gone; she was dull and abstracted; could not do her lessons; forgot many little messages which were entrusted to her; looked always heavyeyed, as if she had a head-ache, and yet could not say that anything ailed her. Brisk active Mrs. Lester, who could not bear dullness or idleness, spoke sharply to her once or twice; but Nella could only look pitifully at her, and protest that she was very sorry, but indeed she could not help it. At last Mrs. Lester, being out of sorts one day, asked Nella to run on an errand for her, which the child was glad to do. She was returning from the shop, carrying her basket with great care, when on a sudden, hanging in the window where once upon a time her blue jug and basin had displayed its beauties, a violin caught her eye. It was hanging between a sailor's suit, the worse for wear, and a woman's gown of shabby silk; and fixed between the strings of the fiddle was a ticket, with these words written on it, in large printed letters, 'OBSERVE! FINE TONE, ONLY FIVE SHILLINGS! Campanella did observe, as the ticket bade her; and straightway she forgot all about the butter and tea, for which Mrs. Lester was waiting, and stood rooted on the pavement, devouring the violin with her looks, and deep in a very hard sum. For, having suddenly remembered her sixpence in the box at home, she began to calculate how many sixpences made five shillings, and how many months were likely to pass before so many sixpences came into her possession. It was a sum to which there

was no answer.

She was watching the fiddle, lost to everything else around her, when a heavy hand slapped her shoulder, and a rough voice cried in her ear, 'Hullo, little 'un! What's up?'

She started with a frightened look, as when one awakens suddenly out of sleep. Bill Waters was standing beside her.

''The violin!' she said. 'Oh!'

The 'Oh!' was so long, and so longing, that Bill's reckless good nature was aroused at once. He put his hand in his pocket, and brought out all his money.

'I hain't got but six shilling; but I'm danged if you sha'n't have five on 'em!' he said. Then he went straight into the shop, in his rolling reckless way. Look here! I want that there fiddle,' he began, pointing to it. That's a rum little 'un o' mine: rum for a gal to want a fiddle. There's your five bob. Thank'ee.'

So he brought out the violin and the bow, and laid them in the arms of little Nella, who was standing at the door, shyly peeping in, and not daring to hope that that great treasure could ever be her own.

When she felt it in her hands, a bright red colour flushed all over her olive skin. She caught Bill's hard hand, and kissed it; she forgot her English in her joy, and said, ‘O grazie, grazie!' in a low breathing tone, which made Bill stare, it was so full of happiness.

He turned red too, when he found that the little Italian was actually kissing his hand in an overflowing gratitude, which he could not at all

comprehend. He pulled his hand awkwardly away, muttered, 'There, there; you are a rum little 'un!' and rolled off.

Nella still stood contemplating her prize, till some one stooping down, said, 'Here, my little lass, you're losing your things;' and then she found that she had let Mrs. Lester's blue packet of tea fall out of the basket. Then she suddenly recollected her errand, and ran back to the school as fast as her little feet could go, hugging her violin to her heart, which was throbbing with delight.

Her love of music could no longer be a secret now, however. Some of her school-fellows laughed to see her running through the village with a fiddle in her arms. And Mrs. Lester greeted her with questions: How had she got it? What would she do with it? In her genial simple way, the school-mistress was amazingly surprised and delighted to hear that her pupil could play on an instrument so unusual for girls to

learn upon.

'You'll play me a tune, won't you, my pet?' she entreated. And when Nella turned shy, and blushed, and tried to refuse, Mrs. Lester went on to say that she loved music dearly, and a tune was just what she wanted to send her head-ache away.

It was very crafty in the dear little woman to say this, for at the thought of curing her friend's head-ache, all Nella's shyness vanished, and she was even anxious to play. Mrs. Lester made a little feast on account of this great discovery; brought out some wonderful quince jam in a dish of rare old china, given to her mother by a lady with whom she had lived as maid, and put three lumps of sugar in Nella's cup. Then, when the girl had washed the tea-things, and set them aside in her dainty way, (everything her thin brown fingers did was dainty,) Mrs. Lester lay down on her snug little sofa, and Nella played her to sleep; but, having by that time quite forgotten that she ought to have an auditor, Nella played on for her own enjoyment, until the schoolmistress woke in a bustle, and startled the little musician by her kisses and admiration.

On the next day, the children laughed at Campanella, and called her a 'little fiddler;' but Mrs. Lester, overhearing them, rated them soundly, telling them that to make game of their little companion was a very unchristian thing to do, and moreover very silly; for that it was clever to play so well as Nella did, and if they too could do it, they might well be proud. Whether the scolding had a good effect, or whether the children changed their minds after some of them had once chanced to hear Nella playing in Mrs. Lester's room, I do not know; but it is certain that they soon began to crowd round her when school was over, and beg her to fiddle them a tune. They would sometimes offer her their toys or apples as a bribe, but she never would take them; and it was not always that she could play when they asked her. Then they used to say to one another, Nella is cross to-day.' That was not true: she was not cross; but there were times when her mind was not in

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PART 41,

tune, and then her notes were out of tune also. If she could, however, she would always oblige her school-fellows; and it grew to be a favourite game with them, to point out beautiful objects to her, and ask her to play them.'

She had herself begun the game: in this way. There were near the school-house two trees, now tinged with autumn, two singularly well-shaped trees, standing together; a drooping golden beech, and a flaming spire of a poplar. These trees Nella used to watch as if she loved them, when, with every day, their burning colours deepened; and one morning, in the play-hour, she took up her fiddle, which she often brought to school, because the children liked to hear her, and began a rich and graceful melody, partly her own, made then and there, partly put together from airs which she already knew. The children grouped round, gaping with admiring wonder.

'What is that called, Nella?' one asked, when she had finished. 'It is those two trees,' she answered, nodding towards the beech and poplar.

The children stared still more; but they soon grew to understand what she meant, or thought they understood it; and then they began to bring roses, or corn, or a little heap of pretty stones and shells from the beach, and ask Nella to play them. She would play something; often something very pretty, which she said was meant for roses or shells; and although the children could not well trace the likeness, the mystery of the music made them all the more interested in the fun. They would also ask her to play people; and sometimes she would do that. On two special occasions she failed.

One day, she had refused to play such things as the children pointed out; and at last they said, 'Then what will you play?'

She presently answered, 'I will try to play Miss Charteris;' and began a very low sweet air; but after a few bars, she dropped the violin. I can make nothing enough good,' she said.

On another morning, her school-fellows had teazed her for some time, entreating her to play Bill Waters. No, no,' she replied, shaking her head; but at last, tired of their asking, she drew her bow queerly across the strings, and a few hard, harsh, sour notes came forth. Then she clasped the fiddle in her arms, and comforted it like a child whom one has hurt.

So weeks and months passed by, not unhappily for Nella; although her home grew more distasteful, and even almost unfit for her to live in; and this from a sad sad cause. Bill, who had been so kind and so much softened in manner, became Black Bill once more, and returned home often in a ferocious drunken state. He also began to bring home rough comrades, whom he had hitherto kept away from the cottage since Nella had been there; and he engaged in a wild smuggling venture again, and re-filled his cellars with contraband goods. He had seemed so much better a man since he gave way to the guardian angel, who

had whispered to him, 'Be kind to the little orphan,' that it must have been a saddening thing for that pure guardian of his, to see him falling back so fearfully to his old ill ways.

Bill, as yet,
It is not a

There is no

It was but natural, however; mere good-nature will not keep us right; great ruffians can often be good-natured; and poor had no better, stronger stay to prop his character upon. pleasant nor a good thing to describe a drunken man. need for me to tell you how he frightened Nella at first; but soon she learned to shut herself up, and bolt her trap-door, when she heard his footstep coming along the path, with that fatal unsteadiness in it. The winter nights had come, so that it was too cold for her to visit her beloved tower; and she dared not play when Bill was in the house; but there was plenty of wood in the shed, and no one to hinder her making a fire in her room; and so-although there were many truant little breezes racing among the rafters, playing peep-bo in the curtains, and leap-frog on the bed, and billowing out the canvas ceiling, as children blow out their cheeks when they say 'Eggs to sell!'-Nella still could contrive to keep some warmth in her chilly little body, used to Italian heat; and when she could not play, she would lay her fiddle on the pillow beside her, whisper to it all her thoughts, and make it whisper back an answer, by gently pulling a string with her finger. Often, when the noise below 'waxed fast and furious,' so that she could not shut her ears to wicked words, which now she understood only too well, she thought she would tell Mrs. Lester, and beg to live with her; but something held her back; some feeling towards Bill which was not affection, and hardly even gratitude, although she had always thought more kindly of him since he had given her the violin. It was rather love to Miss Charteris, and a faint sense of duty to God and to her neighbour, awakened by that kind friend's words. One sentence, which Miss Charteris had spoken in a low tone as if to herself, on the last afternoon of her stay in Brentholm, came often back to Nella, who repeated it over and over to herself, as well as she could recall it; and, because she only half understood it, dwelt upon it the more: 'I think, that unless we can bring one soul as a thank-offering to Jesus, we can never prove that we have loved Him.' She had also found a text in her Bible, deeply marked by Miss Charteris's hand: Be ye not weary in well doing.'

'Miss Charteris meant that I should help Bill to love God,' she said often to herself; I don't think I can do it; I don't think I love God much myself. But if I go away from Bill, I can't help him at all, so I will stay here; and when Miss Charteris comes back, she will tell me what to do next.'

So she stayed, and told no one how Bill and his companions frightened her of nights. And there she might have stayed until Miss Charteris came again, but for an event which happened in the village.

(To be continued.)

LENA'S SEVEN BIRTH-DAYS.

CHAPTER VI.

I AM nineteen to-day. I have been engaged a whole year, and there is yet a year before my marriage. I should not mind this if I could sometimes see Charley; but in this morning's letter he speaks of being at home next July, so in two months more our separation will be overhappy, happy thought! so happy that it makes me restless and wild. This is my first birth-day without some rejoicings, and some pleasant fuss; but as I am now I greatly prefer it being a quiet unnoticed day; not that my own darling mother has not noticed it, for she was the first to greet me this morning with her loving words and her wonted gifts. From Herbert, too, I had a nice brother-like letter; he is not at home, and there is no one staying in the house. We are obliged to be very quiet just now, because my dear father has been extremely ill. Last week we were seriously uneasy about him, but the doctors have told dear Mother that they are not sorry for this illness, as it has shewn them more what is really the matter with him, and they are not so much in the dark as they were. I don't think they expect that he will ever be well again, but they say he may be much better than he is now, and may live for years. Another reason why we are quiet is, that Aunt Trevor died three weeks ago. She had been declining for some months, I may almost say years, and her life had become a very suffering one, and a burthen to herself-though a burthen most beautifully and patiently borne. Uncle Trevor feels her death keenly, and so does Edith; her gentleness, and thoughtfulness for others, and unselfishness, were wonderful even to the last day of her life; and she had a magic power of attaching those about her to herself. She will be a great loss in our circle, and in their parish, and in her own home. Edith will continue to live on with Uncle Trevor, as he will want her more than ever now. I have found out she does not like Lord Bandon, and won't have anything to say to him. I thought it must be so. Aunt Trevor's death has made a change in our plans, that is to say, in Charley's, for she has left him £600 a year. Edith told me that she had always intended this money should go to him after Uncle's death, but that Uncle had made her alter her will and make it so that this money should be Charley's on her death instead of on his; he says he has quite enough for himself, that more money would only bring more care, and that this will enable Charley to leave the army any time he wishes to do so. But whether he will wish this or not I don't know, because he never told me that he had any expectations from Aunt Trevor, therefore I think he will be taken by surprise; the money that some day is to be his will come to him from his father's elder brother, General Grey. I am sure he won't like to live an idle life; but I shall know more in my next letter, and then more and more still in