mines on reading very hard, nor determines on idling; and if visions of the lighter pursuits, the delights of getting into print, or the graver boy's enthusiasm for authorship ever come to Percy, he keeps them in their sunny mist, and does not bring down

the fairy visitants to tangible shape or form: only Percy's heart dances, and his cheek glows, when he thinks of his "prospects," and with eagerness he looks to the time approaching when his journey of life is fated to begin.

A bright fire burns in the fairy grate of the young ladies' room: everything is bright in this little favoured bower, for none of these young ladies are at all elevated above the pretty things loved by their class and kind. There are wax-flowers on the mantel-piece, the joint production of the three sisters; there are two or three painted groups of Elizabeth's favourite lilies and roses upon the wall; more than one landscape of Margaret's, extremely lofty in intent, but just a little obscure in execution, hangs on the same line; and if Sophy can do nothing with the pencil, Sophy has at least a glowing screen of most elaborate needlework lifting its gilded wand like a gold stick in waiting in the corner, and reaching nearly as high as the pictures. The little couch which Margaret, half reclining, fills with her slender well-formed person and her work-basket, bright with all the delicate colours of floss silk and Berlin wool-the pretty arm-chair, in which Elizabeth sits erect by the table the low footstool, sacred to Sophy, are all alike gay with the handiwork of the sisters, and rich with embroidered flowers. And the firelight winks and brightens in the ivory keys of the open piano, and the mirror reflects this pleasant group in a ruddy atmosphere of home. The smallness, the fancifulness, the glow and pleniude of simple ornament, are all quite suitable to the character of the apartment. By and by, it is very true, all these will be sober family mothers, at home in nurseries and housekeepers' rooms. At present they are only young ladies; it is their time of budding and holiday; and only a hard heart would grudge to them these natural embellishments of their youth.

Nor are their occupations more subntial than their surroundings; they all very busy, that is one thing

and this graceful industry looks very becoming, one must confess, however trifling the product may be; for, alas, it is only "fancy-work"-only the pretty nick-nacks of young-ladyism— and perhaps those young ladies would all be much better employed in reading, or studying, or otherwise improving their minds. But one thing is certain-neither geology, nor botany, nor any lighter dilettanti science, made easy for the use of young ladies, could permit that sweet silent thoughtfulness of which Elizabeth's face is full, or the flow of happy talk which runs out of Sophy's lips, and comes in briefer responses from Margaret-not very profound or wise, but very pleasant, as is their occupation and the

scene.

For Elizabeth, whose fingers are accomplished in these womanly arts, is free to give her tranquil mind to other matters while she labours; and Margaret, who has done a great deal of similar work, and is pretty well assured and confident in doing this, has her spirit quite at ease in it; and Sophy, who does not aim at absolute perfection, but tries nothing which she cannot achieve, is perfectly unembarrassed in her business;whereas poor Zaidee, toiling hard after a glorious unachievable idea, with eager haste, with pricked fingers, with heart and soul too much absorbed for speech, could not say a word in answer to all this running talk of theirs, if that very word would insure success to this enterprise of her own.

A careless attitude in this moment of inspiration would not become Zaidee; it is well enough for Sophy yonder, with her little commonplace piece of embroidery, to sit so lightly on her footstool-very well for grownup Margaret to recline-but Zaidee, whose ambition projects something

which nobody has accomplished before, and whose vexed fingers and perplexed scissors labour hard on the heels of her ambition,-for Zaidee it is a very different matter; so Zaidee, who always stoops, sits erect at the table for once in her life-Zaidee, said to be the greatest idler in the Grange, labours with such a strain and intensity as no one else is capable of; and now growing pale, and now flushing into sudden excitement, holds her breath, and neither hears nor answers, with, alas, always this ideal luring her on-but the silk and the needle, the scissors and the fingers so sadly incapable, and the great creation making so very little progress after all.

And everything that is being made by the little company, and other pretty things besides, more than you could look over in one good hour, are making for Philip's birthday. Lovetokens for Philip himself, such hosts of them, young man and scoffer as he is; and such pretty combinations of white and gold, and white and silver, and white with every possible enlightenment of delicate colour, for Elizabeth, already known in the household in the magical character of bride.

"Well, I have many a time thought of Philip's birthday," said Sophy after a pause, and the slightest possible touch of sentiment was in Sophy's sunny face," but I never thought what changes it would make at home. I used to think Philip would be a little more master perhaps not that mamma would change-but only of course we are all growing older, and Philip would be a man and not a boy; but only to think what a strange difference there will be! Elizabeth too! Of course I knew Elizabeth was to be married some time-but ob! I am sure, Margaret, it will feel so very strange !"

"Elizabeth will come back, and we shall go to see her, Sophy," was the answer; "but Percy-to think of Percy going too!-and one cannot tell when he may come again."

"Well, Percy is glad to go," said Sophy with spirit; "and Elizabeth, though she won't say she's glad, never makes any resistance, but yields to Captain Bernard without caring for

us. I daresay it may be very fine, after all, going out into the world; for my part, I would rather stay at the Grange.'

A very little toss of Sophy's pretty head, a very little pique in Sophy's half-defiant half-disconsolate tone, goes far to make you sceptical of the entire truthfulness of Sophy. Margaret answers with a sigh.

"None of us know much of the world: even I, though I am so much older than Percy and you-even Elizabeth, who is oldest of all; if our family had been what it used to be, we should all have seen a great deal more: but whatever you may think, Sophy, I am sure it is a great deal better for us. Oh! I have no doubt at all, a real true heart must grow so weary of the world."

"But I don't quite see that either," responded Sophy promptly. "The world! I should think, for my part, the old women in the village must be a great deal more weary of it than I. I am sure it has been twenty times harder for them than even for mamma who is as old-and I am more weary than Lady Stanley's pretty niece, who has been presented, and spends all her time among the great people, and is never done with gaieties. Well, I know you say you despise all that, but I am quite certain I don't; and speaking of that, Margaret, do you know I could not sleep all last night for thinking of our ball."

"How silly!" said the pensive Margaret; "what were you thinking?"

First of all, how I should have my dress made," said Sophy eagerly; "and I fell upon such a pretty fashion just before I went to sleep. To be sure this marriage of Elizabeth is very distracting; for a marriage is always even a greater thing than a party, however great that may be. Well, and then I began to wonder who would dance with who, and whether Mr Powis would come, and how jealous he would be if he saw any one else with you-of course it would not be proper for him to dance-a clergyman! though, if you won't be angry, I do think he cares very little about the church; and then, somehow, when I really saw the hall, and everybody so gay, there suddenly

flashed across it Elizabeth's marriage, and Mr Powis ran in to the vicar, and the hall became the church, and we were all in white and in sunshine instead of the lamplight, and-II believe, I fell asleep."

"How you do talk, Sophy," said Margaret, with a frown and a blush.

"Elizabeth does not say a word-I suppose, because she has so much to think of," persevered Sophy; "and Zay-I do wonder what extraordinary thing Zay is making, and who it is for. Do you know, Margaret, I was thinking how this will change us all. Philip will be his own master-a real grown-up man; Elizabeth will be Mrs Bernard Morton, a married lady; you will be Miss Vivian, and the

eldest of us all. Percy will be far from home and seeing the world; me-it won't make so much difference for me-but still there will be a change when Percy goes. Only Zay will not feel it at all. She was always the youngest, the pet, and spoiled-it will make no difference with Zaidee."

Zaidee heard, but did not look up, being in the crisis and agony of her invention and Sophy ran on to another subject. Simple Sophy! unforeseeing little mortal company, which could tell nothing of the unknown! for not one there could so much as guess or dream that Zaidee's share of all these changes should, far as the extraordinary overpasses the common, exceed and overpass their own.

"Yes, Captain Bernard Morton is a very fine young man, I assure you,though of course a great beauty like Elizabeth-everybody expected something different for her. I was quite disappointed my self-I took such pains to give her proper ideas; but she is so simple-a perfect child-though everybody thinks her quite a princess from her looks. However, a proper ambition-nay, indeed, a proper estimate of herself-one might as well try to teach you odd little Zaidee as lecture her."

"Hush, lady dear," said the Vicaress, who could not entirely forget she had once been an Irishwoman, "that is Mr Powis standing close by your other hand."

"Very well; you don't suppose I mind Mr Powis," said Mrs Blundell, the managing and match-making aunt, wife of Mrs Vivian's only brother, a childless matron and most anxious superintendent of her young relatives. "I see he is handsome, and I hear he is of good family. Margaret is a plain girl beside Elizabeth. I don't quarrel with her taste; but this family is so destitute of ordinary prudence-even my sister. I don't believe, now, that till things came so far that it would be impossible to break off—I really do not believe any one but myself or Mr Blundell would ever think of inquiring what that young man's prospects were."

"He is a pretty lad," said the Vicaress, musingly. Good woman, she remembered the far-away kindly youth which had been her own; and thinking of Miss Margaret, whose pensiveness she was extremely respectful of, could not but feel this the more immediate consideration after all.

"Oh, Mrs Wyburgh, a person of your experience must perceive," cried Mrs Blundell, "how, situated as I am with all these dear young people looking up to me, and myself so interested in them all-if they were my own, I could not be more concerned for them

my mind is quite tortured with anxiety, knowing, as I do, how really ignorant of all the ways of the world they are. My sister is not a romantic person-quite the reverse. Mrs Vivian is really a practical, sensible woman; but she is so engaged with household matters and common things, and gives so little attention to the settlement of those dear girls — the first object in my view that a mother should attend to-that really I am kept quite on the rack, and could be always at the Grange if I had my will, out of pure anxiety for them all."

"I am certain sure it is very kind of you," said the good Vicaress, who, in addition to her Irish birth, had been long a curate's wife in Wales, and had odd turns of phraseology,

and not the most polished style in the world; "but they're all so easy and pleasant at home; and, to tell truth, I'd not be grateful to any one that schemed the pretty things away." "But that is an improper view an imperfect and limited view," said Mrs Blundell, eagerly. "They must marry, you know; and they must marry so as to keep up their standing in the world. In my opinion there can be nothing more important. I assure you it gives me many an anxious thought."

"No doubt, no doubt," said good Mrs Wyburgh, who, notwithstanding, looked considerably doubtful; "but the world grows wiser, I think, every year; there was nothing said like that in my young day "-and with a sigh and a smile, "my young day," merry and Irish and poor, presented itself to the thoughts of Mrs Wyburgh. "Richard had not such a thing as a prospect when we married," continued the Cheshire Vicaress, brightening in memory of their old struggling times; "and all my mother gave me was God bless you-yet sure we're here!"

Ah, my dear good friend, but how much better for you if your family had been more careful," said the matchmaker, shaking her head.

Mrs Wyburgh also shook her head. Her face, now tolerably full and ample, had once been pretty; and there was fun and spirit-a little corruscationflashing now through the easy content and acquiescence of her usual mood.

"And you never had a family of your own," continued Mrs Blundell; 66 you never knew what it was to have a mother's cares; it makes the greatest difference-a woman unaccustomed to the charge of children can have no idea how a mother feels."

Mrs Wyburgh's countenance fell. "No, I had no babies," said the good woman, with humility and a sigh. "I used to have them in my dreams, darlin' angels! I've thought sometimes God would give me these same little cherubs if I came to heaven. Bless you, I'd know them every one -all the sweet little faces that used to come whispering about me in the lone days when Richard was away; but I never had one child, true and sure. No, I confess to it-it was God's will."

And the homely womanly heart pursuing this sore want and void, left Mrs Blundell and her busy schemes far behind, nor ever remembered to wonder what right Mrs Blundell, as childless as herself, had to address her so. Mrs Blundell, on her part, was slightly disconcerted-a worldly spirit is always so extremely at a loss to understand a simple one;-and not as young ladies and gentlemen to be settled in the world, but as babies, dear little hearts, adored and yearned for all her life long, could good Mrs Wyburgh alone contemplate the children who had cost Mrs Blundell so much care.

"I've had them committed to me from India-from every distance in the civilised world, I do believe," said the latter lady; "schools to look for, growing boys to attend to, young ladies to bring out ;-we have so many friends abroad; and I am sure many a mother has less experience than I."

But the Vicaress of Briarford had said her say, and relapsed into acquiescence once more.

And Margaret, with a slight changeful colour brightening her face, with a certain new life and beauty of expression awakening her downcast eyes, looking sweeter, purer, humbler, more womanly than it is her wont to look, stands in another corner discussing various matters with some of her young lady-companions, and playing with prints and papers which lie on a little table at her hand. The very rippling motion with which that white pretty hand trembles over them, the faint pit-pat of the foot peeping from below her dress, the wavering inconstant smile which comes and goes over all her face, betray her secret. She is so innocently conscious that some one is looking at her; so aware in her very heart of the glances and movements of that "some one," upon whom she never fully lifts her own eyes. Mr Powis is a handsome young man, as Aunt Blundell says; tall, with a little bend and swing in his well-formed person; a sort of half-pleased, halfdeprecating consciousness that he is handsome; and a face which has nothing objectionable in it, unless it be the want of something to object toall is so regular, so well proportioned,

so perfectly in balance; a very handsome young man-do you not wonder whether he is worth all this true and genuine feeling which lies in Margaret Vivian's face?

At all events, nothing can exceed his eagerness to catch Margaret Vivian's eye and win her favour. Mr Powis is the incumbent of a neighbouring parish, the cadet of an old, very old, antediluvian family of Wales, with magnificent things in expectation, but only a little rectory and a very modest income in present enjoyment. Mrs Wyburgh, of Briarford, thinks it would be a very pretty match, and quite equal, for Margaret's little portion could be comfortably balanced against the young incumbent's small but competent income, without any superiority on either side; while Mrs Blundell, on her side, wonders a little what Mr Powis's "motives" may be, and cannot fail to acknowledge him disinterested with his fine person and clerical advantages, though she would fain ascertain with greater accuracy what these much - spoken - of expectations are. However, the matter is by no means so far advanced as that; and Aunt Blundell comforts herself in having abundant time for investigation before this shy and conscious liking can come the length of an engagement, and accordingly turns with an easy conscience to the agreeable bustle of Elizabeth's preparations, and is con

tent.

"Yes, Percy is going too - my eldest daughter and my youngest son,' says Mrs Vivian to the little group of neighbours who surround her; "and now I suppose I have nothing to look for but one flight after another till all my birds are gone."

"Yes, we pride ourselves in our children, and they all leave us," said a grave lady sitting by. "I had eleven, and I was so proud of themsuch a flock; but I live by myself now, and they only come to see me. Oh, it is a very different thing living at home with one's children, and having them come to see you-you'll find that by-and-by."

"I always dread the first marriage," said a brisker personage. "Oh the flutter my girls were in when my Mary went away! and as for settling

again, or letting one get peace and quiet, you might as well think of snow in June. A bride you know-everybody talks so of a bride, and all the fuss and the dresses and the excitement-the issue was, every one of them was married before the second year."

"Dreadful!" said a young wife emphatically; she had just been working out her fingers, and lightening her white and 'gold purse, which was still in its first gloss, in behalf of a second sister following in her own immediate train.

"Well, Percy is not to be married at least-Percy only leaves home," said one of the gentlemen of the party; "not such a fascinating thing that his brother should seek to follow him.”

"His brother is the eldest, the head of the house," interposed Mrs Vivian, with proud humility. "Philip, of course, will not leave the Grange.'

"Only leaves home; how these men do speak!" cried the wife and liege lady of the masculine interlocutor. "Poor boy! to think of all the temptations, and all the discomforts-that laundress, that Mrs Fieryface, and the boy that polishes Pendennis's boots-that is all they have in place of the services of home; and then the temptations, Mrs Vivian! Poor boy, how can you trust him in London?"

"Temptations are everywhere," says Mr Wyburgh, with professional gravity; and shaking his head half disconsolately, half in a consolatory and comforting strain, bids Mrs Vivian take courage.

"I will, because I must," said the lively little lady of the Grange. "Percy must go. It would not be right to keep him at home. I pray God bring my boy safe through all the dangers; and as for the discomforts, he must submit to them. Oh, I hope Percy will take no harm."

It was worth while to see the erect imperious dignity into which Percy elevated himself, hearing a far-off sough of these concluding words, "Take no harm!" as if the young hero, setting out to subdue the world, were nothing better than a child.

"I have been thinking of some sweet poetry. Oh, Zaidee! I remember so well where I saw it first,"