drooped, faded, and, in less than six years after their mother's funeral, five coffins, all of different lengths, were placed within the vault with hers.

It was a sunny day in June; the windows of a spacious drawing-room in the chief hotel at Dover were open, yet the rays of the " god of day" were carefully excluded by closely drawn blinds ;-a lady reclined upon a sofa, and her daughter, seated by her side, was reading to her from an open volume that rested on her knees; two mulatto women were arranging various packages; and it was evident that the party had recently landed from an Indiaman, which, from the windows of the room, was distinctly visible. The mother was dressed in widow's weeds, the daughter in slight mourning.

"I am tired of that book," exclaimed the elder lady; "do find something to amuse me, Minna."

"Births, deaths, and marriages," exclained the young lady, smiling, and taking up a paper. She read, first the births, then the marriages, then the deaths: the last on the dark list was as follows:

"Died, on the morning of the 7th, at Mordaunt-hall, Edwin, last surviving child of the Honourable Charles Leopold Danforth Mordaunt, to the inexpressible anguish of his father, who has followed his amiable and accomplished wife and five sons, to the grave within six years." A shriek from one of the Ayahs told the young lady that her mother had fainted.

Mrs. Browdon was the widow of an old general officer of the Bengal establishment, who had taken it into his head to marry when most men think of death and soon after his final departure from drill and dinners, the physicians abroad sent his widow to Europe, to recover her health, which they said her native air would restore. She did not believe them.

About three hours after Mrs. Browdon had fainted, her daughter was sitting on the same spot, alone with her mother. She was deadly pale, and the tresses of her silken hair clung to cheeks which were soaked with

"You know all now, Minna," said Mrs. Browdon, "you know all now; yet you have not cursed me!"

Minna flung herself on her knees by her mother's couch, and pressed her weak and fading form to her bosom.

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I have told you all-all-how I was deceived,-how I fled my home,-how you, my child, were born,—how true a friend I found,-how she protected me, how I met General Browdon, who, believing me a widow offered me his hand, how I risked all, and told him TRUTH;—but the old man loved me still; he called me weak, not wicked, he pitied, and forgave ;—but, Minna, your mother could not forgive herself; your sweetest smiles were ever my reproaches,-silent, unmeant, yet still reproachful, And now-that you know all-you do not curse me, Minna! Can you, can you forgive me?" My dearest mother, you know I do; you know I have ever, ever will bless you, and the kind old general :— he was not my father? then tell me of my fatber,—my real, real father," said the lovely girl.

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"Minna, he is sonless," replied her mother; what you read, was his record."

"Dear mother, then," exclaimed her daughter, all woman's feelings rallying round her heart," dearest mother, cannot you, too, pity and forgive?"

"Forgive, as I was myself forgiven," said Mrs. Brow"I can-I can-I do forgive, and from my soul I

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don.
pity him."

Alas! why should so sweet a face as Minna's be linked to so sad a tale? it is like wreathing a garland of cypress round a moss-rose! and yet the story must be told :-it has already recorded many deaths; it must note another.

Mrs. Browdon's presentiment on leaving India was too fatally fulfilled; the doctor's prophecies proved false; the breezes of its native country could not renovate a plant which had blossomed and faded under the fervid excitement of the East: she felt that her very hours were numbered, and she immediately wrote, recommending her child to the protection of a father!

--

"Had I found," she wrote, "on my return to England, that you were encircled by blessings, you should have

remained ignorant of the existence of your daughter; but, knowing your bereavements, it would be ill of me to take from you the only child the Almighty has spared you."

"You are so like what I was at your age, my child," she said, as she placed the letter in Minna's hands, "that if Mordaunt could but see you in the dress he first saw me, at the foot of the church hill, resting against the stile which divides Mordaunt-park from Woodbine-hollow, it would hardly need this letter to tell him who you are.

"We cherish first affections with a tenderness and care which the interests and feelings of after-life look for in vain. I have received homage, such as is never paid to our sex in England; my robes have been sewn with pearl; and you will find, Minna, treasures of gold, silver, and brocades, such as are seldom seen, within those cases; yet, yonder, in that small green trunk, is the remnant of something that I loved, when I was happiest."

At her mother's desire, Minna brought the box; her thin, trembling fingers undid the fastening; there were no brocades, no gold, no jewels! it contained nothing, save the straw cottage-hat and dress of an English peasant girl. Minna looked into her mother's eyes,-she dreaded that she raved, but those beautiful eyes were mild and calm, and full of tears.

When first

"Beneath," she continued, "is a basket. I met him, that basket hung upon my arm, filled with a tribute from our humble homestead, which it was my duty to carry to his mother. I remember, on my return, his filling that basket, Minna, with roses,-ay, roses! !but not roses without thorns. Those were my robes of innocence! I scorned them afterwards, and wore others, which I then called fine: these were discarded; but in my affliction I remembered them, and brought them with me; a feeling of mingled pain and pleasure urged me to do so. I thought they would recall my innocence; but, no! that could not be: I am sure they stimulated me to after good; and perhaps their coarseness kept me humble,—at least they have caused me many tears; and tears, my child, soften and fertilize the heart: we learn of tears what we cast off with smiles!"

Poor lady! she died that night; not, however, without further converse with her daughter.

Minna in a little time repaired to her mother's native village; she learned that her father had grown more morose than ever; that he shunned all society.

"I have never seen him smile," said the old landlord of the inn.

"But I have seen him weep," said the still older landlady, and that last Sunday, at the stile called Beauty's Ladder,' where, long ago, he often met poor Minny Graham: he goes there every Sunday, when he ought to be at church."

"And so ought you, dame, not spying after your landlord; at any rate, you should be wise enough to keep your news to yourself. What gentleman, think you, likes to be seen crying?"

"Better, I guess," replied the dame, "to be ashamed of the sin, than ashamed of the tears: I am sure I did not think there was a tear in him till I saw it."

The next Sunday," the strange young lady," as Minna was called by the villagers, was not at church. Need I where she was?

say

The lonely

Mordaunt was proud of his daughter. place in his heart was filled; he had something to love,— something belonging to himself: he felt his youth renewed while looking on the image of what, in his youth, he had once, though for a little time, really loved.

A SCENE IN THE LIFE OF NOURMAHAL.

BY L. E. L.

It was a large lonely looking hall, with nothing in it that marked the usual splendor of the East. There were no carpets, and the mats were formed of the scented grass, one of those common luxuries which summer bestows on all. The frescos on the walls were dimmed by time, and the golden letters of the sentences from the Koran were rough and dull. Still, there was much of cheerfulness, nay, of grace, in that desolate apartment. The silvery fall of the fountain mingled with youthful voices, and its spray fell like pearl on the lilies below. The slaves seated around were gorgeously apparelled; and the scarfs that they were working were scarcely less fresh than those that they wore. Seated a little apart from the rest, but equally busy with themselves, was a lady, employed in tracing some rich arabesques upon delicate china. She was very young; but there was that in the compressed lip and curved brow which spoke experience, experience which can teach so much, and in so little time. She worked like one whose mind compels itself to the task, but whose heart is not in it. A deeper darkness filled the large and dreaming eyes; and more than once a slight start, and then a yet more rapid progress of the pencil, told that there were thoughts which had mastered for a moment, only to be put resolutely aside. But, as the colours became shadows, and the rapid twilight merged in sudden night, and the slaves eagerly sought the garden for their hour's accustomed relaxation, the proud and lonely beauty gave way to her reverie. A softness for an instant unbent the set and stately brow, and her small fingers woke, low and indistinct, a few