certain degree of fatality, which almost all men allow, we can trace a preordination which the "veto of fate cannot command-this not the hand of destiny, but the hand of One unspeakably good.

Many characters introduced in a novel glide through the pages without trial or misfortune; many, on the contrary, are led through a series of difficulties; at times perhaps they may appear exaggerated, but how many readers have shed tears over the recollection of trials as severe which it has been their sad lot to encounter.

The sudden gloom thrown over a house when illness attains the mastery has too often been described, and, alas! too often been witnessed to require description. The closed blinds, the noiseless tread, the suppressed sobs, the low moans of the sufferer, the breathless anxiety with which the visit of the physician is hailed, all this throws

a chord of sadness over the author's pen, as if aware that many must shed a recollective tear.

How changed was Cunnington Abbey ! Lady Cunnington's dignified step had lost its measured tread; tremulously, nervously she glided into the sick chamber of Augustus Lord Cunnington, her kind, her noble-hearted husband, whose tide of life was slowly ebbing away.

Lady Cunnington's grief was neither violent nor unrestrained; indeed, very common-minded menials were not slow in saying, "My lady don't seem to take it to heart." She did take it to heart; but in that exalted heart there existed the deepest religion-that vital religion which lifted her"in the flesh, above the flesh," and left her soul tranquil and resigned. Well Lady Cunnington knew that death would bring no terrors to her virtuous husband;

well she knew that, as far as perfection is possible in human nature, he had cultivated every virtue and every Christian grace. The hope of that crown of ineffable price, which would adorn her beloved husband's brow, comforted the affectionate pair in those hours when mortal agony is indeed at its climax.

Then, in the tedious hours of illness, Lord Cunnington felt the reward of kindness, the pleasure of being beloved, when, worn out with watching, Lady Cunnington snatched a few hours of repose, it was Alice Lemington who gently administered the draught, and shook the downy cushions. She glided so noiselessly by the sick man's couch, whilst her soft voice often whispered words of comfort, and her lips parted in encouraging smiles.

"How wearisome this task must be for you," the nobleman would sometimes say;

"youth recoils from witnessing the sufferings which do not even touch them."

"Does youth forget that age will surely be its portion, unless, indeed, youth be called hence before it has attained to mature age ?"

"Dear Alice, how many thanks I owe you; how kindly you have ministered to my wants, and I, how often I have been pettish !"

Oh, do not say so, dear Lord Cunnington; indeed, no one could have borne suffering better; let me shake your cushions -there, there."

Lord Cunnington caught the soft white hand, and pressed it to his lips, and Alice herself returned the caress.

My more than father," she cried, " must I,—must we lose you?"

"I believe my complaint baffles all human aid," said Lord Cunnington, strug

gling as he spoke, with a spasmodic pain; "and, Alice, I shall make you smile, for, ill as I am, I recollect my classical lore, and I fain would say in the words of Dieneces, the Spartan commander, ‘I wish you a husband worthy of you, and children who may resemble him.'

Alice hesitated for a moment, then her pretty face was covered with blushes, as she softly whispered, "There is but one I love."

"If Augustus loves you," replied the nobleman, "it matters not what my ancestral pride may be; I shall soon bury the pomp and vanity of life in the last slumber of the grave; no doubt you will be Lady Cunnington."

Never, never, without your consent !" cried the young girl, tenderly pressing the invalid's pale hands; "never, never!"

"You have been so very, very kind to