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nothing unusual in the avowal the lady had made, when the convent was a thoroughly recognized profession; but Esclairmonde could not carry out her purpose of departing separately with old Sir Nigel Baird; Malcolm was on his feet, quite ready to mount, and there was no avoiding the being assisted to her saddle by any but the King, who was in truth quite as objectionable a companion, as far as appearances went, for a young solitary maiden, as was Malcolm himself. Esclairmonde felt that her benevolence might have led her into a scrape. When she had seen the fall, knowing that to the unprepared the ghastly pageant must seem reality, she had obeyed the impulse to hurry to the rescue, to console and aid in case of injury, and she had not even perceived that her female companions did not attempt to accompany her. However, the mischance could best be counteracted by simplicity and unconsciousness; so as she found herself obliged to ride by the King, she unconcernedly observed that these fantastic dances might perhaps arouse sinners, but that they were a horrible sight for the unprepared.

'Very like a dream becoming flesh and blood,' said James. We in advance were slow to perceive what it was, and then the King merely thought whether it would alarm the Queen.'

'I trow it did not.'

'No; the thing has not been found that will stir her placid face. She merely said it was very lugubrious, and an ill turn in the Parisians thus to greet her, but they were always senseless bêtes; and he, being relieved of care for her, looked with all his eyes, with a strange mixture of drollery at the antics and the masques, yet of grave musing at the likeness to this present life.'

'I think,' said Esclairmonde, 'that King Henry is one of the few men to whom the spectacle is a sermon. He laughs even while he lays a thing to heart.'

These few sentences had brought them to the concourse around the gateway of the great Hotel de St. Pol, in whose crowded court-yard Esclairmonde had to dismount; and after being handed through the hall by King James, to make her way to the ladies' apartments, and there find out, what she was most anxious about, how Alice, who had been riding at some distance from her with her father, had fared under the alarm. Alice ran up to her eagerly. 'Ah, dear Clairette, and was he greatly hurt?'

'Not much; he had only swooned for fright.'

'Swooned! to be a prince, and not have the heart of a midge!" And how was it with you, you very wyvern for courage?'

'With me? Oh, I was somewhat appalled at first, when my father took hold of my rein, and bade me never fear; for I saw his face grow amazed. Sir Richard Nevil rode up on the other side, and said the hobgoblins should eat out his heart ere they hurt me; and I looked into his face as he said that, and liked it more than ever I thought to like any but yours, Clairette. I think my father was going to leave me to him and see

whether the King needed someone to back him; but up came a French lord, and said 'twas all a mere show, and my father said he was glad I was a stout-hearted wench that had never cried out for fear; and then I was so pleased, that I never heeded the ugly sight any more. Ay, and when Sir Richard lifted me off my horse, he kissed my hand of his own accord.' "This is all he has ever said to you?' said Esclairmonde, smiling. 'It is like an Englishman-to the purpose.'

'Yea, is it not! Oh! is it not better than all the fine speeches and compliments that Joan Beaufort gets from her Scottish King?'

'They have truth in them too, child.'

'Ay; but too fine-spun, too minstrel-like, for a plain English maid. The hobgoblins should eat out his heart ere they touched me!' she repeated to herself, as though the saying were the most poetical concert sung on minstrel lover's lute.

Death's dance had certainly brought this affianced pair to a better understanding than all the gayest festivities of the court.

Esclairmonde would have been happy if no one had noticed her benevolence to the young Scot save Alice Montagu; but she had to endure countless railleries from every lady from Countess Jaqueline downwards, on the unmistakeable evidence that her heart had spoken; and her grave dignity had less effect in silencing them than usual, so diverting was the alleged triumph over her propriety, well as they knew that she would have done the same for the youngest horse-boy, or the oldest man-at-arms.

(To be continued.)

BERTRAM; OR, THE HEIR OF PENDYNE.

CHAPTER XVIII.

'WE certainly find no scarcity of orphans,' observed Ellen Sandford to her brother, as they were walking one morning towards the school. 'It almost seems as though there were more pain in the constant refusals than if we had never attempted a Home.'

'Still if we only rescued one soul from sin and misery, as in taking little Mary Jackson from that wicked old aunt, there would be some cause for thankfulness,' replied the gentleman addressed.

'Certainly; and if we could also rescue from father and mother occasionally! For there are some poor children worse off even than orphans.'

'We must obtain the London Orphan Asylum to begin with, at least, and then commence building immediately,' returned Mr. Sandford, 'if we were to possess ourselves of every child who excited our compassion. But those who have small means must be satisfied with endeavouring to do good in a humble way, remembering that to sigh for more money,

even for charity, is not being "content with such things as (we) have."'

'Very true, John,' returned his sister; but it will now be a long time before we admit any other child, if these remain with us until they are fit for service.'

'I think there may be one vacancy next year, perhaps,' replied Mr. Sandford. If Robin promises to do as I am inclined to expect, I shall endeavour to get him into a school where they teach Latin.'

'Your expectations of Robin will be so high by next year,' observed Miss Sandford, laughing, 'that I fear the poor boy will be compelled to disappoint you.'

'We shall see. If Robin does not encourage my expectations, they will quietly descend, instead of rising, that is all: but for another reason it might be satisfactory to draft him off, if we could. He will never be friends with the other boys, and it will not surprise me if they begin to persecute him.'

'Does he not now enter into their games?'

'Never. He does not even try to understand what they are playing at. Some of them are certainly very rough, and he much prefers to find his own amusement.'

'So does Amy. Only she is so gentle that no one can quarrel with her. Robin sometimes gets hot, he is so enthusiastic.'

'Yes, he is most enthusiastic though, and warm, when his affections are engaged.'

'How fond he is of you, John.'

'Yes, and of you too, and of his sister, and of the memory of his mother, and one or two others, who were kind to him before he came here. And certainly of the church.'

"They both appeared interested in the church from the first, and to feel the calm of the service. I hope it may not be wrong to wish that these inquiries for Mrs. Sutton may be unavailing. How can we tell what kind of a person she may prove?'

'How, indeed? and we should certainly have to give up the children if claimed by an aunt. It would make vacancies, though, remember.' 'I hope we may have vacancies in a more satisfactory manner, or none at all. But this aunt may prove, after all, a worthy guardian. One thing is pretty certain: that we shall hear nothing through the Melbourne or Sydney papers much before next summer.'

They were now entering the play-ground, which was full of children, and Robin immediately came up, touching his cap.

'Something to say to me, Robin? What is it?'

'If you please, Sir, you once told us in church that there was money wanted to make it look better and more beautiful. We do not want mother's gold money, so will you take it, to help the fittings, I think you called them.'

'I would take any offerings of yours, Robin, if you were grown up,

and should be pleased to give you all encouragement: but as you are a young boy, I should not like to receive the whole from you. However, I will gladly take the portion which we all owe to God out of what we have. Do you know how much that is?'

'No, Sir.'

'Do you know what portion God's ancient people were expected to offer?' No, Sir.'

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'Who were God's ancient people, Robin?'

'The Jews, Sir.'

'Yes. And they were ordered to give back a tenth part of all that they had to Him. He had shewn them great mercy, and they were commanded to make this acknowledgment for the support of His ministers and the service of the Sanctuary. Abraham had previously offered his tithe or tenth of spoil to Melchizedec, a holy person whom we may believe to have been commissioned to receive it; and Jacob had vowed the tenth of everything he should have to God in return for the fulfilment of His merciful promise of protecting care. Who are God's people now?' 'The Christians, Sir.'

'Right, my boy. And God's mercy has been shewn to us, beyond all our imaginings. Ought we not to offer to Him in return fully as much as the Jews?'

'More, Sir.'

'Yes, more, I quite agree with you. Always remember this, Robin, in your future life. You have reason now to be thankful for a happier lot than on that dark night when we first met, and for all the spiritual advantages of your present position. In return I will receive a tenth part of your money for God's House, which will be accepting it for Him. When you say your prayers to-night, say to Him that you offer it for yourself and Amy; and tell her, when you wish her good-night, to do the same. I think she will understand.'

'Yes, Sir, thank you, I am sure she will.'

'And now, my boy, tell me about something else. What does Mr. Easdale do with you when you go with Amy?'

'He gives me paper, Sir, and tells me what I am to draw.'

'And you like that better than your books, I am afraid.'

Robin looked very grave.

'Tell me, Robin.'

'I like it better than anything in the world!' cried the boy, thus commanded to speak out.

'Ah! I thought so.'

Robin looked grave again immediately, and turned red. He had displeased his best friend by his confession; but how could he say anything but the truth?

'You need not look so grave, my boy; I am not angry. Always be true with me. And now the school bell rings, and I am coming in to give you a lesson.'

VOL. 7.

18

PART 39.

Robin drew back for the clergyman and his sister to enter; and going in directly afterwards, he was the first boy to take his place in the class. Mr. Sandford was certainly not angry, nevertheless he felt a little more disappointment than he liked to acknowledge, even to his sister. (To be continued.)

LENA'S SEVEN BIRTH-DAYS.

CHAPTER III.

I AM sixteen to-day; but this birth-day is a very different one from what my other birth-days have been, for I am only just beginning to recover from a long long illness. I am so weak, that dearest Mamma has made me promise that I will only write for a very little time in my journalor rather in my book. I took the measles from Baby, and had them very severely; and the sweet little baby had them very badly also. Before she was taken ill she was looking so lovely, and was just beginning to walk from chair to chair, and she was making fresh attempts every day to talk. Now, I am told-for I have not seen her for six weeks-she can't walk at all, but is always in Mamma's arms, and she never tries to speak. Poor darling little pet, I do hope she will get stronger soon. The reason why I am not allowed to see her is because, before I had recovered from the weakness left by the measles, I got the whoopingcough somehow and from somebody, but how or from whom nobody can tell; and immediately the doctor said it was the whooping-cough, Mamma had to send Baby out of the house. I am sure I have been very ill, because I could not help seeing how anxious Mamma and Papa have both been about me, and Nurse too; but they have been all so kind, and done so much for me, that I must not complain even to you, my book, but must try to be patient and obedient.

Still, it is a sad birth-day. I know Charley thought it would be so, for he has sent me a large parcel of story-books. And wrapped up by itself was another and a different book, which I consider Charley's own and peculiar present-a most beautiful Keble, bound in white leather, and with gold broidered edges and gold letters. Dear Charley! he never forgets me. I have had such long and cheery letters from him lately, since I have been so weak and weary. He is still in Ireland with his regiment. Papa has given me a little pony-carriage, which I shall drive myself, as soon as I am able; and dearest Mamma, a sweet sweet picture of her own sweet sweet face-the thing of all others, I had once told her, I wished for. Whilst I was ill, and so out of the way, she sent for an artist to come and take her picture. I used to think sometimes how prettily she was dressed, and how nice she looked, when she came in to see me as I lay in my bed; but she never

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