would make him impatient, I changed the tone of my discourse, by remarking-Her manner of coming among us was rather mysterious. We had long felt the want of a good female teacher, and the trustees of our female school advertised for the purpose of obtaining one. Shortly after the publication of the advertisement, a letter was received from a lady stating that she had but lately come from London, and was now a stranger among strangers, and destitute. She had left London, because she was friendless, and it had been her design to engage in teaching from choice, even if necessity had not made her anxious to do so. The delicacy of language in which the note was couched, and here and there a tear, which had blotted its pages, together with the unfortunate circumstances of the writer, won the sympathies of the trustees, and they sent for her immediately. It is thirty years since she came among us, but I remember her first appearance as if it was but yesterday. She had the brow of a queen and a full black eye, that might once have been bright and flashing-but sorrow had softened it. A gold chain around her neck was attached to a miniature almost concealed by her belt. This was the only earthly treasure her misfortunes had left her.

I had never been in the habit of looking at Mr. Ethelwaite, when conversing with him in this way, lest he might suspect some design; but a deep groan hastily arrested me, and turning towards him, I saw the very soul of agony depicted on his features. The veins of his forehead stood out like cords, and were swelled almost to bursting. His eyes seemed starting from their sockets-his mouth was slightly open, as if to drink in every word that fell from my lips.

Shocked beyond the power of speech, I took his arm to lead him home.

Hastily repulsing my attempt, he gasped out "Dorcas Ad-Lindsay ?-Go on."

My dear sir, I have no more to say. She lived among us like a saint, and died as she lived. Let me lead you home, you are unwell.

"The miniature ?"

She carried it with her to her dying day, and by her own request I had it buried with her in her coffin.

"Was it this?" grasping my arm, fixing his hair in a particular way that displayed a large scar, and glaring upon me with his eyes as if he would pierce my very soul.

The miniature certainly had a scar upon the head, but it was of quite a young man. Do let me lead you home.

"Was it this?" dashing his hand into his pocket and out again, with a miniature which he held full before my eyes, his own glaring upon me, as before.

What could I say? The miniature in his hand was fellow to the one I had buried with Dorcas Lindsay.

He rightly interpreted my silence. Gradually his muscles relaxed, till he sunk upon his seat with a deep groan. I took his arm, and led him forth like a little child to my own house. All that night, all the next day, and all the night following, he was in a raging fever. On the morning of the second day he fell into a sleep so hushed, that my wife, who was standing with me by his bedside, gently felt his pulse. The touch aroused him; and opening his eyes he grasped her hand, saying, in a subdued voice," Dorcas, have you come back to me?" His brain was still confused, but his senses were gradually returning. When they were more fully restored, he recognized me, and spoke of the long, long dream he had had.

From this time he gradually recovered. I would fain have prevailed with him to continue his abode at my house, but no; he had become attached to his little cottage, and expressed himself anxious to die there. Taking an affectionate leave of my wife, and venting his gratitude to her by a tear, he started, myself accompanying him, for his residence.

"You will show me her grave," said he, as he pressed my hand, at parting. I bowed assent, and the next day I complied with his request. After this, I visited him daily for three days, and always found him writing. It was on the night of the third day, that the little boy came for me, as above.

With a mind full of solicitude, I reached his door. I could hear him pacing the room in violent agitation, and venting, at intervals, groans that came from his soul's deepest chambers. I rapped, but received no answer. I rapped again, but still no answer was returned. I mentioned my name; still he continued walking to and fro. I repeated it, louder. The sound arrested him. He suddenly unlocked the door, and then went on pacing the room and groaning. I entered, and what a sight met my vision ! There was Mr. Ethelwaite, his coat soiled and muddy, his features worked up to the highest pitch of anguish, and ever and anon, venting those unearthly groans that even now chill my blood. He held two miniatures, one in each hand, at which he alternately gazed, after which he would groan out-"Too true! too true!"

He took no notice of my entrance, nor of my entreaties that

he would sit down. At length he suddenly turned to me and said vehemently, "God has sent you here. Too true! too true! This night I entered her grave, and found the miniature that was to be, to her, my type, during my absence. She was too happy as she gazed on it, and the fiends of hell first envied, and then stole her joy. Oh!-my-Go-"

The rush of thought choked his utterance. He would have fallen, but I caught and bore him to the bed. His breath became harder and harder-his groans less and less audiblewhen suddenly raising himself, he grasped my hand with a dying effort said faintly,—“ You will-find-all-explained-inthat." I followed with my eyes the motion of his hand, as he pointed to a small writing desk, and when I turned them on him again, he was dead!


Sick of the crowd, the toil, the strife,
Sweet Nature, how I turn to thee!
Seeking for renovated life,

By brawling brook and shady tree.
I knew thy rocks had spells of old,
To change the wanderer's wo to calm;
And, in thy waters, clear and cold,
My heated brow would seek its balm.
I bent beneath thy ancient oak,

I sought for slumber in its shade,
And, as the clouds above me broke,
I dream'd to win the boon I pray'd.
For light, a blessed light, was given,
Far streaming round me from above;
And in the deep, deep vaults of heaven,
I saw a smile of peace and love.

And through the long, long summer hours.
When every bird was on his wing,

I sought, among thy thousand flow'rs,
Renewal of life's secret spring;

That sacred freshness of the heart,

That made youth's tide flow smooth and strong,
When, yet untaught by shame or art.

We feared no guile, and felt no wrong.

My soul grew young in early dreams,
And 'gainst the passing time I strove,
Most glad to yield all human schemes,
For one pure, boyish hour of love.
And who but Nature's self could yield
The boon I sought, the prayer I made-
Throned in her realm of wood and field,
Of rocky realm and haunted shade:
Who but that magic Queen, whose sway
Drives Winter from his path of strife,

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London. G Henderson. 2.Old Bailey.

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