Did you get What did she

Poor Moses showed the entire white of his eyes. "Why, massa," said he "you ax me too many questions to onst. I got him, and I carried him to Miss Van Der Benschoten's house, but I no see the young woman; but I tell the colored gentleman at the door who sent him."

It was an anxious morning, that which fitted out Mr. Alonzo Romeo Rush for this expedition. His grandmamma washed and combed him, and the little tailoress brushed his clothes, picking off every particle of lint with her slender fingers, and thinking, when she had done, that he stood the very perfection of human loveliness.

"Thank you, Mary," said he, very kindly, and, as he looked at her, he could not but notice the deep

"Monstrous big, massa; big as dat stand, any how! And here's the change; I beat him down a good deal, for he ask two shillin, and I make him take eighteen pence."

And it was with much self-complacency that good old Moses pulled out of his pocket a handful of money.

'Change!" said Mr. Alonzo, with much misgiving, "change!-eighteen pence-two shillings-what are you talking about? What kind of flowers were they?"

"Oh! beautiful flowers, massa. There was pi'nies and laylocks, and paas-blumechies, and ebery ting!" We will only say that if hard words could break bones, poor old Moses would not have had a whole one left in his body-but of what avail?

Next day came out invitations for a large party at Mrs. Van Der Benschoten's, and Harry Blunt, who had been spied out by one of the belligerent brothers of Miss Alida, and recognized as the hero of the serenade à l'Espagnol, was invited, while our poor friend, Alonzo, was overlooked entirely, in spite of the laugh which his elegant bouquet had afforded the young ladies.

The morning after the party, Alonzo encountered his friend Ilarry, who had been much surprised at his absence.

"Why didn't you go?" he asked; "it was a splendid affair. I heard of your bouquet, but I explained, and you need not mind. Write a note your self-that will set all right again."

"Would you really?" said Mr. Alonzo, earnestly. "To be sure I would! Come, do it at once." But Alonzo recollected that he had not yet found much time to bestow on his education, so that the writing of a note would be somewhat of an undertaking.

of exercise and amusement.

However, this was no time to look at tailoresses; and Mr. Alonzo was soon on his way to HummingBird Place.

How his hand trembled as he fumbled for the bellhandle, and how reminiscences crowded upon him as he saw on the step a large dog which he knew by intuition to be the very Vixen of the serenade. Then to think of what different circumstances he stood in at present! Oh! it was overpowering, and Mr. Alonzo was all in a perspiration when the servant opened the door.

"Is Miss Van Der Benschoten at home?" "Yes sir!" A low bow. "Walk up stairs, sir!" Another low bow. The servant must have guessed his errand.

He was ushered into a twilight drawing-room, and sat down, his heart throbbing so that it made the sofacushions quiver.

Hark! a footstep-a lady—and in another instant Mr. Alonzo had taken a small hand without venturing to look at the face of the owner. He had forgotten to prepare a speech, so he held the little hand and meditated one.

At length he began-" Miss Van Der Benschoten, my grandmamma—” and here, at fault, he looked up inadvertently.

"What is the matter, Mr. Rush!" exclaimed the lady.

"I-am sick-" said Alonzo, making a rush for the street door.

The lady was the elder sister of Miss Alida, diminutive, ill-formed, and with such a face as one sees in very severe nightmare.

Alonzo reached his grandmamma's, and the first person he met as he dashed through the hall was the little tailoress.

"Oh, yes, certainly," said the obliging Harry, and he dashed off a very pretty note, enveloped it, comme il faut, and directed it to Miss Van Der Benschoten, Humming-Bird Place.

A most obliging answer was returned-an answer requiring a reply; and, by the aid of his friend Harry, Mr. Alonzo Romeo Rush kept up his side of the cor

humble friend, and said, with startling energy,

I see the mitred brow

Of the High-Priest of Israel—and anon,
As the slant sun sends forth a stronger beam
Through the sparse boughs and cones of terebinth,
His dazzling breast-plate like a rainbow gleams.
Methinks he communes with the past, and calls
The buried years. Each, like a flitting ghost,
Comes with its memories up, and glides away.
Once more the moan of Egypt meets his ear,
As when her first-born died-the sullen surge
Of the divided sea, enforced to leave

Its ancient channels, and the affrighted cry

Of Israel at red Sinai's awful base.

Their murmurings, and their mockings, and their strife,—
The sin at Meribah,-the desert-graves

Fed with their recreant race-all rise anew,
And pass before him as a troubled dream.

But lo! his features wear a brightening tinge,
And o'er his high, anointed brow there gleams
A transient smile. Caught he a glorious view
Of that eternal Canaan, fair with light,
And watered by the river of his God,
Where was his heritage? Or stole the song
Of Miriam's timbrel o'er the flood of death,
Wooing him onward through the last, faint steps
Of wearied life?

And now they reach the spot

Where he had come to die. Strange heaviness
Settled around his spirit. Then he knew
That death's dark angel stretched a sable wing
'Tween him and earth. The altar, and the ark,
The unuttered mysteries seen within the vail,
Those deep-set traces of his inmost soul,
Grew dim and vanished.

son,

So, with trembling hand,
He hasted to unclasp the priestly robe
And cast it o'er his and on his head
The mitre place; while, with a feeble voice,
He blessed, and bade him keep his garments pure
From blood of souls. But then, as Moses raised
The mystic breast-plate, and that dying eye
Caught the last radiance of those precious stones,
By whose oracular and fearful light
Jehovah had so oft his will revealed

Unto the chosen tribes whom Aaron loved

In all their wanderings-but whose promised land

He might not look upon-he sadly laid

His head upon the mountain's turfy breast,
And with one prayer, half wrapped in stifled groans,
Gave up the ghost.

Stedfast beside the dead,
With folded arms and face uplift to Heaven,
The prophet Moses stood-as if by faith
Following the sainted soul. No sigh of grief,
Nor sign of earthly passion marked the man
Who once on Sinai's top had talked with God.
-But the young priest knelt down, with quivering lip,
And pressed his forehead on the pulseless breast,
And mid the gifts of sacerdotal power
And dignity entrusted to his hand,
Remembering but the father that he loved—
Long with his filial tears bedewed the clay.

THERE is a solitude the mind creates,

A solitude, of holy thought, profoundAlone, save there the "Soul's Ideal" waits, It maketh to itself a hallowed ground. Lo! the proud eagle when he highest soars, Leaves the dim earth and shadows far behindAlone, the thunder-cloud around him roars,

And the reft pinion flutters in the wind. Alone, he soars where higher regions sleep,

And the calm ether owns nor storm nor cloudAnd thus the soul its upward way must keep,

And leave behind the tempests raging loudAlone, to God bear up its heavy weight Of human hope and fear, nor feel "all desolate."

CHAPTER III.

The summer and the winter passed away, and still

Clara Dormer received no letter or token from her

lover. Poor girl! she was atoning for her fault, and bore the suspense meekly, but it paled her cheek and drank the soft light from her eyes. It gave a sad sweetness to her voice, and a languor to every movement, which awoke the anxiety of her good father to a painful degree. He saw that there was sorrow preying upon his child, and he knew that though

"It breathes no sigh and sheds no tear,
Yet it consumes the heart."

And the kind rector was himself suffering also, for things had not gone well with him during the year of trial to his daughter. Before the birth of this only and darling child, he had occupied the rectorship of Ebron Parish-honored, tranquil, and thoroughly satisfied in the humble sphere of duty which the Almighty had appointed to him. In the fullness of his content, he had almost forgotten the terms on which the rectorship had been bestowed by his patron.

From some caprice, or, perhaps, reluctance to allow power to escape entirely from his grasp, the Earl of Horton, on the presentation of this living, had exacted a promise from the rector that it should be rendered back to him, should he at any time become dissatisfied with the manner in which its duties were performed. It was a mere provision against what was doubtless an almost impossible contingency, the earl observed at the time, and the idea that his parish could ever pass into other hands had scarcely entered the good rector's mind during the nineteen years in which he had performed its duties. But he was suddenly and harshly aroused from this state of tranquil security. All at once, without warning, and almost without apology for the ungenerous act, he received a letter from Lord Horton demanding immediate surrender of the rectorship. In less than three weeks after the receipt of this letter, a new rector had taken possession of the parsonage, and poor Dormer became a boarder with his child in the house of a humble pensioner.

It was a small chamber which the deposed clergyman occupied, and a little closet, in which his child slept, opened from it. A few books, and two or three articles of choice old furniture, gave an air of comfort to the room, though it was uncarpeted, and the foot

server.

steps of approaching poverty could be detected in many little evidences, discernible only to a quick obThe rector was reposing in his easy chair, which, in its elaborate workmanship, bore a strong contrast to the other rude seats standing primly against the wall. A soft, hazy twilight filled the room with an almost palpable atmosphere of golden purple, a breeze crept through a passion-flower, entangled over the rude lattice, rustling the heavy foliage, and sway ing the glorious flowers to and fro in the rich light, till it almost seemed as if the flowers were smiling and murmuring together, devising some pleasant means of consolation to the good man within.

Still the rector was very sad. The open lattice commanded a view of the little rustic church, the porch, buried in ivy, and a footpath leading from the parsonage, which he had trod almost every Sabbath for nineteen years. Like a bird driven forth from the tree where his younglings yet nestled, he gazed sadly upon this familiar scene. Still he was resigned-the tears stole to his eyes, and his finely cut lip trembled as he thought of the past-his desk occupied by another, his parishioners listening discontentedly to a strange voice-it was pity for them, affection, grief, tenderness, but no selfish regret, that brought those drops to the good man's eyes.

The door opened, and Clara glided from the adjoining closet-her cottage bonnet was tied on, and she had flung a light scarf over the dress of simple calico that was now her usual humble apparel.

"Good evening, papa, I shall return directly," she said, in a sweet voice, as she bent over his chair and kissed him.

She felt that his cheek was wet with tears, and, winding her arm again about his neck, her eyes took the direction of his, and she stood gazing on the little church till her own eyes became misty. "Clara, my child." "Well, father!"

"Nothing. I have forgotten what I wished to say. Are you going out?"

Yes, father."

"But not to the church, Clara, not there-I do not like to see you come back with that sad look so often."

"Perhaps," said Clara, in a low voice, " perhaps it would be better for us both if we would go far away."

"Ah, Clara, Clara, do not speak in that way-do you forget, child, your mother lies yonder?"

"Alas!" said the young girl, once more bending down and kissing the high forehead of her parent; "alas! I forget nothing;" she paused a moment, and, pressing her cheek close to his, added, in a broken voice, "but we cannot starve, my father."

The rector startled, turned round in his seat, and looked almost with an air of affright on his child.

"It is now four months since our last guinea was paid to the good friends who have given us a homethey strive to conceal it, but we are becoming a burden to them."

"You are right, my child," said the rector, falling helplessly into his chair; "we may become burdensome, and is there no money left, my child?"

"Alas! the few pounds we had on leaving the sonage are expended long ago," replied the young girl.

"And we are in debt!"

'Yes, father, in debt!-I had not mentioned this else. I have earned a little by my needle-work, and if we could move to a larger place, where purchasers were more plenty, I might perhaps do better."

"No, child-no, I have been to blame. To-morrow I will set forth and see what can be done; I had powerful friends once. We must go up to London again; some of them may remember me yet-we will not ask for much; a humble living worth fifty or sixty pounds per year. We could live very snugly on that, Clara, and find something for the poor besides. I should not have rested inactive so long. But it was hard to think of leaving the bed yonder where your mother lies-the old church."

The poor clergyman sat down again, for the thoughts of leaving that beloved spot almost overcame his newly aroused energies.

"Don't mind me,” he said, turning his head aside as Clara bent tenderly over him, for she knew how keenly he must suffer at the thoughts of going forth from his beloved parish. "Don't fear that I shall give way again. I will start for London to-morrow; but leave me alone now-alone with her," he added, pointing to the little grave-yard behind the church." The young girl still hesitated.

Clara sprung forward and looked eagerly at the first carriage. It contained three persons, two gentlemen and a lady. The last, a woman of commanding and brilliant beauty, who bent forward as she drove by, gave a quick glance through the open lattice where the rector and his daughter were sitting, and thus, except for one instant, concealed her traveling companions completely from view.

"It is she. It is the Lady Jane-and the earl, and, and-no, no, I am dreaming, father. It was not him. Did you see, father-did you see? No, no, how foolish I am!" And, covering her face with both hands, Clara withdrew behind her father's chair, and strove to conceal the agitation that had set her slight form trembling from head to foot.

The rector half arose, passed his arm around Clara's waist, and, drawing her gently forward, kissed her forehead.

"There, darling, there. He will come, or if not, Clara, you have your father, and he loves you so much-oh, you cannot guess how much. But his heart aches so over this pale cheek, these eyes so ready to brim with tears."

"I will try, oh, I will try so earnestly to think of nothing but you, my dear, kind, good father," said Clara, winding her arms about his neck, and smiling through her tears as she bent her head back and looked into his face.

"Bless you, child-bless you, we shall be happy yet. Come, come, now that your bonnet is on we will walk out a little-come."

The father and daughter went forth together. They

"Your mother's pearls, the bracelet which was on her arm when we were married?"

had no thought which she did not give freely to her

which was not blended with his child. She was a portion of his own heart. She was in his prayers, in his dreams. She was the memory of his bride, hovering about him in renewed youth. She was all that he had to love on earth, and, though he looked upon all mankind as his brethern, that sweet girl was

CHAPTER IV.

The Earl of Horton sat alone in his library, a large and richly furnished room, which opened to one of the most beautiful glades in his broad park. He was look ing through the arched window at a little rustic church, which formed a picturesque object in the distance. Glimpses of a bright stream broke up, now and then, through the foliage that lay between the castle and that distant object. The morning was yet radiant with sun-kindled verdure, and nothing could have been more tranquilizing than the landscape without, or more luxurious than the costly objects which surrounded him within doors. But the earl was ill at ease. His steward had just left him, and, for the first time, he had become acquainted with the state of destitution into which his arbitrary exercise of power had reduced the man who had so long found his happiness in the duties of that little church which stood before him in the calm distance, an object of continual selfreproach.

While these unpleasant thoughts were passing through his mind, a door opened and his daughter entered the library.

There were few women in Eng'and who equaled the Lady Jane in that peculiar and severe style of beauty which is so well calculated to excite respect and admiration, but seldom blended with that feminine softness which is a thousand times more captivating than beauty. Always haughty and self-possessed, the high-born maiden appeared this morning more than usually arrogant-a frown lay upon her high white forehead; the dark and beautifully arched eyebrows were slightly knitted, and her lips were pressed together till they looked almost thin, and quite severe, ruby-like as their rich color always seemed. She had breakfasted in her dressing-room, and her toilet, usually so elaborate, had evidently been almost neglected, for the knots of rose-colored ribbon that fastened her muslin robe down the front were half of them untied, and her thick hair, of raven black, was fastened loosely behind with a pin of fretted gold, which, massive as it was, seemed scarcely strong enough to confine the heavy braids in their place.

Lady Jane looked hastily around the apartment as she entered, to be certain that her father was alone. Being satisfied of this, she advanced to his chair, laid her white hand on the back and addressed him.

"My lord," she said, in a voice which was rendered respectful by severe self-control alone, " my lord, it was the former rector, that Mr. Dormer, and his daughter whom we saw at the window last evening. May I ask why it is that they have not been sent from the neighborhood, as I was led to expect, months ago?"

The earl looked up, and his voice was rendered stern by thoughts of the wrong he had done, which still lay heavily on his mind.

"I know it was Dormer and his child, and I also know that they have been unkindly dealt with, and

extent of my power; what would you have more?"

"I would have them sent hence at once," said the lady hastily. "Nothing would have tempted me to come to the castle had I known of their presence here."

The earl looked upon his daughter as she spoke, with evident surprise.

"Why, Jane," he said, at length, "what folly is this? You are not used to indulge petty dislikes to this extent. What possible motive can you have in this sudden desire to persecute a good, harmless man like Dormer, and his still more helpless child?"

Lady Jane hesitated an instant, and then drawing a chair close by the earl, sat down.

"Your lordship will understand me," she said, "when I tell you that Lord Seymour saw the girl in London, more than a year since, and was so struck by her appearance that it was months before the impression wore off. Even now he sometimes inquires about her, and I doubt very much if his principal inducement to accompany us here was not a hope of meeting the rustic beauty once more."

"Indeed," muttered the earl, "indeed!"

"Your lordship can judge how important the absence of these persons has become," said Lady Jane calmly. "With Lord Seymour's unaccountable carelessness of position he may be led into some folly which will destroy all hopes of the alliance which your lordship has seemed to desire so much."

"But what can I do?" exclaimed the earl." "I have deprived poor Dormer of his living, but have no power to force him from the place."

"Is not the farmer with whom he stays a tenant on the estate?" inquired Lady Jane. "Has your steward no power to deprive him of his lease if he persists in giving a home to these people?"

The earl shook his head. "This seems too much like persecution, for my taste," he replied. "Nay, Jane, what necessity is there for this? Surely birth and beauty such as yours need fear no rivalry from a simple rosy-cheeked village girl like that?"

"But this same beauty and birth has failed to draw forth a proposal from Seymour, and now, when he is committed as it were, when he is to be domesticated with us for weeks-when-"

The Lady Jane was interrupted by a servant who informed her that a young girl from the village was desirous of a moment's conversation."

"Take her up to my dressing-room and let her wait," said the lady.

"No, let her come up here at once, I am going to the stables," said the earl, anxious to break off the conversation.

"You can show her up here as his lordship desires," and with a slight wave of her fair hand Lady Jane dismissed the servant-then turning to her father she said

"You will think of this, my lord?"

"Yes, yes-but where is Seymour? I must take him to the stables with me," and with this abrupt reply the earl went out.

A few moments after, a young girl entered the