on Caroline's principle and right feeling, she was sorry to think how much vexation and worrying was in store for her. As she sat disregarded and forgotten through that long dark drive, hearing all the eager gratulations and anticipations of her three companions, regarding a marriage which she could not think of without a sort of horror, how did she despise them, feel imprisoned, and long to make her escape. She had not the least doubt as to what Caroline would do; her rejection of such a man was a matter of certainty; but Marian was vexed with her for having allowed herself to become so intimate with the Faulkners, and thought she had brought on herself all the annoyances that would follow. Tired, irritated, excited, Marian was very glad to escape from the carriage, wish the rest good night, and run up to her own room. She sat before her glass, slowly brushing out her long dark hair, and trying to bring home her feverish thoughts, and dwell on what had passed, especially with Edmund, on whom she had not yet had time to think, and of all those hints of his, as to her behaviour in this matter. Had he approved it or not? or would he if he had known all the circumstances? There was something that struck her a good deal in his saying "I cannot judge of the amount of sacrifice." Had it been a sacrifice to wear a plain dress, to abstain from archery? It would have been to Clara, but was it to her, and as she looked at the two grey volumes, with their store of pretty engravings and pleasant reading which lay on her table, and thought that they were her own for life, and that Anne Clifford's dress would now be laid aside and useless for ever after, the archery prize, if she had won it, would be worthless, and the admiration, had she valued it, passed from her ears, she could not feel, for one instant, that it had been a sacrifice. Then again came his words, "everything in this world is nonsense, except as a means of doing right or wrong." Yes, pretty books, pleasant pictures, taste and intellect were in them. selves as little precious as dress and finery, things as fleeting when compared with eternity, except so far as they trained the soul and the higher faculties which might endure for ever. She thought of "Whether there be prophecies, they shall fail, whether there be tongues, they shall cease, whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away." All was a shadow except that charity which never faileth, a beautiful picture, even as a costly dress! the way we treat these things alone enduring. Her head throbbed as she tried to be certain as to whether she had acted right. If the dress had required the money set apart for the poor she would have been perfectly clear about it, but she knew it need not have done So. Would her vanity have been gratified? Decidedly not—admiration of her face was so distasteful to her proud shrinking bashfulness, that she felt it like an insult when reported to her, and could almost have wished not to be so handsome, if it had not been more agreeable to an artist-like eye to see a tolerable physiognomy in the glass, when obliged to look there, and besides she would not but be like the Arundels, and was well satisfied with the consciousness of having their features, as indeed she would have been if their noses had been turned up and their foreheads "villainous low." If her vanity was gratified, it was by standing apart from, and being able to look down on the rest of the world; and as Marian became conscious of this, her mind turned from it with the vexation of spirit, the disgust and sensation of dislike, and willingness to forget all about it that every one is apt to feel with regard to a vanity past away-something analogous to the contempt and dislike with which we turn from the withered shreds of tangible vanity, faded and crumpled artificial flowers, and tumbled gauze ribbon when disinterred from some dusty and forgotten corner. No feeling is much more unpleasant than the loathing of an old vanity; and though this of Marian's was not yet old, yet that touch of Edmund's, which had shown her how he regarded her "high-and-mightiness," had made her very much ashamed of it. Then came the question whether it was, after all, self-will that had actuated her, pride and self-will, leading her contrary to every one's wishes where she was not sure that she was fulfilling a duty. Again, on the other hand, there was this point about the Faulkner family, her dislike of them was founded on principle; indeed it was not dislike, for she allowed their agreeableness of manner, it was disapproval; it was determination not to enter into anything approaching to intimate acquaintance with a man whom she believed to be little better than an infidel. If Edmund knew this would not he think her right? But then to be consistent, she should not have accepted his hospitality in any degree; she ought not to have gone to the ball, or to have ever dined at his house. How far was she called on to set her face against him, how far was she independent, how far was obedience to the Lyddells a duty? This must be for a question for Edmund another time, and she hoped that Caroline's refusal would put an end to the intercourse. Nor were these all her reflections. She thought of Edmund and his kindness to Gerald, and the hopes, nay the confidence which it revived in her, setting her mind fully at rest about her precious brother, for in spite of Edmund's despondency she could not help trusting entirely to the renewal of his influence; for who was like Edmund? Who so entirely treated as well as spoke of the world as nothing except as a means of doing right or wrong? But then that he should be out of spirits, as she had more plainly than ever perceived to-night, in spite of the gaiety he had at first assumed, his manner of replying when she pressed him to go to Fern Torr, and his absolute avoidance of it, struck and puzzled her much as well as grieved her. She knew his loneli ness, and could understand that he might be melancholy, but why he should shrink from the home he so loved was beyond what she could fathom. She knew Clara would laugh at her for his having come so many miles on her account. Yes, quite sure that it was nonsense. Edmund had talked of coming to see her, so openly, he had laughed at and scolded her so uncompromisingly, that she had no doubt that he had not the least inclination to fall in love with her. She had the best of elder brothers in him, and he would take care of Gerald, and, happy in her confidence, she fell asleep. *The clematis is called "the traveller's joy" as well as "virgin's bower." VOL. IX. Ꮓ “O YE winds of God! bless ye the LORD! Praise Him, and magnify Him for ever!" Thus sang the sweet voices of a Church choir, calling, with a burst of gleesome melody, on creation, animate and inanimate, to "praise the LORD." Years have passed away since that glorious canticle first sounded on my ears. I have heard many a glorious anthem since then, but none have stolen from my memory those sweet sounds, those deep holy words. Now, in the stillness of evening, I hear again those jubilant tones, and feel once more that strange thrill which seems to steal the life from every other sense, and concentrate the power of all in one, and that hearing. I know a Church, a beautiful little temple, meet as devout spirits, grateful hearts, and ready purses can make a dwelling-place for the Father of spirits; boasting not of those ornaments which, having no spiritual meaning, would be out of place in the abode of symbols, yet glorying in beautiful stained windows, in a handsome chancel and altar, on the back of which are represented the cherubic figures, the lion, the eagle, the man, and the ox. On the north side the altar, separated from the chancel by a carved screen, stands an organ, which might rival, with its full, rich notes, many a far famed organ of our land. But in its little retired nook, it seems anxious rather to shun than desire popularity. How touchingly its low, plaintive strains appeal to your lover of sweet sounds! drawing the heart on which its music falls to long for that world of which we know so little, save that it is a land of song. There is a pretty stone pulpit in its place, not proudly erecting itself in front of the altar, as if it were all, and all beyond of no consequence, or as if GOD had said, My house shall be called a house of preaching, and not of prayer. If it be a Litany morning, we see the fald-stool, and beyond that the brazen lectern, and again beyond that the slightly elevated altar, with its beautiful embroidered cloth. As we look on the credence table at the holy books placed there, we learn that the Priest of this Church does not consider sheepskin good enough binding for such precious volumes, while velvet and gold is scarcely considered beautiful enough for the " annuals" on our drawing-room tables. The co The east window represents ten of the principal events recorded in the New Testament. I will not attempt to describe either the rich colouring of the glass, the artistic skill of the painter, or the judgment displayed in the grouping. I do not understand why it is so lovely; I only feel it is so. loured rays of light fall from this window on a goodly number of white robed choristers, ranged in two rows of stalls on each side the chancel. There are men in that choir whose voices, above mediocrity, it is beautiful to think are tuned alone for JEHOVAH's praise, voluntary singers in the courts of our GOD. But there are those whom it is still more lovely to see there,little children, early devoted to minister before the LORD; and surely the sacrifice of praise is no light ministration. In this guise I have seen one little child, whose broad musical brow has scarcely touched the shoulder of the little fellow standing next him,-whose little surplice has been made, I would almost answer for it, by some happy mother, or proud elder sister, with many a grateful glance to heaven that one so young should have that angelic gift bestowed upon him; and many a prayer has ascended to the Giver, as the tiny robe was placed upon the little one, that he might walk worthy his calling in CHRIST JESUS. I would think the feeling of importance was not the only or best thought that filled that little mind, as he surveyed himself for the first time in his new "robe of office." Many such thoughts have crossed my mind as I have looked on that little chorister, and marked the quiet, gentle behaviour which will bring him no sorrowful recollections in years to come. Would that all little choristers would think of this! I have seen this |