restore me to cheerfulness, time may reconcile me to myself, but at present I am miserably dejected. In the seclusion in which I found myself at the commencement of my illness, I fancied I had tutored my rebellious heart into submission to His will, but, alas! alas! I am humbled-almost broken-hearted-yet still I am Mary Grey.'

"Colonel Maubrey is very kind to me, and mamma seems as happy as if she had married for love. The colonel knows perfectly well it was his fortune his wife coveted; he tacitly owns her position in society tempted him; and when a pair thus assorted make no false professions of attachment, it is, in my opinion, a virtue on both sides.

"I shall avail myself of dear Lady Cunnington's invitation very shortly; but the air of Brighton is very necessary for me at present, and you know I am not a malade imaginaire.'

"Poor Clara, my gentle sister! her life fleeted by, and her last sigh was heaved here; the recollection is sad, but life does not seem such an enviable boon as it used to be in my estimation. I could fill many pages with fashionable on dits, but the word fashion is just now as odious to me, as ill-placed in obtruding it upon your notice; make therefore your own conclusions upon my letter, and

"Believe me your sincere friend,
"MARY GREY."

Was it really Mary Grey who was thus writing to Alice Lemington?

Poor Mary Grey! she who had once started a bright being in the world's gay vortex, she, who had seen everything "en couleur de rose," now saw life in sombre tints, and as her spirits had drooped, so her reason had obtained that sway over her

jealous heart, which had lately belied the hopes of good things, which those who had

watched Mary Grey's infancy might have anticipated.

For Mary had been a sweetly gentle child, although her beauty and grace placed her in imminent peril of being spoiled; her natural vivacity not allowing her mind to dwell on one object, had made her forget, as soon as the parlour-door was closed, those pernicious speeches of adulation which general company so plentifully lavish on the children of the rich and great.

In well-regulated establishments, children are not allowed to be made such puppetshows; and well-directed minds, whether of parents or guardians, know how much harm is done when children catch the sounds of that buzz of admiration with which their presence is hailed in the drawing-room.

Fortunately Mary Grey had a severely

moral nurse, and her cool observations operated as a sedative after the intoxicating riens with which her young ears were assailed. "To be good was to be pretty," little Mary was told, and strenuously wishing to be pretty, the child strove to be good.

Then Mary Grey had the good fortune not to be an only child; and when little Clara was born she naturally lost some of her importance, the baby's charms were to be admired, and Mary was less spoiled.

Lord Grey took very little notice of his children, save at appointed times, and then he thought himself the fondest father ima ginable. The children were brought down once every morning, whilst he was finishing his breakfast, and between each mouthful of toast his lordship called them fairies, and loves, and dears, and the children really fancied they were very fond of their father.

Then, again, before dinner was announced, two little sylph-like creatures, with white frocks and long sashes, blue eyes and flaxen hair, were brought down stairs, where, after having their sashes untied by the ladies, who pulled them by those leading-strings on to their laps,-after having their long ringlets twisted round the gentlemen's fingers, after papa had said "don't make such a noise," and mamma had whispered "don't tumble my dress," the nurse was recalled, and Lord Grey saw no more of his children till the morning ordeal. When Lord Grey saw his baby girls he thought of them, but when they were not in his presence he forgot he had any children; he even wished at times that they had been boys, and had made more noise in the nursery; for when asked by his lady, as a matter of courtesy, "shall we send the children to the sea side ?" "The children, the children," he would say,