employment. But novel-reading in the morning is an unsettling occupation. Anstace could not settle to any thing else now; the novel was still at hand, and she decided that it would be better to finish it at once, and so get it off her mind. This occupied her till her sisters' return, and the rest of the time before their late dinner was spent in a little working, a little talking, and a good deal of absolute idleness.

Nothing further occurred to vex Anstace till, in the evening, it was proposed that they should go on with the book which they had been reading aloud, and she was asked to read, as she had nothing particular to do.

'Oh, I have finished it to myself,' she said. 'Cannot someone else read it? it is so tiresome to read a book of that kind twice.'

'I would,' said Lucy, 'only I very much want to finish this work to-night.'

'I think you had better have waited till the evening Anstace,' said Mrs. Melbourne, 'instead of wasting your time over that book this morning as you did.'

'Well, give it me; I will read,' said Anstace; don't want a fuss made about it.'

And she did read for some time, but she found it dull work, and made it pretty evident that she did so by her

manner.

but

At length the day came to an end, and Anstace went to her room, wearied and dissatisfied with herself, yet not She clearly seeing how much reason she had to be so. had a vague consciousness of being in the wrong, instead of searching into this, and looking her faults steadily in the face, she turned from what would cost her a painful effort, to seek consolation in throwing the blame of her short-comings on others, and in fancying how different and much better she would be if she were situated differently.

The next day in the afternoon, as Anstace was singing

and playing by herself, she was interrupted by one of her young sisters, who ran in with the exclamation, 'Oh, Anstace, here is Cousin Edith coming, with Katie and Leo!' and before the words were well spoken, Mrs. Mayo was in the room.

Edith, I was just wishing you would come,' Anstace said, after the first warm greeting had passed. Mamma and Honoria are out, and Lucy is busy writing letters in the library, so I can have you all to myself. The children will make themselves very happy together in the garden, I dare say. I shall be so glad to have a talk with you,' she added, when they were left alone together, 'I can so seldom get at you now.'

'Ah, I am afraid you did not half like my sending you away yesterday as I did,' Edith said, with a smile.

'It was very wrong of me to mind-very selfish,' returned Anstace; that was one thing I wanted to say to you. I am ashamed now to remember how unreasonable I was, and how unjust to you. I was ready to imagine that you did not care for me at all, just because you would not waste the time in talking to me that ought to be spent in teaching your children.'

'You were always a self-tormentor, Anstace,' said Edith; 'I have told you of that bad habit often enough, you know, so we will say no more about it now, only never torment yourself again with fancying that I do not care for you.'

'I know it was very foolish, but I was feeling depressed and miserable, and I suppose that made me all the more ready to give way to gloomy fancies.'

'Why, what was the matter?' inquired Edith, kindly; 'nothing very serious I hope.'

'Oh no, you will only call it self-tormenting, I dare say. It is the old story over again-I am unhappy, Edith, and I can hardly tell you what about. I believe the cause of my unhappiness is more negative than posi

tive; that is, it is rather what is not, than what is, my lot that troubles me.'

6

The old story, as you say-the want of an object, isn't that it?' Edith asked.

'Yes,' Anstace went on; 'you have no idea, Edith, how weary I grow of my life, it is so aimless, so object less. I get up in the morning, and perhaps I read, or I work, or walk, or play on the piano, it doesn't matte what, till night comes, and then I feel that I might s well have done none of these things; it is just the same as if I had not, they have produced no result; I am nove the better or the happier for what I have done, and no one else is better or happier for it either. I cannot take any interest in what I do, for I feel all the while that I might as well leave it undone; and the days seem s long, and the time hangs so heavy on my hands, that ! catch myself every now and then wishing my time awayalmost (like the Jews in the Bible) saying in the more ing, "Would God it were evening!" and in the ever ing, "Would God it were morning!" When I was i London I thought I should be happier in the count and especially here, but it is just the same-my life is burden and a weariness to me, so that if I dared—” bat here she stopped suddenly.

'Dear Anstace, I wish I could help you,' Edith answered, after a moment's pause. 'I am sure you need not be so unhappy; I am sure, quite sure, that you have peace and happiness within your reach.'

Anstace interrupted her here. 'I cannot be happy.' she said, 'until I have some worthy object in life, some thing to be interested in, and to work for, and worth working for, and caring for; until I can feel as I lie down at night that my time has been spent with a definite purpose and aim, and as I wake in the morning, that I have a work to do worth making haste to rise early for— employment for my mind, my energies, and my heart!

Oh, Edith, I think of such life as this until my heart burns within me, and then it turns cold and sick when I contrast with it the realities of my present life! "Vanity and vexation of spirit" this is indeed.'

She spoke so impetuously, and with such excitement of manner, that her cousin could only listen in silence until she ceased. Then she said, 'Do you remember writing to me before you came here about your two great wants?'

'Yes; and you promised to tell me what Leonard said about them.'

'You will think it rather severe, perhaps; he said they both arose from a want of knowing better.'

'I don't understand what he means,' said Anstace, looking as if she did not like this. He thinks me a mere sentimental young lady, I suppose, making troubles out of nothing, but I am sure I am not that; I hate sentimentality.'

'I think he means that you have what you want within your reach all the time, only you don't know that you have.'

'Now I don't understand you, Edith,' Anstace said, rather impatiently. 'How is what I want within my reach? Am I to go away from home, and find for myself such duties and such a way of life as would satisfy me?'

'No, indeed; and you could not satisfy yourself so. If you are to be happy, it must be by walking in the path in which God has placed you.'

'But, Edith, I cannot be happy in such a life as mine must be here, it is impossible! What is there to satisfy the craving of my heart and soul in worsted-work, and novel-reading, and paying morning calls, and playing on the piano, and all the other vanities in which my hours are spent?'

'Whatever is done as a duty is satisfying,' Edith said, 'even the most trifling things.'

There was a little pause. Anstace was considering her cousin's words. At last she said, 'Yes, I suppose you are right, but I can't look upon such things as duties, it does not matter whether I do them or not.'

'I think you are mistaken, Anstace; if you would look at things in a more practical way, you would see them differently.'

'You think me unpractical, Edith, but I can't help it if I am. I am practical in my wishes, at any rate. I hate whatever is unreal or affected. My tastes, my opinions, and my sympathies, are all in favour of whatever is practical and earnest. And if my wishes do not influence my practice more than they do, perhaps that is the fault of my position; in a different way of life, and with more congenial duties, I might-I think I shoulddo better.'

'Take care, Anstace,' said Edith, earnestly, that is a dangerous notion to entertain. Beware of vain longings after a path God has not chosen for you.'

'I don't mean to be discontented,' Anstace said. 'I know that would be wrong, but surely it must be easier in some positions to do one's duty than in others. I sometimes think that people whose duties are really laborious and irksome have a plainer and easier course before them than those who are situated as I am. The harder the work, the more likely it is to satisfy them, and give them peace of mind.'

'If it is the right work which God has given them to do, it will bring them peace of mind, not else,' Mrs. Mayo said with emphasis.

'But I really cannot see that any work has been given me to do,' Anstace said.

'You know the text, "work out your own salvation," Edith said; there is one work which is given to all alike.'

Anstace was about to reply, when Mrs. Melbourne