starved in prison but for the exertions of Milly of the Manse. However, the pall and the pibroch were not wanting, and scores of bare-legged gillies came down from the highlands: and Milly stood at one of the windows in the market-place to see it all pass; and though the tear of womanly feeling was in her eye, there was an expression of such scorn and contempt upon her lip, that I cared not to look on it a second time.

"After a lapse of about six years, word came that Ronald M'Lean had married - married again in India! and all I heard Millicent say, was, 'So best.' But when she made tea for us - (I was staying for a few days, at the time, with her father) - when she made tea for us in the evening, I perceived that her eyes were red, and that she put three times her usual quantity of tea into the teapot, which was uncommon for her who was so frugal.

"Now comes the wonder of the story; -a brother of the minister, one whom he had not seen since his boyhood, died in Mexico, and all the accumulated hoards of years on years came to Millicent Morrison, in right of her father; he, poor body, was nearly childish from age. Here was a change - a wonderful change for Milly, not only in that it made her independent, and even rich, but, that it showed forth her character in its true and perfect light. Poverty had been accounted to her a crime-it had stood between her and her earthly happiness — it had formed a barrier, as it always does, between what might be almost termed the living and the dead: the knowledge that she was poor had made her proud, and cold, and stern; and fearful that her advances would be repulsed because of her poverty, she made none. Nor would she receive the overtures of strangers kindly, for she thought, 'When they find me poor, I shall be insulted:' this, as she now confesses, was a sinful pride; but the wealth which puffs up so many, made her gentle and humble as the shorn lamb. It is only a noble mind that can support prosperity; every one tries to bear up against adversity, but prosperity is the touchstone of greatness.

"The quiet calm smile came back to Millicent's rigid lip; gentleness again reigned over all her actions. She was not bitter in word as she had been; and, as her sphere of doing good increased, she appeared cheerful almost happy; yet did I never hear her sing. And, I have marked, a deepened blush would suffuse her cheek, whenever the M'Lean was alluded to, which certainly was not often the case -for the unfortunate are soon forgotten.

"I had been married some time; the poor auld minister, full of years, had been gathered to his fathers, and a neat white marble slab, raised by the hand of his affectionate daughter, marked out the place of his final rest, in the kirk of Haverling. Milly had settled fairly down into an old maid, and indulged in many of the whimsies which are overlooked in a married woman, but are put down as tokens of the sisterhood when a lady arrives at a certain age. (Oh! Oh! thought I.) She had a gray cat, lively, though not mischievous. She was fond of knitting and patchwork, and wofully particu lar in the shape and fashioning of the bit ribands to trim her caps and bonnets; but she was actively benevolent — worshipped by the poor-respected by the rich. It might have been, as nearly as I remember, about seven years after the news that Ronald M'Lean was again married in India, that Millicent Morrison came to my house, for I was the oldest friend of the family in existence, and after some difficulty, and many sorrowing looks, produced a letter, which she permitted me to transcribe." The minister took it out of his desk.

"When you receive this, Millicent, the hand that pens it will be cold as the clay of this burning country, and the Ronald whom you once, and I would fain hope, always loved, will be then no more. I have heard of

you, Milly heard of your good fortune and I believe in your faithfulness. My life has been a turbulent dream, beginning in ambition, ending in disappointment. One thing hangs heavily at my heart-my old father

he died in a jail, which would have been utterly desolate but for you. Milly, how great was your revenge! may God bless-may God reward you I cannot. My wife will be the bearer of this to England; she is of another country-she knows nothing of European habits, and in Scotland the M'Lean has now no friends; perhaps I deserve it--but she does not. There are reasons why she cannot remain here, which you will hear her explain, that is-but-I do hope that you may meet. She is a guileless, simple Indian girl, only a girl-not yet twenty, though the mother of three children; feel for her-pity her-for she loved me, not wisely, but too well.' You bore our separation like a heroine- she will, I know, only bear it like a woman and hers will be the same as ours, for an earthly eternity. God bless you, Milly. Love Annabel for my sake-no, not for mine, for you ought not to love me, but for her own sweet sake—and farewell-farewell for ever EVER!

"R. M'L."

"And they are come to England?' I said. "They are,' she replied; and it was the first time I ever saw her weep: now the tears rolled rapidly and heavily down her cheeks. They are come, but he is gone; and though people say that insensibility comes with age, and I am not young, knows how gladly I would have died to save the life of Ronald M'Leandied to save him for his wife and helpless children; they are at Portsmouth.'

"And you?”?

God

"I am going there directly. I have hired a carriage for the purpose; for it is no' fit that Ronald M'Lean's wife and bairns should tramp the country in a public coach, as if they had nae bluid in their veins. If they want worldly gear, they must share of all I have; and whether they do or no, they shall not need a friend.' 'You shall not go alone, Miss Milly,' I replied; 'I too will welcome M'Lean's widow; and I know Mrs. Campbell will be proud to go with us.' It was Millicent's first visit to England; and we did all we could to rouse her attention to the scenery, and the difference so palpably existing between Scotland and this cultivated country: but her mind was far away-and at last we agreed it was the wisest plan to leave her to herself. My Nancy enjoyed the journey much; for it was far pleasanter going that way, than being jolted inside a public coach."

"That's like ye'r bundle story," interrupted Mrs. Campbell, turning up her really pretty little nose, "" 'that's like ye'r bundle story as if I was never in a private carriage till then; -I've been in the Duchess of Buccleugh's carriage, before now." And she looked at him as one should say, "I wish you would not be so blunt before strangers."

"I remember it," replied the minister, quietly; "it was when Mistress Laurie Grant, her companion, your own first-cousin, broke her leg, and you went with her to the doctor's."

"Never mind-how should you ken. Surely it was her grace's carriage, at all events," replied the worthy woman.

We found the widow of Ronald M'Lean a poor delicate Indian creature, who could do nothing for herself, and less for others hardly able to rise off the sofa with hands that could not work, and feet that could not walk-with a pale brown cheek, and black soft gazelle cyes that seemed fainting for the sun, whose rays they had fed upon in her own bright land: her manners were languid and ladylike, and there was a tone of tender and deep feeling in her low musical voice, that rendered her desolate situation ten times more interesting-desolate indeed it was. What her reasons for seeking a

refuge in Scotland were, was known only to Millicent and herself; but she made no secret of her straitened circumstances; and her helplessness was the most pitiable I ever witnessed. Added to the languid bearing so characteristic of every Indian, she was languid also from ill health, and her pallid cheek, occasionally flushed by a deep crimson spot, betokened a disease which I shuddered but to think upon. She would sit for hours and days caressing her children, or gazing upon a miniature - his likeness-which she always wore round her neck. As soon as she was able to travel, Millicent bore her and hers to her own home; and the widow of the proud house of M'Lean was indebted to the despised Milly of the Manse for food and shelter. My fears as to the dangerous nature of the disease which was preying upon her, from her first arrival in England, were confirmed; the hothouse plant could not bear removal to a colder clime-and she drooped and drooped and for two years Milly tended her sick bed, until it became the bed of death. It was not one of her least trials that the temper of an Indian, ever hard to bear, was unequal to support with firmness the struggles of departed nature. Millicent was obliged to listen to her complainings, and to endure, as well as she could, the weak petulance of the mother, and the tiresome, tormenting noise (was ever old maid so situated!) of three romping, spoiled children. Yet she not only bore them, but was cheerful under all these trials; and God greatly blessed her exertions: for, though that Indian lady's soul was in a state of pitiable darkness when she came to England, before she died she had sought and found the Saviour and sought and found Him through the instrumentality of the humble Milly. I had remained with M'Lean's wife on one particular evening- and we had enjoyed much profitable conversation during the time. It was a painful, and yet a pleasing thing for me to witness the struggles the poor lady underwent, trying to conquer her constitutional weakness and irritability of temperthe spirit warring against the flesh, and the flesh against the spirit. If betrayed into error, she so quickly perceived her fault, and strove so earnestly to remove the predilection to evil, that it was impossible not to love the frail and fragile being who was so quickly hastening to join, as she hoped, her Ronald in another world. As I wished her good night, I though she appeared more feeble than usual, and her eyes gleamed from out her pale thin countenance with an unearthly brightness. This trial will soon pass away now,' I said to Milly, as she followed me to the door. 'The poor children!' sighed Millicent. Ay, indeed, the poor children,' I repeated, 'what will become of them?' 'I have no kin,' she replied; 'and even if I had, I think that love is stronger than blood: I will be to them as much a mother as I can-and, by the protection of the Lord, and your advice, I trust they will not disgrace their name.' 'But, my dear Miss Milly, you are not aware of the fresh trials you are bringing on yourself. Norman Cunningham, the late laird's fourth cousin, has offered to take the boy!

"And breed him up to fish and shoot-without heeding God's counsel, or caring for man's then turn him off into a regiment, to be shot at like a popinjay! No, no-I'll do my best with the three. You know, I am only an old maid,' she continued, faintly smiling, and used to trials; and, like all things else, they are nothing when you grow accustomed to them. God's will be done! this care will save the fag end of my life from being spent either selfishly or uselessly; and, maybe, the young creatures, when they grow up, will have an affection for her who cared for them all so well; it takes the desolate feel from about one's heart, to have something to live for and love.' This was a long speech for Milly; and I went home through the starlight, pondering upon the dispensations of the Almighty, and thinking to myself, how hard it is for us to pass right judgment upon each other. No one, to see that stiff, formal, particular old maiden, would

conjecture that so warm, so generous, so tender a heart dwelt within her bosom that the love she imbibed in early youth kindled, in its own fitting shrine, a pure and steady flame, which burned as brightly as if it had been fed with smiles-not fanned by sighs. I thought-what was there could extinguish woman's love! -a passion scoffed at by those who cannot comprehend its height, its depth, its strength, its duration: sorrow quenches it not - steep it in tears, they but renovate its lustre; crown it with thorns, the blood that trickles from the wounds is as incense on the altar; talk of death, it laughs at the dagger and the bowl, as if they were but

'The baseless fabrics of a vision.""

The minister again paused; his wife rubbed her eyes more than once, and then, with the dew still moist upon their lids, seized her husband's hand, and kissing it with genuine emotion, forgetful of a stranger's presence, she exclaimed, "Ah! Jamie Campbell, I wish I had been ye'r first love, and then maybe you'd have spoken of me as you have spoken of her." He pressed his wife to his bosom; and, looking in her face, tenderly replied: "I spoke of the love of all women, not of one only. do as much for me as Milly did for Ronald M'Lean. needed."

I believe you would Thank God, it is not

I was right there

"I was right," thought I to myself. "After all was an affaire de cœur here -- and that made Milly blush." "But the lady, sir?" said I.

"Oh! yes I had forgotten her: she fell into a soft sleep, from which she awoke in about an hour, and in a low voice called Milly, who came instantly to her side.

"My children!' said the young Indian mother. In a few moments they were in the room: she kissed them-blessed them all; then taking a small jewel-casket that was under her pillow, she fastened round the neck of her eldest girl poor Ronald's miniature. She then selected a rich clasp of rubies, and placing it in Milly's hand, added, 'His hair and mine are within this. - Tell me tell me,' she continued, rallying her strength for the question, do you think he is in heaven?'

"Through the Redeemer's mercy, I believe it,' replied Milly, deeply affected.

"And-I-- I meet him there?' She clasped her hands for a brief space tried again to speak, but the power was gone; she motioned the children to go near Millicent, who kissed them all, and pressed them in her arms; a light and heavenly smile passed over the lady's beautiful lips; they parted-she moved her hands once-and only once-convulsively and all was over.

"You know the rest; having of course discovered that the children you so much admired are those of Millicent Morrison's adoption. She has discarded the gray cat, pays for her board and lodging, and I believe, only suffers one pet, a water-spaniel, to share her attentions with her wards."

"I am astonished," said I, "that Ronald M'Lean did not say more about his son one would have thought he would have been pleased and proud to transmit his name, a name so old, to posterity."

"I rather think he had learned the emptiness of seeking to keep up appearances without suitable means.

"Poor Milly!"

"GREAT MILLY !" exclaimed the minister, "how delighted I should be, to see all maids, wives, and widows- as useful as Milly of the Manse." It is astonishing how my predilection for old maids increases!

THE STRUGGLE.

THE TRIALS OF GRACE HUNTLEY.

"Virtue is not more exempt than vice from the ills of fate: but it contains within itself always an energy to resist them, and sometimes an anodyne to sooth."

THE DISOWNED.

"WE will call her Grace," said a pale, delicate-looking young woman to her husband, as she raised the white flannel hood, that he might gaze upon the features of their new-born babe. "Abel, I never expected to be the mother of a living child; but God has been merciful; so we will give to her the gentle name of Grace; and, dearest, let us pray that, in all the troubles and trials of life, not the name merely, but the spirit, may dwell with her!"

It was only a few weeks afterwards that the grave closed over the fair young mother; but the blessing wherewith she had blessed her child had been heard and registered in heaven.

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

"You are not angry with me, my own dear father- not angry with your poor Grace and you will forgive Joseph Huntley! Oh!" added the girl playfully, "if we youngsters could but get your wisdom, without your wrinkles, what wonderful creatures we should be!"

My child, my child! age will bring wrinkles, as autumn brings withered leaves; yet wisdom doth not always come with years. But our hearts do not grow old, girl; so I forgive you!"

"And Joseph too, father?"

"Of all

The schoolmaster (for such was his calling) shook his head. the youths it has been my fortune to instruct, I never met with so wilful a boy as Joseph Huntley."

"He is not a boy now, father; you forget he is out of his time."

"So much the worse. His master, worthy Matthew Greenshaw, tells me he spoils more mahogany than any apprentice that ever entered his house; and you know, Grace, the desk he made, as a present for me last Christmas, tumbled to pieces the second time I leaned upon it."

"Dear father, you lean your elbows so heavily! But Joseph has made you such a pretty ruler of cherry-tree wood!"

"I believe he is a kind-hearted fellow; but, dear Grace, a kind heart alone will not ensure prosperity; there must be forethought, and industry, and discretion. Yet, truth to say, I fear your heart is too much set upon this same Joseph Huntley. Whatever he does, you view in one light, and I in another. I would not judge harshly, my dear child; yet do I wish it had pleased God your mother had lived: it is no easy thing for a man to bring up a daughter, and make her learned in woman's craft, and other matters meet for her to understand. A pains-taking schoolmaster, like my self, has but small opportunity of cultivating a knowledge of female sentiment; yet have I not been a bad father, for never did I harbour the thought