'Does your head ache ?'

'Rather.'

But they were not the old sulky answers, and Sophy seemed glad to have her arm freshly bathed, her brow cooled, her tossed bed composed, and her window opened so that she might make a fresh attempt at closing her weary eyes.

She was evidently far too much shaken by the past day's adventure to be fit for the intended expedition, even r her father had not decreed that she should be deprived c it as a punishment. Albinia had never seen him so much incensed, for, perhaps, nothing makes a man so angry is to have been greatly alarmed; and he was doubly annoyed when he found that she thought Sophy too unwell to be left, as he intended, to solitary confinement, and even feared to take little Maurice on a journey so soon after such a shock.

He would gladly have given up the visit altogether, ir his repugnance to society was in full force on the eve of any party, but Albinia represented that it would be wrong to disappoint Colonel Bury, and very hard on the unoffending Gilbert and Lucy; and she succeeded in prevai ing on him to accept his melancholy destiny, and allow her to remain at home with Sophy and the baby-one c the greatest sacrifices he or she had ever yet made. He was exceedingly vexed, and therefore the less disposed to be lenient to the offender. The more Albinia told him of her unhappiness, the more he hoped it would do her good, and he could not be induced to see her, or to send her any message of forgiveness, for in truth it was less the baby's accident that he resented, than the eighteen months of surly resistance to the baby's mother; and at present be was more unrelenting than the generous forgiving spirit of his wife could understand, though she tried to believe it manly severity and firmness.

'It would be time to pardon,' he said, 'when pardon

was asked.'

And Albinia could not say that it had been asked, except by Sophy's misery.

'She has the best advocate in you,' said Mr. Kendal affectionately, and if there be any feeling in her, such forbearance cannot fail to bring it out. I am more grieved than I can tell you at your present disappointment, but it shall not happen again. If you can bring her to a better mind, I shall be the more satisfied in sending her from home.'

'Edmund, you do not think of it!'

'My mind is made up. Do you think I have not watched your patient affection, and the manner in which it has been repaid? You have sufficient occupation without being the slave of those children's misconduct.'

'Sophy would be miserable. Oh! you must not do it! She is the last girl in the world fit to be sent to school.' 'I will not have you made miserable at home. This has been a long trial, and nothing has softened her.' 'Suppose this was the very thing.'

'If it were, what is past should not go unrequited, and the change will teach her what she has rejected. Hush, dearest, it is not that I do not think that you have done all for her that tenderness or good sense could devise, but your time is fully occupied, and I cannot see you overtasked by this poor child's headstrong temper. It is decided, Albinia, say no more.'

'I have failed,' thought Albinia, as he left the room. 'He decides that I have failed in bringing up his children. What have I done? Have I been mistaken? have I been careless? have I not prayed enough? Oh! my

poor, poor Sophy! What will she do among strange girls? Oh! how wretched, how harsh, how misunderstood she will be! She will grow worse and worse, and just when I do think I might have begun to get at her! And it is for my sake! For me that her father is set against her, and is driving her out from her home! Oh! PART 82.

VOL. 14.

26

what shall I do? There will Winifred promote it, be cause they all think I am doing too much! I wonder what put that in Edmund's head? But when he speaks that way, I have no hope! So resolute as he is! I must my best with her, poor dear, while I have her still, but if I could only get a few words of forgiveness for her! It is so dreadful for him to go away without them, but of course he is right, he must pardon less easily than I, because Maurice is mine!'

do

Mr. Kendal's anger took a direction with which she better sympathized, when as soon as breakfast was over, he walked down Tibbs's Alley, and counted the nine beershops, which had never dawned on his imagination before, and which, with the report of their disorders, so greatly shocked it now, that he went straight to his agent, the astonished Pettilove, and gave him the most thorough and severe reprimand he had ever had in his life for allowing the houses to be made such dens of iniquity, as all the neighbourhood avouched them to be. Nay, he even werd to call on the Admiral, to stir him up to take away their licences, and received a great many promises, that the next offence should be visited with condign punishment.

He was at home in time to meet Mr. Bowles, and hear that Maurice had suffered not the smallest damage; and then to make another ineffectual attempt to persuade Albinia to consign Sophy to imprisonment and Aunt Maria, after which he drove off very much against his will with Lucy and Gilbert, both declaring that they did not care a rush to go to Fairmead under the present cir

cumstances.

Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars were at the Park to meet the new comers, and great were the lamentations at Albinis's absence, though Gilbert and Lucy did not suffer from it quite as much as they had expected, when they found themselves in the midst of a large lively party of all the young people in the neighbourhood, whom the good

natured Colonel had convened to eat his strawberries and make his hay.

Their father walked with Mrs. Ferrars, and detailed the adventure to her sympathizing ears. Thoroughly roused, he was more communicative than she had ever known him. No one could tell, he said, the patience and sweetness with which Albinia had acted towards the children, unwearied by any obstinacy on their part. The two elder ones had responded, and he appealed to Winifred whether they were not marvellously improved; but Sophia had uniformly hardened herself against all kindness, and it was his duty to think for Albinia, who never thought for herself. She must not be allowed to be worn out by her own active spirit, and harassed by insensibility to her kindness, and he repeated, as if they had been original, all Mr. Ferrars's arguments in the case of Gilbert, finally consulting her on a good school for Sophia.

Albeit averse to girl's schools, Winifred had so little toleration for poor Sophy, that she thought any change might do her good, and was only too glad to liberate Albinia from the charge; so she applauded the resolution, and needed little urging from Mr. Kendal to make her write to make inquiries respecting various first-rate places of education.

(To be continued.)

MY THREE AUNTS; OR, LOWMINSTER.

PART II.

CHAPTER IV.

AUNT PHOEBE'S HISTORY CONTINUED.

ONE summer's evening, the event so long expected, so long delayed, took place, and just when William and Phoebe were not thinking about it, but were full of their own concerns, and had no particular anxiety on the sub

ject, he was summoned to Broadlands. At last the sere and withered leaf, which had so long hung with such strange tenacity on to its parent bough, dropped when no wind blew, and flickered to its rest. Suddenly, if that could be called sudden which had been for so many years foreseen, Mr. Maitland died. Margaret Winshaw was with him, and sent off immediately for her brother. It was a long way from Broadlands to Shothurst, and the messenger did not arrive until evening. William and Phoebe were out loitering in the pleasant hay-fields, watching the village children gamboling among the baycocks, and admiring the golden streams of light which the red sun was pouring between the stems of the trees. It was one of those hours when the radiance of heaven seems to shine down on the happy earth and make it glori ous. The level rays, like the touch of angel fingers, called forth fresh beauty wheresoever they fell. How lovely Phoebe's face looked when the rosy light lit on her cheek! how radiant was the dishevelled hair of the children, a capless and bonnetless they raced along with their wavy locks fluttering on the evening breeze. No imaged saint ever wore round his brow so fair a coronet as that where with the setting sun crowned them. And thus arrayed in light, how fair became the little ones of earth, even though still clad in the soiled and tattered garments of this work-a-day world. And if thus the light of this temporal sun can glorify, and in its effulgence hide from our dazzled eyes the imperfections which still exist; with how great a glory, by the grace of God, may we shine when His own light clothes and crowns us, and our bodies, perfect as they never have been on earth, have so put on immortality as to be fit receptacles of His radiance, shining temples, more brilliant than jewels, into which and out of which the light of the Holy Spirit shall stream continually! Alas! from such a vision I fall back to this sin-stained world, and to thoughts of that sorrow and suf