how she used to settle what gowns they were to wear at all the parties; (faint, ghostly ideas of dim parties far away in the distance, when Miss Matey and Miss Pole were young!) and how Deborah and her mother had started the benefit society for the poor, and taught girls cooking and plain sewing; and how Deborah had danced with a lord; and how she used to visit at Sir Peter Arley's, and try to remodel the quiet rectory establishment on the plans of Arley Hall, where they kept thirty servants; and how she had nursed Miss Matey through a long, long illness, of which I had never heard before, but which I now dated, in my own mind, as following the dismissal of the suit of Mr. Holbrook. So we talked softly and quietly of old times, through the long November evening.

The next day, Miss Pole brought us word that Mr. Holbrook was dead. Miss Matey heard the news in silence. In fact, from the account on the previous day, it was only what we had to expect. Miss Pole kept calling upon us for some expressions of regret, by asking if it was not sad that he was gone, and saying,

"To think of that pleasant day last June; when he seemed so well! And he might have lived this dozen years, if he had not gone to that wicked Paris, where they are always having Revolutions."

She paused for some demonstration on our part.

I saw Miss Matey could not speak, she was trembling so nervously, so I said what I really felt; and after a call of some duration, — all the time of which I have no doubt Miss Pole thought Miss Matey received the news very calmly, our visitor took her leave. But the effort at self-control Miss Matey had made to conceal her feelings, a concealment she practised even with me; for she has never alluded to Mr. Holbrook again, although the book he gave her lies with her Bible on the little table by her bedside. She did not think I heard her when she asked the little milliner of Cranford to make her caps something like the Hon. Mrs. Jamieson's; or that I noticed the reply,— "But she wears widows' caps, ma'am?"

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"O, I only meant something in that style; not widows', of course, but rather like Mrs. Jamieson's."

This effort at concealment was the beginning of the tremulous motion of head and hands, which I have seen ever since in Miss Matey.

The evening of the day on which we heard of Mr. Holbrook's death, Miss Matilda, was very silent and thoughtful; after prayers, she called Martha back, and then she stood uncertain what to say.

"Martha!" she said at last; "you are young," -and then she made so long a pause, that Martha, to remind her of her half-finished sentence, dropped a courtesy, and said: "Yes, please, ma'am ; twoand-twenty last third October, please, ma'am."

"And perhaps, Martha, you may some time meet with a young man you like, and who likes you. I did say you were not to have followers; but if you meet with such a young man, and tell me, and I find he is respectable, I have no objection to his coming to see you once a week. God forbid!" said she, in a low voice," that I should grieve any young hearts."

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She spoke as if she were providing for some distant contingency, and was rather startled when Martha made her ready, eager answer: Please, ma'am, there's Jem Hearn, and he's a joiner, making three-and-sixpence a day, and six foot one in his stocking-feet, please, ma'am ; and if you'll ask about him to-morrow morning, every one will give him a character for steadiness; and he 'll be glad enough to come to-morrow night, I'll be bound."

Though Miss Matey was startled, she submitted to Fate and Love.

GOD is our Father. Heaven is his high throne, and this earth is his footstool; and while we sit around and meditate, or pray, one by one, as we fall asleep, He lifts us into his bosom, and our awaking is inside the gates of an everlasting world. MOUNTFORD.

TO MY WIFE.

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING.

OW, Time and I, near fifty years,

NOW

Have managed kindly to agree; Pleased with the friendship he appears,

And means that all the world shall see.

For, with soft touch about my eyes,

The frosty, kindly, jealous friend

His drawing-pencil deftly plies,

And mars the face he thinks to mend.

Nor am I called alone to wear

Old Time, "His mark," in deepening trace; That "twain are one," this limner sere

Will print in lines on either face.

"T is not, perhaps, a gallant thing
On such a morning to be told,
But Time doth yearly witness bring,

That-Bless you! we are growing old.

Together we have lived and loved,

Together passed through smiles and tears, And life's all-varying lessons proved Through many constant married years.

And there is joy Time cannot reach,
A youth o'er which no power he hath,
If we cling closer, each to each,

And each to God, in hope and faith.

ANONYMOUS.

In the summer evenings, when the wind blew low,
And the skies were radiant with the sunset glow,
Thou and I were happy, long, long years ago!
Love, the young and hopeful, hovered o'er us twain,
Filled us with sad pleasure and delicious pain,
In the summer evenings, wandering in the lane.

In the winter evenings, when the wild winds roar,
Blustering in the chimney, piping at the door,
Thou and I are happy, as in days of yore.
Love still hovers o'er us, robed in white attire,
Drawing heavenly music from an earthly lyre,
In the winter evenings, sitting by the fire.

ANONYMOUS.

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