distinguished a leader. Stephen went on diligently with his budding; Anna made a hasty mental estimate of the sum required for Alice's trousseau, and composed a letter to her friend Miss Hall, who was an indefatigable shopper, and an incomparable discoverer of bargains. Meanwhile Janey and Ned gambolled about, quite indifferent to the subject that was interesting their elders. "But I wish your brothers were here," said Ned. "I want them so much to come and see the new aviary that papa is having built for me. My dear little birds will be so much happier there than in their tiny cages: and papa will get me a pair of ponies, he says, when next he goes to town; and such a lovely Australian bird that I wanted to buy when I was returning from school, but I had spent all my money in presents for my schoolfellows, and Fanny would not give me any more. And do you know, Janey, if I get the French prize at Christmas, papa will give me a gold watch! Isn't he a kind papa?" Mr. Balfour patted the child's head: "He has a grateful little boy, at any rate, Ned." "And a lucky little boy," said Herbert. "Ah, Ned, if I had had your vantageground-" "You would never have attained to all you already have, to all we hope you yet may," said Mr. Balfour, kindly. "Poor Ned, he is not much fitted for the battle of life. A smooth voyage his is to be, please God. He is looking stronger, though, since he went to school. Do you not think so, Miss Seymour?" And he raised the little face, and gazed tenderly on it. "I have great reason to thank your mother for persuading me to that step, though it was with much reluctance I yielded to her better judgmen." "He is much better fitted to be Charlie's playfellow, now, than Janey's," said Alice-a proposition that was indignantly refuted by her younger sister. "No, indeed; Charlie is a great rough boy; not nice and kind, and gentle, like Ned." Herbert looked considerably bored by all this, and his brow contracted impatiently. "We are detaining you in the sun," he said to Mr. Balfour. "Perhaps you will kindly give me some farther information relative to this business," and he pointed to the letter he held in his hand, and led Mr. Balfour to the house. "When is it to be, Alice ?" asked Anna, as soon as they were out of hearing. "What do you mean?" "Why the wedding, for which all Ilverstone is on the tiptoe of expectation. There, Stephen, you have broken off that bud!" "I am tired of the work: I can do no more." "You lazy creature! you must finish them this evening. Well, when is it to be, Alice?" "I don't know; I don't know anything about it," said Alice, rustling the book that Herbert had left with her. "My dear Alice, how silly! Who is to know, then?" "He does not think his circumstances such as to enable him to do so with prudence." Anna tossed up her head. "It has been a very silly affair from first to last. Papa would never have sanctioned it if he had followed my advice. I can't think what made you bring Mr. Trevor down here, Stephen." "I can't think, either," said Stephen, sadly. Alice's bouquet took a long time to gather, and Anna at length called out to her not to pick any more, as there were already flowers enough in the drawing room; and then she sat down apart from the others, and arranged the roses slowly and deliberately, as if she were lengthening out the employment, and when Herbert had finished his conference with Mr. Balfour, and came out to her, he found her still picking off the thorns. He stood by, and watched her silently for some time, and then he broke out, "If this were but a permanent thing!" 66 Papa said, dear Herbert, that he thought it would in all probability lead to something more. It would make you known, he said." "If one could be sure of that! But it would not do for us to act upon uncertainties, Lily." "No, of course not: and oh, Herbert, if you have your wish, and are satisfied, I don't care for anything else." My dear Lily, but that is childish of you. As if I were satisfied!-as if anything but seeing you in the position for which you are fitted could satisfy me! Ah! if my fate had been ordered as kindly as that poor sickly little Edward Balfour's, how happy for both of us!" "Or even if I could change places with poor little Ned's sister, perhaps," said Alice, archly. "Not if the transformation was to include a change of character. No, Lily; Miss Fanny is not to my taste, thank you. You have taught me better." must be in town by to-morrow morning if I can manage it." "Herbert! going so soon? And you have not been with us before for so very long! When will you return?" My dear girl, I wish I could say. It is terrible to me to leave you, but I shall now apply myself steadily to work; and who can say how soon, Lily, I shall come and claim you?" Alice was not hard to be persuaded by Herbert on any subject; still a recollection would unpleasantly intrude itself of words very similar to these having been addressed to her when last they parted; and it did seem very hard that Herbert should be so ready to hurry over the short time they had to spend together. "You should keep up my courage," he said; "for I am sure I am to be pitied. You have not to struggle with the world as I have: to feel the happiness of another all depends on your unceasing exertions. You have only to smile to make me happy." That was perhaps the very hardest task he could at that moment have proposed to her; but she did strive earnestly against the rising tears and the bitter thoughts that called them to her eyes; and, more than that, she ran for the book which she had left lying on the grass, and put it in his hand, saying, "There, Herbert, go and write your review: I will be no hindrance to you in the life that you have chosen !" "I have not chosen it, indeed," he answered hastily. "You mistake. Circumstances have forced it upon me." But he went, and shut himself up in the study, and wrote diligently all the morning; and Alice sat beneath a hawthorn, from whence she could just see his hand as it moved in its rapid transit along the paper. And under that hawthorn, in the late twilight, they said farewell; and Alice, when the sound of the wheels that bore him away had died in the distance, hid her face in her hands, and thought (as many besides her have thought in parting from one dear to them) that perhaps she should never see him again; and she wept, not bitterly, but sweetly; for she was of the age when the clouds return not after the rain; and that soft shower dispersed all the gloom that was gathering in her bosom. But still her tears were flowing when her aunt (Mrs. Morewood) came out, and found her crouching in a dejected attitude beneath the hawthorn. The kind motherly hand laid upon her shoulder roused her. "Oh, I am so ashamed! Aunt Emma, is that you? But I had rather you should have found me here than anyone else." "Poor dear Alice! you will see him soon again. If he has left you earlier now than you expected, he will return to you all the sooner." Alice was by this time quite ready to hear and accept any consolation that was offered to her. "I didn't let him see how vexed I was, because that would not have been right. He has already care enough upon his mind, poor fellow, as he says. And Aunt, I am so afraid that papa is not pleased with him. I am sure of t by his manner to him at dinner to-day, and that grieves me so much. What can it be?" "Nothing but your fancy, I daresay, my dear," said Mrs. Morewood, turning away, for she was not of a nature to bear much crossexamining, and her brother had just been con fiding to her that Herbert had by no means pleased him by the easy manner in which he had deferred the idea of his marriage to some uncertain future. "Come back with me to tea, Alice," she said: "I know Stephen is waiting for me; and surely you won't let me go home alone." And Alice, being in no mood to encounter the chatter of the boys or Anna's business-talk, and still less to hear one word against Herbert from her father, very thankfully accompanied her aunt to the rose-covered cottage, that was ber home always, and Stephen's when he had a holiday. Alice looked in at the window through which she could see him at his desk. With what a bright smile he returned hers! Ah! if ¦ she had but had eyes to see, Herbert's face had never beamed so beautifully as did that poor despised cousin's at that moment. In that transient flash there was the joyousness of a child, and the peace and good-will of the Christmas angels. And most welcome she was made when she went in; whilst Stephen waited upon her glances, and spoke in answer to her thoughts; and her aunt's kindly ways, and unceasing cheerfulness, at once soothed and roused her. She felt every now and then it was almost wrong to be so happy, and Herbert away. And there was another thought that would sometimes occur: Could it have been a very great disappointment to Stephen to give up this horrid commissionership, that had taken Herbert away from her? For through all his pleasant talk and sweet smiles, she could occasionally detect an accent of melancholy, a shade of sadness, she could in no other way account for? So when she went to put on her bonnet before leaving, and her aunt and she were alone, she took courage, and asked her the question that was so perplexing her. Her aunt told her not to distress herself about it. Stephen already made enough, and more than enough, to support himself, by his profession; "and my income is sufficient for me; so what more could we want, my dear ?" "Anna said you might have had a little carriage; or-or she said, Stephen might be able to marry.' "Stephen does not wish to marry," said his mother, quickly. "I can't spare him." 66 Oh! dear aunt, I didn't think it, indeed! How lonely you would be without him!" "Well, well, my dear, there's time enough for that. Stephen is in no such haste to burden himself with the cares of life, as you and-" She was just going to say, as you and Mr. Trevor are; but it struck her all at once that Herbert was not so particularly anxious to take the burden upon himself; so she altered her sentence into " as some young people are." Alice had scarcely heard her, she was in such deep thought. "Aunt," she said, “don't think it unkind of me, if I ask you one thing. How is it, with all the troubles you have had, losing one who must have been as dear to you as even Herbert is to me-how is it you can still be so happy and cheerful, so ready to rejoice with those that do rejoice? Why even the very shadow of such a sorrow passing over me, as it did this evening in parting with him, bowed me to the ground. How can it be?" And she looked up for an answer. A sweet bright smile, which was all the likeness there was between Mrs. Morewood and her son, passed over her face; and taking down a bible from the book-case, she opened it and put it into her niece's hand, pointing out a passage, and as she did so, saying-"Here is the spell, Alice." She looked at the words to which she was directed, and read "The time is short: it remaineth that both they who have wives be as though they had none; and they that weep, as though they wept not; and they that rejoice, as though they rejoiced not; and they that buy, as though they possessed not; and they that use this world, as not abusing it: for the fashion of this world passeth away." "Those sound gloomy words to you now, dear, I dare say: the time will come when, like myself, you will find them full of consolation. We don't very much prize what we hold only for a short time, nor grieve immoderately for a trouble that we know will quickly pass; and so you see, Alice, that though I know what sorrow is, I can yet be cheerful; for if the way is rough, it is short 'A sigh, then, only is A gale to waft us sooner to our bliss.'" Alice thought of those words all the way home, when Stephen did not like to speak because he believed her to be thinking of Herbert. At the shrubbery gate she remembered herself, and said "Stephen, I know we have all seemed very selfish and ungrateful in rejoicing so much at Herbert's obtaining this situation, when it has been through your losing it that he has done so. Indeed I do not forget this, and I feel we never can be grateful enough to you." 66 There, don't say anything more about it," cried Stephen, receiving her acknowledgments as ungraciously as he well could. "I am very glad Trevor has it. He will fulfil its duties much better than I should. But Alice, attend to me now-don't let him begin speculating whatever he does." 66 Speculating! What can you mean, Stephen?" "Then he has said nothing about it to you? Perhaps I have persuaded him out of it; so say nothing to him till he mentions it to you." Speculating! How very odd. What can Stephen be dreaming of," thought Alice. "I can ask Herbert when he comes in September." He did not give her the opportunity of doing 80. September came and went, and brought only hasty letters of complaint and apology- "Dear Herbert, how noble, how generous he is! How shall I ever return all his kindness? and how unworthy I am of his love! Here have I actually been repining at his silence, and secretly blaming him for it, when he has all the time been wearing himself out for my sake. If I should see him looking changed and ill when he comes to us- The thought was so terrible that Alice was obliged to run off to her aunt to be comforted and scolded into composure. This was a refuge to which she often had recourse at this time, and it was one that seldom failed her; and one for which she daily felt more thankful. There was much at home that gave her pain. Anna was bent on the conquest of Mr. Allen; and Fanny Balfour, who believed every single man who came into the neighbourhood her lawful prey, entered most unjustifiably into the lists with her, without, as Anna complained, having any serious intentions with regard to him herself; an establishment "whereas to me," she said, of the sort is of real importance." Fanny thought it all the more amusing, as it made Anna angry, and accordingly was indefatigable in her attentions to the school, inundated the parish with clothing tickets, and set up a lending library, till Janey, in a transport of wrath, put an end to it by showing Mr. Balfour one of Edward's books, which she had found in the possession of the clerk's little girl, who affirmed herself to have received it from Miss Balfour, who had in fact been making free with the contents of her brother's book-case. Mr. Allen, who was a very sensible man, "saw the snare, and he retired;" and began to pay very marked attention to Anna, who undoubtedly would make him a most useful wife of the maid-of-all-work class. It was very unsympathizing of Alice not to take a livelier interest in this affair, but the truth was that the state of Anna's heart was one to which she wanted the clue-it was something so entirely beyond the bounds of her own experience. Besides all this, it troubled her to see her father's displeasure with Herbert instead of diminishing, rather increased, as week after week passed by, and still he never spoke of coming to them. She was very glad therefore, on her return from her aunt's, to be able to tell him of the hope held out to her; but instead of congratulating her upon it, he looked very grave, and, opening his study-door, he led her in there and said "Does Trevor mention anything of railway business in which he is concerned?" Alice started; for Stephen's warning recurred to her. "No, papa, nothing." when he is not sure himself. And I shall ask Herbert as soon as ever he comes." And Alice got quite angry at Stephen's presumption. "Come, don't agitate yourself about it, Alice. It was not Stephen told me of it. I only hope Trevor will not burn his fingers at it, that's all." And Mr. Seymour stirred up the fire, as though to aid Herbert in that operation. to some bitter thoughts. She gave Herbert all Alice knelt down upon the rug, and yielded her confidence, trusted him implicitly, and this was how he returned it. Her father, Stephen, others besides them, knew his private interests, and she was never admitted into them. This was what had detained him from her through all this long, long autumn. He knew she did not care for luxuries. What folly it was to say that it was for her that he was labouring! One smile of his, one kind word was more precious to her than all the wealth of Croesus-the mines of Golconda. Then suddenly the tide turned, and she was overwhelmed with self-reproaches for having allowed herself even one hard thought of him. O if he would but come to tell her he forgave it her! Her father saw by her troubled face something of what was passing within, and he stooped and "You are sure, my dear, he has never said kissed her kindly, and saidanything of it?" "Quite certain, papa.” "Don't let what I have said annoy you, my dear. When Trevor comes I will talk it over "Then you have never heard of any specula- with him. He is a prudent far-seeing man, and tion in which he is engaged?" She hesitated. "Never, from him." "From whom then?" 'Stephen said something about it once; but that was last suminer, and I am sure he was mistaken; for Herbert never told me of it-and it is very wrong of Stephen to tell you, papa, not likely to allow himself to be taken in; and I have no doubt he has made his calculations well." Alice felt very grateful for her father's kindness; but in her present mood there seemed some horrible censure implied in his praise, and so, restless and miserable, she lived only in the hope of Herbert's return. SEA-SIDE TALK. BY H. G. ADAMS, Author of "Favourite Song-birds," "Beautiful Butterflies," "A Story of the Seasons,” §c.,se. (Continued from page 124.) SPONGES, CORALS, AND MADREPORES. Our talk this time is to be of sponges, corals, and the like simple, yet for all that wonderful and elaborate forms of animal organization. It is amid the seas of the tropics that these attain their greatest size and beauty; and from these far off lands we receive those large supplies of articles of utility and ornament which naturalists describe as marine Polypi, the word being derived from the Greek polys, many, and podes, feet. These sponges, corals, and madrepores, however, should rather be called Polypidums, or houses of the Polypi, they being nothing more than the empty habitations of the minute animals, for whose secure shelter they were de signed and produced by the almighty Architect. The marine polypi, which all belong to the great class of Zoophytes, are generally divided into three principal divisions or orders, namely, Hydroida, Asteroida, and Helianthoida; the animal plants, or sea-anemones, already described, are as pliable as the finest hair. The whole substance of the sponge appears to be of about the same chemical composition, and we all know how compressible that is. As we squeeze a piece of it up in our hand, we may well ask, can there be anything like flint here? But our incredulity will vanish when we come to consider that every stalk of grain or grass that waves and bends to the breeze has a silicious coating; and that glass, of which flint is one of the chief components, may be woven into a lady's dress, and made to imitate the filament of feathers. This horny, chalky, or flinty formation-and it appears to partake somewhat of the nature of all three-is called the aris of the zoophyte, and it may be regarded as in some sort the skeleton of the animal, which it seems to protect and support, and which consists of a kind of semitransparent jelly, which if pressed between the fingers makes its escape in the form of an oily fluid. Disseminated through this gelatinous matter are a great number of minute grains, called gemmules, which are ciliated or haired, and which are, in fact, the germs of new sporiferous organizations. In due time these become detached from the parent mass, are borne out by the action of the current before described, and go swimming about for a time, as downy seeds float through the air in search of a suitable spot for a permanent residence. Having selected its place of attachment, the little gemmule becomes fixed, and gradually developed into a perfect sponge. belong to the last-named division: of some of a silicious (flinty) or calcareous (chalky) subthose included in the second we shall by-and-stance, but, on account of their extreme tenacity, bye have occasion to speak; our business at present is with those of the first order, of which Sponges may be considered as forming the introductory class, occupying, as it were, a sort of debatable ground between animal and vegetable existence. The scientific name of this class is Porifera, derived from the porous nature of all the species included in it. That these species are numerous may be judged by the fact that Dr. Johnston, in his "History of British Sponges and Corallines," enumerates no less than fifty-six; and those found on our own shores constitute but a small part of the aggregate number known. It was long a disputed matter with naturalists whether the sponges did really belong to the animal or vegetable kingdom. They are various in form; some, like that which we commonly see, being of a cup shape; others have an irregular outline, like angulated lobes; others again are more or less branched, assuming in some instances quite an arborescent development. Often in the same species the shape will vary greatly, as in that called the Grantia compressa, not uncommon on some parts of the British coast, which consists of a kind of white bag, suspended or fixed to its base by a narrow fibre, like the footstalk of a leaf: this spindle-shaped sac is formed of a thin porous tissue, and has a single large opening at the apex. Such is the simplest form of this polypidum. At a later stage of its growth it assumes a triangular, pentagonal, or hexagonal development; it then has an opening in each of the angles; through these larger openings the water, which passes in through the innumerable minute orifices or pores, is expelled, after having furnished its nutritive matter to the enclosed animals, clearing out as it goes the cells and passages, and so keeping the whole structure in a clean and healthy state. It seems also likely that the work of respiration, necessary to all living creatures, is effected by these currents of water, and perhaps the propagation of the species. This brief and imperfect description will, we think, serve to give our readers some general idea of the animal economy of all sponges, whose substance may be described as a congeries of horny filaments, interlacing each other in every direction, so as to form complete net work of intercommunicating cells. Imbedded into, or growing out, as it were, of these filaments, and so projecting into the cells, are immense numbers of little spikes, called spicule, which, by constantly rotating and waving about, draw into the cells, and again force out, the water which is necessary to the vitality of the polypi lodged in the sacs: these spiculæ, like the general conformation of the sponge, are extremely various in form, being sometimes merely straight and cylindrical, like tiny needles; at others they are two or three-f inged, or radiate, or curved in various degrees of deflection from the straight line: in some instances they are nobbed, and in others have a terininal disc of a stellar or star shape; they are composed of In that division of the family called Spongilla, the mode of propagation is somewhat different; but we must not pause to describe it, nor the many other wonderful changes and adaptations observable in the growth of this curious order of zoophytes, which are found in all seas, from the equator to the poles, attached to rocks, shells, or other submarine objects, looking sometimes like a covering of short, brown moss; at others shooting out branched stems into the water, and growing to a great size, as we see by the large honeycomb and other sponges, which are common articles of commerce. One curious circumstance connected with the natural history of sponges is, that certain of them, which constitute the genus Cliona, and other allied genera, have the power of making their way into shells and other calcareous substances much harder than themselves. These, which are called boring sponges, are branched in their forms, consisting of lobes united by a delicate stein. It is difficult to account for their excavating power. When they bury themselves, they preserve their com munication with the water by means of perfora tions in the outer walls of the shell into which they intrude: it sometimes happens that this is the covering of a living mollusk, which defends itself against the unwelcome intruder, by raising a new wall of shelly matter between: a notice to quit in this case would be useless. Many sponges are found in a fossilized state; indeed, it is the opinion of Professor Rymer |