed perhaps in affluence, and accustomed to the luxuries of life-certainly to its comforts? They are thrown on the cold world, pitied, and, may be, advised by some few of the whilom friends, assisted by none, and forgotten by the greater part.

Thus had it been with Margaret; all that had remained at her father's death barely sufficed to defray the funeral expenses and pay the debts; and the girl who had been so cherished by her parents, so petted by society, found herself alone, penniless, and overwhelmed with grief. But hers was no weak desponding spirit; the necessity for action gave her energy, and having, through the interest of a lady, obtained a situation as daily governess, she bent her mind to her duties. But the salary was so low, and the wear and tear of health and apparel in going to and fro so great, that even with the strictest economy, and the devotion of every spare hour, and of many stolen from her rest to needle-work, could not enable her to get on; therefore she was seeking a situation as in-door governess, and was now on her way to answer an advertisement which her landlady had pointed out to her notice.

garet's cheeks flushed at the implied doubt. "My brother, for whose children I am seeking an instructress, is very peculiar in his notions of the requisite qualifications which must be possessed by the person he would like to place about his children."

"Your brother!" interrupted Margaret; "I thought it was for your own family you were requiring a governess, Madam."

"I have no family, seeing that I am what is termed an old maid, young lady; and my brother is a widower."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the girl, on whose mind a recollection of all she had heard of the snares laid for inexperienced and unwary females by those kinds of advertisements flashed, and who remembered that but lately a young acquaintance had but narrowly escaped entering the house of a roué bachelor whose specious tale and adroit assistants had skilfully imposed on her.

The old lady sharply watched her countenance, and it would seem was pleased by what she read there, for a half smile stole over her lips.

Gordon, Madam!"

Poor Margaret, as she glanced round upon the spruce and neat attire of those there, and then looked down on her damp and splashed dress and soiled boots, felt all hope expire within her. And yet she could not regret that she had walked, for the grateful blessing of the poor woman still murmured in her ears, and perhaps she was superstitious enough to believe in the saying that "blessings, like chickens, come home to roost."

The lady seemed difficult to please, for one after another the applicants were summoned, and heard to depart. At last it came to Margaret's turn, and with a beating heart she followed the footman into a library, where sat an elderly lady, attired with almost quaker-like neatness, although her dress was composed of the richest materials. "Sit down, young lady," she said, returning Margaret's curtesey with a slight nod, and scanning her from head to foot with a shrewd glance which at last became rivetted on the blushing face of the girl. "Hem!" she coughed, as at length she ceased her somewhat rude gaze, 'you seem young."

"I am turned five-and-twenty, Madam!" "Of course you perused the advertisement, and feel yourself qualified to teach all therein stated. We wish the children to have a solid, sterling education-not a mere superficial smattering of accomplishments."

"I hope I am, Madam; and, believe me, my best energies would be devoted to the task."

"So! that was prettily said, if sincere!" murmured the old lady half aside; while Mar

only objector was a spinster of a certain, or rather an uncertain, age. We generally become very prudent when danger is over. But to end all doubts and scruples, I must inform you that I reside with my brother."

It is needless to detail the whole conversation; the lady informed Margaret that she could not positively select any one until she had consulted with her brother; and having taken down the young girl's address, promised to write in a few days if the choice should fall upon her.

And there is little hope of that," thought the poor girl, as she plodded wearily home to her cheerless attic, hungry, wet, and dispirited. "That queer little lady will never think of me again, I dare say. I saw at least eight or ten names and addresses above mine, and no doubt there will be more applicants. God knows I want the situation badly enough; yet perhaps there may be others who are even in greater need, for I still have the Debdens. Oh those horrid children! all the teaching in the world will never improve them; yet I'm sure I do my best. Ah, here is my street; I am so tired."

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'Well, Miss Gordon, what cheer?" said the landlord, as he opened the door. "Never look so down-hearted, lass; bad luck now-better next time, you know. Come down stairs and take a bit of dinner with us, you have had no time to get any for yourself."

"Most thankfully did poor Margaret accept the kind offer, and the bright kitchen fire, the savoury beefsteak-pudding, and the sparkling ale, seemed absolute luxuries; especially seasoned as they were with kindly and sympathizing

words and looks. The people of the house were in anything but good circumstances. He was a river-pilot-his wife let lodgings, and took in ironing; but they had known the cares of poverty, and could feel for others.

How often in the street do we see a dozen or twenty well-dressed, nay elegantly-attired people, pass by an object of distress, while a shabby, poor-looking person will pause to bestow a halfpenny-which is to them a coin of more relative value than a sixpence or shilling would be to those above them in station! Yet it is not that these latter are positively hard-hearted-far from it; witness the munificent subscriptions which adorn the many charitable societies: but they are thoughtless. They have perhaps felt the want of a guinea, or twenty guineas, to purchase some eagerly-coveted trinket, or article of luxury; but they know not what it is to feel the want of a penny to buy a mouthful of food; they dream not of the agony it must be to see hungry eyes watching for bread, and have none to give; to watch loved forms wasting away beneath the lingering torture of starvation. And besides, they read of the impostures; the rogues who beg; of the riches amassed by beggary; of the jolly life those miserable outcasts live-and look upon the whole as a farce, acted, as most farces are, with the view of drawing money out of people's pockets, and so close their hearts and purses to all. Far better were it to err on the side of mercy, for who can speak the pang which each fresh disappointment strikes into the heart of an already suffering being! Besides there is a look or a tone in real misery which cannot be simulated, and the expenditure of a little time will always enable one to inquire into the truth. But there are other sorts of charity: the lady to whom Margaret had been would have been less impoverished had she given each of those poor girls-many of whom had come some miles a glass of ale, or even water, and a biscuit, or some bread and butter, than Margaret's landlady was by giving away a dinner; but she never thought of it. Hunger, fatigue, and poverty were to her mere words. If she walked, it was for pleasure, or because she preferred it; if she fasted, it was for the benefit of her health.

It is strange, but if a lady or gentleman call upon us, we offer wine, cake, luncheon, &c., as some refreshment it is to be supposed, else why is it given? but when a poor milliner's girl brings her basket, through cold and rain, or heat and dust; or the laundress toils beneath the load of a heavy basket of linen, and has to carry another back, and both look faint and weary; few think of offering them the least refreshment : it was their duty to come, and they may think themselves well off we employ them. Is it the old tale of crockery and china, still?

Margaret did not forget the poor woman, and after tea, having selected what few articles she could spare from her scanty wardrobe and made a bundle of them, she set off for the street named; not, however, without some misgivings, for it was situated in one of those squalid

purlieus where misery and guilt alike flee to hide their wretchedness. However, she told her landlady where she was going, and that goodhearted creature added a few scraps of bread, cheese, and meat, and some of the tea-leaves, which, after they came from a bachelor-lodger's table, she was in the habit of again infusing for her own use.

Margaret thought that she knew what poverty was; but she was astonished when she beheld the abject misery, the demoralization, the filth which surrounded the abode of those she came to visit. Two or three times she meditated turning back; but we have already said that our heroine was a girl of strong energies, and so she held on her way, and endeavoured neither to see nor hear the revolting things which disgusted her.

The poor woman herself answered the door; her wan features lighted up as she recognized her visitor, and she stole back to a heap of rags in a corner, shaken into something like a bed, to whisper to her husband that she was come who had relieved them.

The poor man, who was a bricklayer, had fallen from a scaffold and severely injured his spine; a long and painful illness followed which had exhausted every resource, and that morning the wife had hurried forth, hopeless and despairing, to beg.

Margaret had little to bestow, but with it she gave what one of our favourite poets terms the most precious alms man can give his fellow

man

"Kind and loveful words;"

and, crouched on a ricketty wooden stool, she read to the sufferer, from the Book of Life, passages breathing divine hopes, teaching resignation, and pregnant with holy thoughts. For he sadly complained that although his wife had repeatedly requested the favour, the clergyman of the parish had never visited him.

Every day saw Margaret at her task, Sisyphuslike, endeavouring to roll the stone of ignorance and stupidity from the minds of the little Debdens, and seeing it ever return as heavy as before; every day had she to bear the reproaches of the parents, who obstinately resolved to lay all faults to her charge, although, as Mrs. Debden would observe in private to her better-halfif the poor hen-pecked man could be so called— "You know, D--, it will not do to quarrel with the girl, for we give her less than we ever did any other of the minxes who have tormented those dear children, and she teaches music as well, which none of the rest ever did.”

"And much progress Seraphina and Angela have made !" muttered the husband.

"Quite as much as they did under Mosseau Durran!" was the lady's tart rejoinder, although not five minutes before, she had been, as she termed it, "giving it Miss Gordon" for not doing her duty by the girls, and attributing all they knew to that master.

Her afternoon leisure hour was generally spent in a visit to the poor family for whom she had

vainly attempted to interest Mrs. Debden, knowing in such a house as hers how much there must be which might be as well given as thrown away. But that lady acted on the principle that " charity begins at home;" without being very sceptical, one might question if hers had begun even there.

One afternoon, while she was reading the scriptures as usual, a knock was heard at the door, and an elderly gentleman entered, who introduced himself as the new rector of the parish. Margaret glided away, and returned to her little chamber and her needle-work. "It is evident that I was not selected," ran her thoughts." In a few days," she said "it is now nearly a fortnight-how rich I should be with sixty guineas a-year, and no rent to pay, no coals and candles and food to buy; I could teach twice as well if my mind were not employed in ever calculating how some trifling necessary is to be paid for. But still I must not repine, for there are thousands worse off than I. That poor man on his bed of suffering, how grateful and patient he is, and his wife too! Well, life has its lessons, and those are wisest who endeavour most to profit by them."

Several times the rector and Margaret encountered each other at the poor woman's; for though his bounty had done far more to relieve them than all her sacrifices could enable her to do, yet there were still offices left for her, trifles which a woman's thought and a woman's hand could alone bestow, a few words had been interchanged; and as she looked into his benevolent countenance, she longed to have such a friend. But they were far as the poles asunder-the rich rector and the poor girl, half needle-woman half governess-although for the present united in an act of charity, and in the fulfilment of that commandment of our Saviour, "Ye shall love

one another."

One evening, on her return home, she found her landlady smilingly awaiting her, with a note in her hand. It was from the old lady," or, as she styled herself, the Hon. Miss Mirch; and it requested Margaret to send her references by return of post. Here was a new and unforeseen difficulty; poor Margaret as little liked the idea of referring any one to Mrs. Debden, as she did that of soliciting the kindness of any of her oblivious acquaintances. Yet a reference must be given, and reluctantly she named the lady at whose house she was teaching.

"Give you a character, Miss Gordon!" exclaimed the irate Mrs. Debden. "Why the girl is crazy. I know I gave you warning; but then I looked over your carelessness, in the hope that you would amend, and allowed you a holiday; and yet you think of leaving me. Oh the ingratitude of this world! No, I'll say no word for you; and think yourself well off I don't speak against you."

"You cannot, ma'am! I have done my duty here as far as lies in my power: no one can perform impossibilities," replied Margaret.

"And pray what do you term impossibilities,

Miss Gordon? Will you vouchsafe ine an answer?" But Margaret was wisely silent.

A carriage drove to the door, and Mrs. Debden flew to change her cap, and smoothe her face, and dress for the reception of company. "Tis too much the fashion to lavish our smiles and good humour on strangers and acquaintances, and save up all our ill-nature for "home consumption;" and with all due humility, we beg to observe that this habit is especially prevalent among the lords of the creation, who, as they expect to be looked up to, ought to set us the best of examples.

Margaret had retired to the school-room, into which Miss Angela shortly bounced; and in a low whisper told her sister that "there were two such Guys' come after Miss Gordon's character; but mamma wouldn't give her one at all, neither good, bad, nor indifferent;" and almost immediately afterwards the loud voice of Mrs. Debden was heard in the hall, saying-" Certainly not, ma'am. I cannot have my children's studies broken in upon. Miss Gordon must see those who want her at her own residence."

Involuntarily Margaret started up, but the two elder girls saucily placed their backs against the door, and the younger urchins clung around her, and prevented her from moving without hurting them; and as the hall-door closed, and the carriage drove off, all set up a shout of laughter, which was, however, checked by the stern and imperious tone in which their insilence," and called structress commanded " them to class; and they half wished they had let her go, for then there would have been holiday until a new governess could be got, who would teach six children every day for five-andtwenty pounds a-year.

On her return home, Margaret eagerly inquired if any one had been there for her, and her heart sank as she heard a reply in the negative. In the solitude of her own little chamber she wept bitterly, almost repiningly, but not for long; a better spirit, a spirit of submission and resignation, and a stedfast resolve to perform her duty in whatever station it might please Providence to place or keep her, cheered her daily visit to the poor bricklayer, to read to him, once more to energy, and she went to pay her and to learn of him; and in cares for her fellowcreatures forgot her own awhile.

been there, and prayed with them, and had taken The woman told her that the good rector had up the book, as she thought, to read, and even opened it, when suddenly he started up, and departed in great haste, saying that business of importance required his presence. The poor man was visibly better, and his hopeful words, deep gratitude, and fervent piety, were healing balms to Margaret's mind; and she returned home, feeling that already the woman's blessing was working itself out.

"There's a lady and gentleman waiting for you, Miss Gordon," whispered her landlady. I showed them into the drawing-room, as the first floor' was out."

Margaret flew up the stairs so rapidly,

M

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Sister!" said a voice which the girl thought sounded very familiar to her ears. The landlady at this moment entered with a light, and she recognized the rector.

"Is not this yours?" he said, advancing and placing an envelope in her hands.

It was the one which had enclosed Miss Mirch's letter to her.

"I found it in your Bible, at the dwelling of the object of your kindness; and recognizing the name, it struck me that as we had already accidentally co-operated together in a work of charity, we might be able to do so in the, to me, all-important object of educating and training up my children."

Margaret could not for the moment reply, so much was she overpowered by the sudden realization of all her wishes. Nor was it necessary. The rector, like his sister, was a physiognomist, and would rather read the features than hear the voice.

We have little more to tell. Margaret Gordon was established as governess to the children; and though years have since flown on, she is there still, loved by her pupils, respected by the rector and his sister, and perfectly content. Nor does she forget her kind landlady, or the poor family, or her suffering fellow-creatures: the zealous minister of the rector's bounties, the secret benefactress of many, our heroine is a living example of the good which may be achieved by persons of limited means, when once their hearts are thoroughly imbued with the spirit of that which a learned divine has designated the "eleventh commandment"-" Love ye one another!"

HELEN OF CONISTON.

BY MARY EYRE.

Of all the maids of Coniston,

In farm, and cot, and hall,

From Furness' grey and ruined pile To its last boundary wall,

The queenliest as she sits her steed,
The lightest in the dance,
Is Helen, with her silver voice,

Her blithe, sweet countenance.

You've seen the snowdrop, pure and white,
Spring from the dark brown earth;

As fair, as graceful, and as pure,
She stands in beauty forth.

Her eyes are like a violet

Bathed in new-fallen dew;
And in her winning smile is met
All that is frank and true.

I've listened to the building songs
Of birds within the brake:
I've listened to sweet music heard,
On Derwent's placid lake :

But Helen's low-toned voice more soft,
More silver sweet than theirs,
Stole all at once into my heart,

And took it unawares.

I would that I had wealth at will,
Were lord of this fair scene:

I would that I a monarch were,
So Helen were my queen!

Were Helen mine, I would not fear
Grim fortune's direst frown:

I think I could not know a care
If Helen were my own.

How pleasant it would be to see

The morning sunbeams fall Upon the Old Man's* rugged brow, And Coniston's old hall

In each rill on the mountain's side,
A mimic sun to view;
While, every day, fresh shadows made †
The scene seem ever new !

How pleasant to awake at morn,
And think that through the day
I should be ever at her side,
Could gaze on her alway-

To hear her voice sound through the house,
Her footsteps on the floor;

To know she was for ever mine,

And none could part us more!

If sorrows came--and troubles come
As sure as winter weather-
We'd make them almost pleasures seem,
By bearing them together.

To toil for her would be delight,
If I at eve could come;

And rest me, the day's labour o'er,
In my own mountain home;

And shut the door on toil and grief,
And by the firelight's blaze,
Sit down beside my own true wife,
And on her sweet face gaze.

The winter storms might rage without,
So all were bright within;

We would but smile, and bar the door
If" Care tirled at the pin."

*The Old Man is the name of a mountain on Coniston Lake.

No one who has lived in a mountainous country can have failed to remark the singular effects of light and shadow on the mountains. A passing cloud, a shadow, makes a well-known scene present an entirely new appearance; so that the eye never wearies of gazing.

Anglice, knocked at the door for admittance.