taken, Robert was always ready to be the doer, and to do the work thoroughly.

But besides this, there was an element in the boy's happiness which made that happiness as perfect as it could be in a world marred by sin. This element was the kind notice he received from Sarah Jones. From the very first he was an object of the profoundest pity to the child. She felt instinctively how complete was the difference of character and disposition between him and herself. Something within her bade her, at first, despise him--he was so unlike what she would look for as good or noble in a young person of the other sex. But she had come upon this sentiment of the poet Wordsworth

"He that can feel contempt for any living thing,
Hath faculties which he has never used."

She could not, at her early age, fathom the full meaning of these words; but she had grasped enough of their meaning to know that she could not innocently despise any one, however short he might come of her standard of excellence, whether in person or in mind. So she set herself to find out what was good in poor Robert; and soon discovered, in his patience, diligence, and perseverance in the work set him by his master, and in his unostentatious labours of love for her mother, abundance to admire.

And as she was herself a simple and humble follower of "the good Shepherd," she could not but desire to help Robert to love and follow Him too. He soon perceived this; and as he marked the quiet and consistent piety of that gentle childwhen he saw how different she was from himself, so full of strange and high imaginings, and yet all the time so humble and unselfish-he felt that to be near her, to be under the daily influence which radiated from her, to hear her voice and feel her smile he felt that all this made his present earthly home one which he would not change for the noblest and wealthiest dwelling that earth possessed. Poor Robert happy Robert!

CHAPTER VII.

JEALOUSY.

F there was peace in the carver's dwelling, there was not a like peace at the Hall; for there was one there who envied and at the same time pretended to despise

Sarah Jones. This was Clara Milvert, the squire's daughter. When the offer of an art prize had been made by her father, it became her great ambition to be herself the successful competitor. She was at that time thirteen years of age, and very forward in all the studies she had entered on. Her only brother, who was many years older than Clara, was now abroad with his regiment. She had only two sisters, who were some years her juniors; so that, as being the eldest daughter, she was made much of at home both by her parents and herself. No pains had been spared to make her accomplished, and, having naturally good abilities, she soon made it apparent to all about her that

she wished and expected to shine in the world, or, at any rate, in her own world. Inheriting from both parents finely-formed features, and having shot up already almost to a woman's height, she carried herself, at the age of thirteen, like one who looked for that general homage which is seldom paid except to fully-matured and extraordinary beauty.

Music and drawing she excelled in; she also put together numerous respectable rhymes, upon which some of her flatterers bestowed the name of " poetry;" in consequence of which estimate she was led to publish a small volume of these effusions, with the title, "Who's Poems ?" A critique, however, beginning, "Who's Poems ?-nobody's poems-anybody's verses," extinguished her efforts at publicity in this direction, at any rate for a time. Nevertheless, being very desirous of gaining public distinction, she had set her heart on winning the art prize offered by her father. She was, of course, aware that it would not have done for her to send in a work in her own name, as it would have put the squire in a very awkward position in the estimation of the public, had he awarded the prize knowingly to his own child. And yet, why should not she try as well as any one else? And what a nice thing it would be should she take her father by surprise as the successful competitor! She was

fully assured of the squire's strict impartiality, and that each work exhibited would be estimated by him simply and solely according to its intrinsic worth. She had also heard her father say, soon after he had made his offer public, that he should not trust to his own judgment in the award, but should get some competent friend to decide for him. Why, then, might she not herself bear away the palm, if she only sent in her piece under a feigned name? She pictured to herself how charming this would be.

A water-colour drawing from nature this was what she decided to send in. Well, she conjures up a fascinating picture of her own success. The various efforts in art have all been inspected, and the choice of the judge has fallen on a water-colour drawing by Louisa Furnival.

The day of the

Louisa Furnival has gained

prize-giving has come. the prize. "But who and where is Louisa Furnival?" asks the squire. Then before the assembled company she herself steps forward and tells how she has been quietly working at the drawing when her parents were not at hand to see; and now, quite unknown to them, indeed without a suspicion on their part, she has been the successful one. What a happy moment for her! and what a proud moment for them! For all must see that there has