and for you, and for me, and for our beloved children, what surer and safer blessing can there be than to believe in them too? 'Always your most affectionate Sister, 'MARY.' AN OBJECT IN LIFE. CHAPTER II. 'Drooping sadness Enfolds us here like mist.' Christian Year. PERHAPS before going further, it may be well to explain that this is not to be the history of a family, but only of one individual, Anstace Melbourne; and that others are only noticed so far as they are connected with her, or help in the development of her character. Therefore we will not now dwell upon the delight of the younger portion of the family at getting into the country, the regrets of Honoria, the eldest daughter, or the anxieties of Mrs. Melbourne; but passing by all these, keep by the side of Anstace, and watch what is passing in her mind. For some days after the removal to Leybridge, Anstace was all happiness; she seemed to have attained all she wished, and more than she had even dared to expect; to live in the country was in itself a great pleasure to her, but to be so near her Cousin Edith was the crowning happiness of all. Little by little, however, she hardly knew how, a cloud came over the sunshine of her life. She did not clearly understand what it was that troubled her. She had a vague feeling of unhappiness for which she could assign no definite reason—a weight upon her heart and spirits, but what occasioned it she did not know. Under the influence of such feelings she set out early and alone one lovely autumn morning to the vicarage, resolved on having a talk with her Cousin Edith, which would, she was persuaded, set her to rights, or at least comfort and cheer her for the present. Edith received her as affectionately as usual, but they had been only a very few minutes together when she said, 'I am sure you will not wish me to stand uper ceremony with you, Anstace, so I had better say at once that I can't stay with you this morning. This is my time for teaching Leo and Katie, and I don't like to leave them unless it is for something very particular. You don't mind my turning you out so unceremoniously, do you? she added, with a smile. 'No, of course not,' Anstace said, but she spoke with an effort. 'I don't want you to waste your time upon me while you have anything else to do.' 'Don't look at it in that way, Anstace,' Mrs. Mayo said, sorry to see that she was vexed. 'You know I always like to have you with me, but I must attend to my children, and I am so often unavoidably interrupted, that I feel really obliged to make the most of what time I have. I hope you will not think me unkind. Come any time in the afternoon, I shall be more at leisure the Now I really must not ask you to stay.' Anstace took leave rather coldly, and went away. She did not know that it had cost Edith an effort to keep firm to her purpose when she saw her cousin so vexed, and she felt ill-used and, slighted. She did not go home, for she was in no mood for society, but wandered on, too deeply absorbed in her own thoughts to notice the beauty of the corn-fields on either side of the road she had chosen. They would have afforded a fairer and more wholesome subject for contemplation than did her own mind then the one might have lifted up her heart to heaven, the other held it down to earth. If she had been unhappy before, now she was doubly so ; before she could at least rely on Edith's affection, and hope to find comfort in that, but now (so she mused) that hope was taken from ། 门 her, Edith was changed, she had treated her coldly, had repulsed her when she went with her heart full of sorrow to seek for sympathy and consolation, and bitter tears started into Anstace's eyes as she dwelt on this thought. What availed it now that she had come to live at Leybridge, now that Edith was no longer the friend she had been, which she once believed (how vainly!) she would always be! What a prospect lay before her! a life without aim or object-a solitary life, for there was no one who could sympathize with, or understand her; nay, worse than solitary, for it must be spent amidst those who could not understand her, with whom she had no feelings, no interests in common. In this way Anstace communed with herself as she walked, gathering together and heaping up all the dismal and depressing ideas she could get hold of, and diligently tormenting herself therewith, and shutting her ears to the suggestions not only of religion, but of reason also. So passed nearly two hours, until Anstace reached home again; her mind by this time was wearied by long dwelling upon the same thoughts, and sought to relieve itself by change of occupation. She looked into the library, and seeing no one there, was about to turn away, when her eye was caught by a book which lay on the table. It was the third volume of a novel which they had been all reading together, and in which she was much interested. It offered just the kind of employment which would suit her present frame of mind, so, taking it up, she threw herself back in an easy-chair, and in another minute was deep in its contents. She had been reading for some time, when her sister Lucy looked into the room. 'Oh, here you are, Anstace,' she said. 'Honoria wants you to practise those new duets with her, and she sent me to look for you. Can you go now? She is waiting PART 80. for you.' VOL. 14. 12 "Yes, I will come,' Anstace answered in a dreamy tone, hardly knowing what she was saying. Lucy went away, but Anstace still read on, until she was again interrupted, this time by her mother, who came to look for a book, and on seeing her said, 'How ofter, Anstace, I have told you not to sit reading with your bonnet and shawl on; it is such an idle habit to get into and you know I don't like to see it at all. Do go and take them off at once.' 'Yes, Mamma, I will go directly,' she answered, and Mrs. Mayo, satisfied, went away, but Anstace still res. on without moving. To do her justice, she was intending to go all the time-each leaf she turned was meant to be the last, but it was so interesting that she allowed her self just one more, and then one more, until at last she almost forgot that she had had any intention of going away. But she was not destined to finish the volume undisturbed; just as she had reached a most critical point, and was devouring it almost breathlessly, Honoria came saying, in a displeased tone, 'I do think it is a great da too bad of you, Anstace, to send word you were comm to sing with me, and then to sit still reading here. If you did not mean to come, you might at least have said so and then I should not have waited for you.' 'Well, I can't help it,' said Anstace, impatiently, to much annoyed at the interruption to see the justice of be sister's complaint. I did not want you to wait for me. Honoria was beginning in a still more angry tone. when she was interrupted by the entrance of her mother. 'Anstace,' Mrs. Mayo said severely, is this your at tention to my wishes? You told me you would go direct to take off your bonnet. I am really astonished at you. And I think, too, a great waste of time to be reading novels at this time of day.' Anstace did not wait to hear her mother's last words her patience was not proof against these successive trials, and, with a look and manner expressive of excessive annoyance, she flung the book upon the table, and left the room, only just controlling herself so far as not to express her annoyance in words till she was out of hearing. 'I wish one could be allowed to read in peace sometimes!' was her exclamation to herself as she went upstairs, but her conscience somewhat checked her as she uttered it. She had an uncomfortable consciousness of being in the wrong, but there was no time now to examine into its cause, for on looking at her watch she was startled to see that it was already luncheon-time; and even if there had been plenty of time her mind was too full of what she had just been reading for serious thought. Late as it was, however, she was too much of what is called 'a dawdle,' to make haste, and so many minutes passed before she was ready to go down, that almost everyone had finished luncheon before she joined them, and she received another reproof from her mother, who was always displeased at any want of punctuality. This was a fresh disturbance to her hardly recovered equanimity; she felt more annoyed and out of humour than before, and when her sisters asked her presently to go out with them, she refused, saying shortly that she had had walking enough. 'You might as well have waited to walk with us,' Honoria said, 'you knew we should be going out in the afternoon.' Anstace did not reply. Had she spoken the thought that arose in her mind, she would have said, 'everything that I do seems to be wrong now,' but she held her peace. When they were all gone out, she sat still for some time doing nothing, brooding over thoughts which were certainly neither pleasant nor wholesome. 'Oh, how I am wasting my time!' she said at last to herself, as she rose and began to look about for some |