Cumingon, ʼn extent of the unhappy Ama. * sie my sme de recare my love,

Camingon y mike my heart grow erud, hearken 0 me. Soccer would I follow you mourning to the grave, then dwell upon the recolection that you w live in disgrace; — nay, I would die myself were such a sacrifice of

Cunnington involuntarily drew forth Anna's picture from his bosom, and Alice took it from his hands.

“She is very, very beautiful!” she exclaimed, gazing at the charming features, so well delineated. “Can it be possible you can wish to plant grief and shame in that bosom ?"

Cunnington drew the picture from Alice,

and he, too, gazed upon it. Alice remarked with bitterness, how full of melancholy love was that long and silent gaze.

The rest of the walk was passed in grave silence, until the stately trees of Cunnington Park appeared in view, then, turning towards her companion, Alice timidly asked him to notice the golden rays of the sun streaming between the branches; "Does it not make us think of God, that glorious sun!" she added.

"And do we not then lament our weakness?" continued Cunnington, sadly.

"But why give way to that weakness, Cunnington? Now-now that I am nothing to you, now that you can look upon me with cool feelings, and think of me as one of the many who form our acquaintances through life, I may speak to you as I should not have dared under other circumstances. Stop, Cunnington, do not walk so

and food, and honest employment; but the Lord put it in his heart to do so."

"The Lord never teaches me to do good things, Mary."

"Because you do not pray," said the young woman; "shall I come to you every morning, and we will pray together ?"

"Bah! bah! Mary, you are young, I am old; you are pretty, I am ugly; you are good, I am wicked. You will pray to live long, to be very rich, and have a new sweetheart; what have I to do with those things ?"

No, no, no! I do not pray for such things. I pray that God will keep me from sin and sorrow; that my babes may grow in goodness every day; and I pray that I may go to Heaven when I die; but-but-" continued Mary, in a tremulous voice, “I pray for something more."

"Ah!" cried Sally; " for money, hey?"

No," said Mary, tears filling her large blue eyes; "I pray that God may forgive James as I forgive him; that he may meet me again in Heaven; I pray that he may turn good before he dies."

'And you never wish for money?" persisted Sally; "I do."

"I used to wish for it very much-oh! very much, when I was starving; and I once-but do not tell, pray do not, SallyI looked so wistfully at a baker's shop, but the man drove me away-I was going to steal-I wanted to go to prison, and be fed for a few days, for I was very, very faint; but a gentleman gave me sixpencea whole silver sixpence-only think of that, Sally; my babes and I had such a feast!" "But sixpence is soon spent."

"So it is, so it is; it only served for two meals, for the babes were very hungry; but the next day, just as I was feeling very

hungry, and the same wicked thought came across me, the Lord of the Abbey met me, and he spoke so kindly, that I cried as much as when James left me; and he gave me this pretty cottage, and plenty of washing for the under servants at the Abbey. God bless him for it, God bless him, as He will!"

"The Lord of the Abbey has plenty of money, he can afford to be good," said the surly old woman.

"So he can; but many lords who are very rich never do any good," replied Mary;

some will tell their servants to turn the poor from their doors, and some would not talk to a beggar for all the world; and many enter their rich carriages, and surlily shake their heads at poor people."

Sally clenched her fist, as if, like the Emperor Nero, she had a wish of centering all heads into one, and she would then