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heading the lessening file of words, which come to such a dwarfish stature before they reach the end of the line. When the page is finished, it is hard to see any improvement; and, shaking her head sadly over it, with a dreary sigh Zaidee begins again.

The chamber door is closed for hours-closed upon Sophy, who is offended, and wonders what it means -wonders if Zaidee is changed in heart by her new position-and goes away heavier than ever in her own spirit;-closed upon Sermo, too, who sits without, now and then appealing pathetically with paw and voice. But Zaidee has no leisure for Sermonicus, and he also must go away, much wondering, to find another companion; while hour after hour-alas, such lengthy, weary, slow-paced hours! Zaidee, faithful to her copy-lines, bends over her book and writes, till mere fatigue overcomes the rising fervour of visible improvement, and the new heiress of the Grange rises from her labour at last.

It is only to put on hastily her plain brown straw bonnet, with its blue ribbon, and to draw her little cloak over her shoulders. Very sombre in colour is the dress of Zaidee -not much unlike that brown girlish complexion of hers, through which you can scarcely prophesy what kind of womanhood may bloom. Sermo, poor fellow, has only now retired, in offended dignity, to his place by Mrs Vivian's footstool; but Zaidee does not care to have Sermo with her in her present expedition. The rain is sweeping white across the country, from which every sign of life seems to have been driven by the blast. The sandy path leading to Briarford trickles all over in little channels with streamlets of the rain; and the wind, though somewhat cowed, does no discredit to the month or to the locality. There is little out of doors to tempt the wayfarer; but Zaidee, much indifferent to the weather, passes through it undismayed, turning her solitary rapid footsteps towards the little house, with its scrubby flowerpots and green shutters, the curate's cottage, where Angelina has her bower.

A very shady and not over-cheerful apartment to-day is the bower of An

VOL. LXXVII.-NO. CCCCLXXII.

gelina. This young lady has not learned yet the charm of the fireside; and instead of the fireside, the Curate's wife sits by the window with her poetry book, looking out upon the dreary rain, upon those poor drenched dahlias and hollyhocks in her little garden, and upon the broken hedge and rushy watery field which lies without. Angelina, to tell the truth, is as dull to-day as the dullest young lady who has no "resources." A needle and a thread, if she had skill to use them, would be unspeakable comfort to this mistaken lover of the Muses; but Angelina has a lofty disdain of all the pretty labours of ladylike leisure, and has not learned yet the housewifely necessities which byand-by will compel her to occupation. The poetry book, however, proves a very poor substitute for the woman's work which Angelina scorns; and she looks out disconsolately over her drenched flower-plot-looks in with a dreary glance to the dim room shadowed with its green curtains-wonders if anybody will call-and thinks, with a tear rising in her eye, of mamma and her little sisters, and all the needful, natural subordination from which she was so proud to escape into the dignified freedom of a married lady-a clergyman's wife. But, however, here she is now, uncommanded and insubordinate-no one to please but the indulgent Curate shut up in his study, who may shrug his shoulders sometimes, but never grumbles in comprehensible words. So the Curate's wife once more draws herself up, and bends her face between her drooping curls over her book of poetry-a production not much more cheerful to look upon than the dreary Cheshire flat before her, under this white blast of November rain.

When suddenly there flashes upon her disconsolate reverie the illumination of Zaidee's face. Zaidee's face has been wetted by rain-drops, and flushed with striving against the wind, but is glowing bright with intention and purpose, such as never fell to Angelina's lot. Looking forth with vague wonder, the Curate's wife almost forgets to smile a recognition of her welcome visitor. What can Zaidee want? Mrs Green marvels-for no one can doubt that Zaidee wants some

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thing.

[Feb.

Zaidee hurriedly, "if you have ever "I want you to tell me," said found that girl yet for the nursery governess; for, if you have not, I know one that would like to go."

Zaidee: a Romance.-Part III.
Meanwhile Zaidee herself,
without so much as observing that
there is any one at the window, presses
forward to the door and enters, the
fringes of her cloak-alas the day!
dripping upon the light-coloured da-
mask which covers Mrs Green's chairs,
and leaving a visible print upon the
sofa as she brushes by.

"How wet you are!" cried Ange-
lina, springing up to unfasten the
cloak, lest Zaidee, careless of the
damask, should throw herself, fringes
and all, into the easy-chair, the glory
of the room. "Dear Zaidee, did you
come all this way through the rain to
see me?"

"No," said Zaidee, with unhesitating and simple sincerity. ought to say Yes," she added imme"But I diately. "I came to speak to you about something. The strings are wet-never mind the cloak. Are you sure Mr Green is busy, and no one will come here but you?"

"I must mind the cloak," said Mrs Green, not quite so sincere as Zaidee; 66 you will catch cold; and so shall I, I believe, it is so very wet. I will ring, and send it away"-and Angelina held the unfortunate garment at arm's length, and went daintily towards the bell-" and then we shall be quite alone."

Zaidee had not thrown herself within the magnificent arms of the easychair. She stood before the fire, holding her bonnet in one hand, her face a little downcast, her other arm hanging listlessly by her side. The Curate's wife shivered slightly, and complained how cold it was; but Mrs Green took her chill, not from the weather, but from the look of Zaidee, so absorbed and self-contained, and full of incomprehensible energy and intention. Zaidee was at all times very unconscious of being looked at-she was more so than ever now.

Mrs Green, full of expectation, sat down in the easy-chair. Zaidee stood still, full of her own thoughts, before the fire. The cloak had been removed, the door was closed alone. they were

"What girl?" Zaidee's abruptness confused Mrs Green, who was never over-quick of comprehension.

said Zaidee, with a slight gesture of "You told me-you remember?" impatience, "about the young lady who was to be married, and had written to you. Have you found the governess yet?"

"No, indeed, Zaidee," said Angelina eagerly. "How strange you have just had another letter from should come to speak of that; for I Charlotte this morning."

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"And what does she say? Mrs Green fortunately did not pause anxious interest, or Zaidee might have to wonder at her visitor's strange and been moved to some greater demonstration of impatience; for Zaidee, girl, and knew she might be arbitrary alas! was only a very fallible human with this sentimental Angelina almost to any extent she chose.

"She says, poor thing, that she can't be married till some one comes the Curate's wife. "There are six of to take charge of the children," said them, Zaidee; no wonder she is ful task, no doubt; but then one's own anxious to get away. It is a delightlittle brothers and sisters are hard to manage sometimes. And you think you know some one? Shall I go to see her? What shall I do?"

if you please, do this for me," said "I want you to write now. Pray, Zaidee, trembling slightly. "I want blotting-book. I will never ask you you to lose no time: here is your anything again, if you will do this now for me."

Mrs Green could not explain why she too trembled and was frightened when Zaidee thrust a pen into her hand, and stood over her with an exbeen so peremptory and despotic becited face; but Zaidee had never fore. Her friend faltered, but could not refuse to obey.

CHAPTER XXVI.-A LETTER.

"What shall I say?" asked Mrs Green, holding the pen suspended in

her hand, and looking up with a trou-
bled, timid eye. She had wondered at

Zaidee many a time; but Angelina, to tell the truth, was now a little afraid.

"You know whether you were great friends," said Zaidee impatiently. "If you were, you should say 'Dear Charlotte,' I suppose."

“Oh, I assure you, I need no instruction how to begin," said Mrs Green, with considerable offence; saying which, in a handwriting which could not have been distinguished from Miss Disbrowe's own, or from the handwriting of any of all Mrs Green's female correspondents, so exactly similar was its running angular lines to theirs, Mrs Green began

"My dearest Charlotte"("I thought you were not very great friends," said Zaidee, in astonishment. Angelina's rapid pen ran on)

"I cannot tell you how much delighted I am with what you tell me of your prospects. May you be happy, my sweet friend! for, alas! so bright a lot does not fall to all; and I, who have now experience in life, know better than you can do, how bare it is of all those blessings we expect when we are girls. I know it becomes us all to be thankful and submissive, and I hope I fulfil my duty and try to be so; but I do congratulate you, dearest Charlotte, on your approaching union with the first object of your unwithered affections-the man of your heart!"

Angelina paused-and so did Zaidee, out of breath. Zaidee's interest was caught for the moment into another channel. She looked up anxiously in in her friend's face. "Do you mean you are not happy," said Zaidee wistfully; for since she came to know what unhappiness was, a great pity had risen in Zaidee's heart. "And Mr Green-he is so good a man, too. I like him myself."

"I wonder what you mean, Zaidee," cried the Curate's wife in alarm. "I am sure I have not said a single word of Mr Green. I am quite sure I did not mean anything-and he will come in and see it, and think I am complaining of him. And it is all your fault, Zaidee Vivian. Oh, what shall I do? "

"You are not to put it away. Don't, if you please," said Zaidee. "Tell the young lady about the go

verness, and I will send it away myself."

After a pause of faltering indecision, Mrs Green took her pen once more. "But I know nothing of this governess

you have not even told me her name -I can't tell if she will suit or not. Pray, Zaidee, be content, and leave me till I can write by myself; it flurries me so, to have you here."

"Say she can read," said Zaidee hurriedly, without at all heeding this remonstrance," and write, but not very well; and can work at her needle too, though not like Margaret or Elizabeth; and I would be content to do anything," continued the girl, unconsciously appearing in the first person, as her face reddened with emotion and the tears came to her eyes. "I would serve the children, and teach them all I could, and work at what the lady wanted, and be very quiet and humble, and never angry; and I do not want any money-only to let me go into their house into London-and keep me there."

"Zaidee, you!" Mrs Green's pen fell from her hand in the pause of utter dismayed astonishment which followed Zaidee's speech.

"I

"Yes, it is me," said Zaidee. cannot stay at home any more. I must go away somewhere, and you will do me good if you will send me there. No one is to know. I want to go where no one can find me again. I want to go away for ever and ever. You need not cry, though it is very kind of you; for I should do a great wrong if I did not go away. Now that you know it is me," "continued Zaidee, suddenly sitting down on a stool by the fire, with a sigh of weariness, you can say yourself what I am able to do."

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Pale with fright and agitation, the Curate's wife sat looking at her, as she turned with a strange worn-out indifference to gaze into the fire. Mrs Green waited long for Zaidee looking round again, that she might catch her eye; but Zaidee never looked round. She seemed to have completed her revelation, and sat waiting passive and absorbed till her commands were obeyed.

"But I dare not do it, Zaidee," cried poor Angelina at last, almost hysterically. "I dare not for my

life. I must tell Mr Green and Mrs Vivian first, and hear what they say. I could not help you to go away secretly; it would be a sin. Oh, Zaidee, surely you cannot mean it! They are so kind to you at the Grange. Why would you go away?"

Zaidee rose hurriedly. "Do you know the pool in the hollow at the foot of Briarford Hill?" she asked with great gravity, but almost in a whisper. "If you tell Aunt Vivian and Mr Green, and any one tries to keep me here, I will go to the water yonder and die; for I am in earnestI am not deceiving. Mind, no one shall hinder me. If you will not help me to go away, I have only the pool left-nothing more."

The Curate's wife was stayed in her scream of horror by Zaidee's gesture. "It is a dreadful sina dreadful sin," cried Mrs Green, trembling over all her frame.

"I do not know that-I cannot be sure of that," said Zaidee, speaking quick, and with a bewildered face. "I think of it till my head aches, but I can never tell. It would be for them --not for myself, but for them; and nothing that was done for them could be so great a sin."

"Will you ask Mr Green-he could talk to you?" said Angelina, in great distress. "I cannot say anything in such a dreadful matter, Zaidee. I am older than you, but I do not know very much. I-I dare not do anything. Oh, pity on us! What can I do?" And fairly overcome by horror and perplexity, poor Angelina, quite unprepared for such a strait, burst into tears.

But there were no tears in Zaidee's shining eyes. She put her hand upon her friend's arm, and Angelina looked up from her weeping." Tell the young lady I will go. You will make me happy-you will save my said Zaidee. "Write w do-say I will do any will let me come. Y

Zaidee withdrew her hand. "If you please," she answered with solemn composure; "but I have told you then what I must do."

"Oh, Zaidee, never say that-never think of that,' "cried Angelina, with a shiver of terror. "I will do anything to put that dreadful thought out of your mind. Yes, I will — I will, indeed, whatever you like, Zaidee. Tell me what to say."

It was some time before a letter could be produced which satisfied Zaidee; but it was concluded at last. Zaidee herself had relapsed into her former quietness, but the Curate's wife trembled with agitation, embarrassment, and terror. "What will I say to Mr Green? What would Mr Green say to me, if he knew what I had done?" mourned Angelina, who had at heart a devout belief in her husband, and respect for him. But the thing was done, and Zaidee sat before her, looking into the fire, with her face so pale, her air so self-occupied and resolute, her simple girlish sincerity so visible through all, that Angelina's perceptions were quickened into clearer insight than their wont. "She could do it-she would do anything she had made up her mind to," concluded Mrs Green, looking on, awe - stricken and afraid; for there was no possibility of doubting that Zaidee had made up her mind.

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FERRIER'S INSTITUTES OF METAPHYSIC.

WHAT is Metaphysic? Imagine a trout rudely taken out of a deep brown pool in a broad river, where it can either lie in luxurious ease, and wait for the rolling worm, or, darting off in its more lively moods, arrogate to itself, with a large unchartered liberty, the whole breadth of the clear manyplashing stream; imagine the smooth, shining, rapid, well-conditioned creature suddenly lifted up from these large waters, and transported into a garden pond of moderate dimensions; and then consider what will take place. Do you conceive the finny animal will sit down at once, satisfied with its condition, and make no attempt to explore the character and the boundaries of its new habitation? Assuredly no fish, though physiologists say they have very small brains, was ever so stupid. Depend upon it the creature will make many a desperate bolt, and not a few magnificent leaps, and glorious plunges, before it settles down contentedly in one quiet nook of this very limited corner of the watery world, within which your human masterdom has confined it. Before it has consumed its first worm in this narrow tabernacle, it will certainly have made the range of its whole confinement, and, after poking its nose against half-a-dozen ragged promontories, and blinding itself more than once in unknown beds of slime and reeds, will betake itself to its first meal in somewhat of a sullen temper, and after dinner suffer, for the first time in its life perhaps, no doubtful indications of incipient dyspepsy. Its first sleep in the new narrow world will, in like manner, be troubled with very disagreeable dreams; imaginations of grinning vampyres and water-kelpies sitting upon its stomach-of merciless shepherd boys grasping its slippery throat with firm hand—and half-adozen other sensations of pressure, stricture, and asthmatic anxiety about the chest. After waking from this

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first troubled sleep, the creature, instead of saluting the first twinklings of the bright morning sun with a clear serene joy, will no doubt preface its morning meal by another exploring expedition. Every little creek, formerly passed over, will now be minutely explored; every troubled eddy, indicative of the entrance of some meagre brooklet, a feeder of the stagnant water, will be shot through with many an impatient dash; and the little brooklet itself traversed eagerly, till, scarcely affording water for so large a traveller, it ends in a waterfall thinly plashing down a high stonefaced wall, over which, alas! to trout of trout born, there is no leaping; for my lady certainly did not make her pond in such a foolish fashion, that a bright-scaled tenant, once in, might by any possibility get out; except, of course, in the desperate suicidal way, which no wise fish will attempt, of leaping, with white spotted belly, clean upon the dry grass and the butter-cups. There is plainly no hope for the fish to get beyond the watery boundary thus set; but the fish will not believe this, and ought not to believe it, till it has made every possible trial to get out. After having made these trials, however, it will begin to consider how best it may make the most of its altered condition; it will first cease exploring, and then forget even to grumble; it will make a minute and accurate survey of its narrow realm, and learn to find out the admirable variety that to a scrutinising eye is revealed, even within the limits of what to the first glance appeared a very weary and dreary monotony. In a word, it will gradually be developed out of a sullen grumbler, and a desperate kicker against the pricks, into a very bland, benign, philosophic trout, talking to itself, like old Goethe, largely of the benefits of limitation, and painting out in imagination, with a mild artistic

Institutes of Metaphysic: the Theory of Knowing and Being. By JAMES F. FERRIER, A.B., Oxon., Professor of Moral Philosophy and Political Economy, St

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