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sumption had set its seal upon her, and that her days on earth were numbered.

"I wish it was later," she murmured, glancing towards the open window, through which the rays of a September sun were shining. "It is so hard to lie here alone, suffering so much. I hope Fanny will obtain leave to return home early this evening-I know she means to ask it." The tears rose to the eyes of the poor girl, as she thought of the devoted affection of her only sister, a girl of nineteen, who earned a living by sewing for one of the fashionable mantuamakers of the day. The room, although scantily furnished, was neat, and the invalid's bed clean, though coarse. A small stand stood by the bed, on which was a pitcher of water, a phial, and a wineglass, and on the pillow lay an open Bible. The young girl had earned a support as a tailoress; but a neglected cold, taken by carrying some work home late one wet evening, had prostrated her on a bed of sickness, from which she was destined never to rise. Untiring were the cares bestowed upon her by her sister. She watched with her at night; and many were the humble, earnest prayers of the occupants of this small room to their Heavenly Father, that he would enable them to bear patiently his chastening hand.

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But we hasten to a different scene.

A gay carriage drove up to Mrs. Bennett's fashionable establishment, and a beautiful young girl descended, and entered the shop. Mrs. Bennett, I must have a new dress for this evening; I have just bought a love of a dress, and I intend wearing it to Mrs. Green's ball."-To-night, Miss Norton!" said Mrs. Bennett; "it is impossible for me to have your dress ready in time. It is now past one, and I could not promise you a ball-dress on so short a notice."- Oh, nonsense, Mrs. Bennett," said the lady petulantly, "I must and will have the dress; and if you will not make it, why I must carry my custom elsewhere." -The mistress of the shop looked distressed. Really, madam, I would do anything to oblige-but surely you have some other dress equally suited to the occasion; I sent you home three, only ten days since."-"I have worn them all," interrupted the beauty impatiently. "Let your girls leave off all their other work, and turn to upon my dress, and I will pay anything extra that you may have the conscience to charge-only do not disappoint meand send the dress home by an experienced hand, that I may have any alteration made at the last moment, if required." So saying, Miss Norton entered her carriage, and drove to the jeweller's shop, to select a new set of ornaments for the occasion.

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Mrs. Bennett took the gauze left in her hand, and selecting from her well-filled shelves

a satin corresponding in hue, and trimmings to match, went into a back room. Some twenty young girls were busily plying their needles. The room was close and warm, and many of its occupants looked jaded and worn with their labours. From six to seven, with a short interval of half an hour for dinner, were the regular hours required for their attendance at the shop; but when there was a press of work, they were often obliged to remain and work extra hours, and ten, eleven, and even twelve o'clock often arrived before they were released from their health-consuming toil. The table and chairs of the room were littered with shreds of delicate gauzes, rich silks and satins. Can we wonder, when we hear the often-told tale of the seduction and ruin of one of this delicate class of girls, surrounded by temptation, their hands employed upon material which would so well set off the beauty of the worker, and the voice of the tempter ever at hand to offer the lure! And if remaining true to themselves, stinted in their food, poorly paid, they work from Monday morning until Saturday night, week in and week out, until a premature decline but too often closes their career. Such is the not exaggerated history of too many of these poor girls. Could one of the beauties, whose gay costume has cost so many hours of harassing toil, bear but one hour of the suffering so inflicted, she would hesitate ere she ordered a new dress on short notice. But to our tale.

"Here is a new dress," said Mrs. Bennett, addressing her forewoman, "and it must be finished before nine o'clock to-night. Take half-a-dozen of the girls, and see that it is done in time."-"They will have to remain extra time, madam, in order to do so," said the forewoman." Well, let them stay then; I am not going to lose one of my best customers to suit their laziness. If any one grumbles,” she said, on leaving the room, "let me know; I do not want grumblers to work for me-they may seek employment elsewhere." A young girl, seated near the forewoman, cast a deprecating glance toward her. "I cannot help it, Fanny," was the reply to the mute appeal; "I would like to have you go home early to poor Ellen, who I know needs you so much,-but what can I do? You are one of our fastest workwomen, and to finish this dress, with all its trimmings, will require all the exertion our best workers can bestow." The tears rose in Fanny's eyes, and a sensation of choking came in her throat. But it was all in vain; and making a violent effort to subdue her agitation, Fanny commenced, with trembling fingers and aching heart, the task allotted to her. Her needle flew, as she thought that by perhaps straining every effort, she might yet go early to her

sister; and her companions, who felt much for her, used their utmost efforts to assist her. The weary hours passed on; we leave them to their task, and return to our fashionable beauty.

Extended on a sofa, in a richly furnished bedroom, reclined the lady. At a short distance from her sat her mother, mending some fine lace. "What do you intend wearing this evening, Rose?" she said, addressing her daughter.

"I have ordered a new dress for the occasion."

"A new dress, Rose! Why, you extravagant girl, your closet is full of beautiful dresses."

"Yes, I know that, but I have worn them all and am tired of them all. And then there was such a beauty of a gauze at Stewart's, that I believe I should have bought it, even if I did | not want it for to-night."

"And when did you give the dress to be made up, you naughty girl?" said the mother, gazing admiringly on the beautiful face of her daughter.

"I went to Mrs. Bennett this morning. She grumbled, to be sure; but then I never listen to that class of people. What are they fit for, if they cannot make a dress at the time one most wants it? I am sure they all charge enough to have one ready on shorter notice than I gave Mrs. Bennett this morning."

"Is it to be a large party, Rose?" "No, but very select. That French girl, Mademoiselle de Montmorenci, is to be there, of whom I have heard so much. The men are all crazy about her. I am determined she shall not outvie me in dress, and as for beauty" The young lady added no more, but cast a complacent glance at a large mirror opposite her.

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'Well, Rose, I hope you may enjoy yourself. But one thing, my daughter: I must insist upon your not flirting so much with young Barton. He is poor-a mere merchant's clerk, -has a family of pretty sisters, who are unprovided for, and is in every respect a decided detrimental."

"Psha, mother!" said Rose contemptuously, "do you think there is any danger of my falling in love with Barton?"

"No, my dear,-no danger of your falling in love;-but it will prove a heart-breaking business to him, poor fellow. And then young Mercer, the millionaire, is Barton's particular friend, and I would not have you offend him on any account."

"Well, well, madam, I promise," said Rose, impatiently; but she felt a slight twinge of conscience, as she reflected how much she had encouraged the ardent, agreeable young man. But Rose never troubled herself long with any

disagreeable reflections; and rising from her sofa, she commenced humming an opera tune as she took out various trifles from her bureau for her evening costume.

Wearily and painfully passed the hours with poor Ellen. The water in the pitcher grew so warm that she could not drink it, and her hand trembled so that she could not drop her medicine. She grew hourly more feverish; and, oh! how she longed for some of the tempting peaches she knew were exposed at the shopwindow of the very building in which she lay. She turned restlessly from side to side." Will the sun never set?" she said, looking towards the window. At last, wearied out, the sufferer slept. She dreamed that she wandered in a beautiful garden, where flowers and fruits grew in profusion.

She inhaled the perfumed air,

and gathered eagerly the grateful fruits, and a thrill of ecstasy shot through her frame. She walked on erect and strong, and the sorrows of her lot were forgotten. The birds were pouring forth their song, and all nature rejoiced. She woke with a sudden start. The sun had gone down. She must have slept for some hours. She felt very weak and languid, but she knew, from the gray aspect of the room, that the hour for Fanny's return was soon at hand. She waited patiently, but a sensation of sinking gradually stole over her. A clammy dew stood on her brow:-she was too feeble to wipe it off, and an icy chill crept over her. "Oh, my God, is it even so? Am I to die alone,-all alone? Fanny, dearest Fanny, why do you not come to me?" she murmured wildly. A slight spasm convulsed her features, and when the moon rose and shed its beams on the couch, its pale light fell on the features of a corpse. The trials and sufferings of the young tailoress were at an end.

"There, Fanny, the dress is now done, and Mrs. Bennett says that you must carry it home." "Oh, dear Miss Jones, pray let some one else go. Indeed, indeed, I must go now to Ellen. She has been expecting me these three hours, and she is so ill."

"I told Mrs. Bennett so, Fanny, but she said you alone were expert enough to alter the dress, if required; so you must go."

Looks of indignation were exchanged among the girls, as poor Fanny meekly put on her hat and shawl, and, with tears fast running down her face, took the bandbox in her hand. It was within a quarter of nine, and the lady's residence was full three miles from the shop. Wearied and agitated, Fanny moved through the gaily-lighted streets; and as some dashing equipage would arrest her steps in crossing a street, the thought would occur-"Do the rich know what we suffer?" She arrived at Mrs.

Norton's, and was immediately shown up to the young lady's room. A hairdresser was just putting the finishing touches to the beautiful hair of the fair one, and some flowers were placed amid the curls.

"That little French girl was the belle of the evening. She had all the best beaux, and as for your friend, young Mercer, he had no eyes for any one else."

"Is she so very beautiful, then, or so elegantly dressed, or what is her peculiar attraction ?"

"She is not beautiful at all, mother;-that is to say, not regularly beautiful. She has large dark eyes, and brilliantly white teeth, and possesses what the men call great fascination. I do not know what they mean, but she had a crowd round her all the evening, and every one was full of her bon mots and intelligence."

"Well, well, my love," said her mother, soothingly, "it is not worth your fretting about."

"Oh! I am glad you have come at last," said the lady. "How came you to be so late? But never mind; take out my dress." Fanny, ready to drop from her long walk, obeyed at once, and the beautiful dress was displayed. "Oh, how elegant!" exclaimed Rose. The hairdresser left the room, and the dress was tried on. Rose surveyed herself in silence for a few minutes, and then exclaimed: "Why does Mrs. Bennett always make my dresses so high in the neck? I am not an old woman yet, that I want to be covered up to my throat. Here, Nancy," turning to her maid, "you and this girl must alter this. It is too "Fretting! I am not fretting," said the provoking. Now I shall be detained at least proud beauty, as she dashed the tears from half an hour. How could you be so stupid?" | her eyes. But for all her assertion, she burst she said, addressing the trembling Fanny. into a fit of weeping as soon as she closed her The dress was taken off, and Fanny and the bedroom door. She tore off her beautiful dress, maid proceeded to alter it. The delicate and threw it on the floor, and, wrapping her* trimmings were ripped off, and an hour passed self in a loose gown, threw herself on the sofa. away before the dress was finished, the young | There, neglected on the ground, lay the costly lady grumbling and scolding all the time. At dress;-the dress that had delayed poor Fanny, last she was dressed; and, as Fanny closed—the dress that had caused a human heart to the street door, the church clock struck ten. Her home was two miles distant, and dark clouds now obscured the sky. She hurried on; -large drops of rain fell, and soon a heavy rain soaked her thin garments. But she felt it not, so anxious was she about her sister. At last she arrived home, and paused at the shop to buy Ellen some of the fruit she had so longed for. She placed her hand on the balustrade to ascend the long staircase, but stopped and leaned her head on her hand. An indefinable sensation of dread stole over her. She wiped the perspiration from her brow. "It must be that I am so tired," she said; "I do not know what ails me. I am afraid to go up." She waited another moment, and then slowly crept up stairs. Her hand rested on the doorhandle, but again the chill of fear made her shiver. She opened the door, cast a hasty glance at the couch, and then, with one wild scream, sprang forward and fell insensible beside the bed.

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experience the bitterest of pangs,-that of dying alone, without one kind hand to close our eyes or drop a tear over our remains.

"Have you any vacant rooms in this building to let, sir?" asked a pale-looking young countryman of the proprietor of the shop on the first floor of the building in which the sisters lived. "I want a room, and was told that you were the agent for this building."

"I am so, sir. What kind of a room do you wish for? I have several rooms to let, at different prices."

"Well, let me see them all. I have some money saved up, and a good trade. I am promised steady employment, but I wish to be as economical as possible."

"Very fair, sir. Come this way, if you please." They went from room to room, until they had mounted to the attic. "There is a room," said the agent, "that for the present is occupied, but I do not know whether it will not soon be vacant. Two sisters live there, and one of them, I take it, is not long for this world. Her sister, poor thing, takes the whole charge of her. They have not paid up their last month's rent, but I am loath to trouble them. They appear to be honest, industrious girls, but they must pay up. The owner of this building is a stiff man about money matters. He makes no allowance for sickness, or any

"Why, my dear child," said her mother, in other trouble, but must have his money when surprise, what is the matter?"

it is due. By the by, I have not seen the

better world.

well sister go out this morning. Let us knock | dear child. Your sister has, I trust, gone to a and see what is the matter." Her sorrows are over, and she is an angel rejoicing now while we are weeping for her."

They knocked, but no answer was returned.
Again they rapped, but no sound issued from

the room.
"I am afraid there is more trouble
here," said the agent, looking at the young
man. "Let us go in."

They opened the door. Fanny was on her knees by the bed, her face covered with her long hair, and one of her sister's hands pressed to her lips. She moved not, nor spoke, but moaned heavily.

Fanny raised her eyes, and seeing the sympathetic tears that rolled down the good woman's cheeks, threw herself into her arms, and buried her face in her bosom.

"There! sob away, my poor child. It will relieve your broken heart," said Mrs. Brown. Fanny raised her head after a few minutes, and wiped her eyes. "You are very good to

The agent raised her. "What can I do?" me, ma'am," she said. said the young man, anxiously.

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"Never mind my being good, my dear, but

Run across the street and bring the apo- just tell us, my cousin the carpenter John thecary here," said the agent.

The young man disappeared, and returned quickly with the apothecary, who brought a bottle of ammonia in his hand. He dropped some of it in water, and forced Fanny to swallow it; and then rubbing her temples with some more of the same preparation, the poor girl was gradually roused. She looked wildly at them for a moment, and then glanced towards the bed. She broke away from the agent. "Oh, Ellen, my dear, dear sister!" she exclaimed, throwing herself on the bed; "speak to me, Ellen; speak to your poor, broken-hearted Fanny. She will never speak again," said she, suddenly raising herself from the bed. "And I-where was I when you were dying, poor suffering one? Finishing that dress for that hard-hearted girl, and you, no doubt, calling for me. Oh, why did I mind them? What did it matter if I should offend them all? But I was a coward, and now I am punished!" she added bitterly, and once again she dropped her head on the bed and sobbed convulsively.

All were affected by her distress. The apothecary and the agent were accustomed to scenes of distress; but the young man, fresh from the country, was almost as much agitated as Fanny herself.

Grey here and myself, what we can do for you." Fanny tried to speak, but her quivering lips uttered no sound.

"Well, sit down, my dear; I see your head is too distracted to tell what you do want." She went to the door, and held a whispered conversation with the carpenter, who then disappeared. She then put the room in order, and performed the last sad rites for poor Ellen. When all was done, observing that the glaring sun struck full on Fanny's aching eyes, she took off her dark apron, and hung it up before the window. Fanny silently took her seat by the bed. Mrs. Brown left the room, and returned after a short interval with a bowl of hot tea and a roll of bread. "There, my dear, try and swallow a little of this," she said. Poor Fanny tried to obey her, but she could not swallow. kind woman placed it beside her, and said: "Well, perhaps you will taste this by and by. And now, good bye, my child; I must go home, for I have a family to attend to. I will see you again to-night."

The

A coffin was procured the next day; and poor Ellen, followed by Fanny, Mrs. Brown, and the carpenter, was consigned to the grave. The good woman now urged Fanny to return home with her, but the broken-hearted girl clung to the room in which her sister had

"Has she no relatives or friends ?" he in- breathed her last. quired anxiously of the agent.

The man shook his head. "They are orphan girls, and have not long lived in this city. I have never known them have any company on Sunday or other holidays, and they never went anywhere except to church."

"Poor thing!" said the young man, compassionately. He paused for a moment, and then said: "I'll go to my good cousin Brown. She is a baker's wife, and lives not far off. She is a right good soul, and will do all she can for this unhappy creature."

He left the room, and when he returned with his cousin, found Fanny alone. Mrs. Brown went up to the poor girl, and taking one of her hands, said, "Be comforted, my

Five years have rolled away, and once again behold our friend Fanny. She is seated in a rocking-chair, in a small but neat and comfortable room. A beautiful infant is crowing and laughing in his cradle, the tea-table is set, and the tea-kettle gives forth its cheerful hum. Fanny is knitting, but now and then glances towards the window.

"I wonder what makes your father so late," she said, addressing the infant. The boy tossed its little chubby arms, as if in answer to her question. She bent over him and kissed him. At that moment the front door opened, and our carpenter, John Grey, walked into the room. He caught the child from its cradle,

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and tossed him up in the air until the boy screamed with delight. He then threw him back in his cradle, and turned to his wife. A grave expression stole over his face, as he said: Fanny, there is a poor woman and her daughter in great distress not far off. The old woman is dying, and the daughter, a sickly, miserable-looking creature, seems half distracted. An accident caused me to become acquainted with their situation, and as it was a case where I could not do any good alone, I hastened home for you."

--

"Let us have our supper at once, John, and I will go with you; we can leave our child with our kind neighbour next door." Supper over, our worthy carpenter and his wife hastened to the relief of the miserable pair, John carrying a basket containing some articles for their relief. Wretched indeed was the scene that presented itself to their eyes. On a low, dirty straw bed, lay the body of the mother, and beside her, with her hair hanging in matted masses about her face, was the daughter. The good couple raised her, and gave her a cordial from their basket. She looked at them sullenly, but said nothing. When her hair was thrown back, Fanny thought that the countenance was familiar to her, but could not recollect where she had seen it. The face had been beautiful, and the outline of the figure was still graceful. After a few moments, the unhappy girl muttered, "How shameful that we should be left in this way! I have not deserved such infamous treatment." The tone of voice confirmed Fanny's half-formed suspicions. "Good heavens! Miss Norton, can this be you?" "You may well ask the question," said the girl. "Yes, I am Miss Norton; but who are you who recognise me in this degraded state?"— "One who will do her utmost to serve you, young lady," said Fanny; "but how have you been thus reduced?"-"Whoever you are, you appear to know that I have been reduced. My father failed, and not being able to face the world, cut his throat. My mother and myself were left unprovided for. We could not work, and we lived for some time upon the sale of such articles of jewelry as we were able to secrete from the creditors; but we sold the last ring two months since, and my mother has begged from door to door since. She caught cold one rainy night, took a fever, and is now dead.""—"But had you no relatives or friends, my dear young lady?"-"None," said the girl haughtily. The truth was, that Mr. Norton had laid the foundation of his fortune by a lucky speculation; he was originally of low origin, but as he acquired wealth, he and his wife cut and shook off all their humble relatives. The beauty of his daughter, whom he educated at a fashionable seminary, backed by

his own wealth, introduced them into fashionable society; and when he failed, those who would otherwise have come to the aid of his family, rejoiced in the idea "that pride must have a fall."

Two days after saw Rose established at Fanny's home. Fanny had set her house in order, and was now busy looking over a large basket of needlework. She drew forth a pair of woollen stockings, and commenced darning them. "Dear me, what shocking coarse work!" said Rose, contemptuously; "what beautiful things I used to make," she said, with a sigh."What kind of things?" said Fanny, mildly."Oh, card-racks and purses."-" Well, perhaps you could make some now, and we could sell them for you." Rose assented coldly to this proposition, and Fanny procured her some materials for her work that evening. But Rose's natural indolence was now increased by real ill health, and she would not try to exert herself. She spent the last few months of her life in peevish repinings over her lost luxuries. The good carpenter and his wife pitied although they could not respect her. She died, unregretted by any one save the kind couple, who made allowance for the faults and follies of a fashionably-educated beauty. They placed her by the side of her mother, and one stone recorded their names; and, as Fanny stood by the grave with her boy in her arms, she thanked God that her youth had been chastened by misfortune, and that under his providence, the toil of her own hands had given her the glorious privilege" of being independent!"

PREMATURE INTERMENTS AND THE UNCERTAIN SIGNS OF DEATH.

BY GEORGE WATTERSTON, M. D.

DEATH is an event which every living being in his senses wishes to avoid as long as possible. The miseries of life, its vapid realities, the loss of fortune, the privation of friends, disease, old age, and all the other "ills which flesh is heir to," tend to blunt its sting and soften its horrors; and to those who may have happily placed their reliance on Him who is the rock of their salvation, the anticipated glory of eternity, and the consciousness of a well-spent life, present a shield which, in the hour of dissolution, disarms the monster of his terrors, and smooths the rough path to the grave. But even to such it is a condition not entirely free from dread.

"For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?"

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