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The outer door gently opened, and he whose presence had in former years brought peace and resignation hither in the hour of trial now stood before them. On the night before the Sabbath, the minister of Auchindown never left his manse, except as now, to visit the sick or dying bed. Scarcely could Gilbert reply to his first question about the child, when the surgeon came from the bedroom and said, "Margaret seems lifted up by God's hand above death and the grave I think she will recover. She has fallen asleep;

and when she wakes, I hope-I believe that the danger will be past, and that your child will live."

They were all prepared for death; but unprepared for life. One wept that had till then locked up all her tears in her heart; another gave a short palpitating shriek; and the tender-hearted Isabel, who had nursed the child when it was a baby, fainted away. The clock, for some days, had been prevented from striking the hours; but the silent fingers pointed to the hour of nine; and that, in the cottage of Gilbert Ainslie, was the stated hour of family worship. A chapter was read, a prayer said, and a psalm sung with low and suppressed voices.

The child still slept, and its sleep seemed sound and deep. It appeared almost certain that the flower was not to fade. "Children," said Gilbert, "our happiness is in the love we bear to one another; and our duty is in submitting to and serving God."

There was silence, gladness, and sorrow, and but little sleep in their house between the rising and the setting of the stars, that were now out in thousands, clear, bright, and sparkling over the unclouded sky. When at early dawn little Margaret awoke, an altered creature, pale and languid indeed, but with meaning in her eyes, memory in her mind, affection in her heart, and coolness in her veins a happy group were watching the first faint smile that broke over her features; and never did one who stood there forget that Sabbath morning on which she seemed to look round upon

them all with a gaze of fair and sweet bewilderment, like one half conscious of having been rescued from the power

of the grave.

'Delirious phantasies.-Such odd fancies and imaginary sights as occur to the mind in a state of delirium, or lightheadedness.

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Unwittingly.-Unknowingly.

3 Manse.-A Scotch minister's house. Palpitating shriek.-A sharp, short cry, breaking out again and again.

MRS. MALAPROP.

[Richard SherIDAN, born at Dublin, 1751; died in London, 1816. Some of his dramatic works are still very popular, particularly The Rivals, School for Scandal, and the Critic. The following is extracted from The Rivals.]

TO THE TEACHER: Mrs. Malaprop's mistakes are printed in italics, and the correction of them will form a good exercise for the pupils.

Mrs. Malaprop. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family, and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling.

Lydia. Madam, I thought you once

Mrs. Mal. You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think at all,-thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow-to illiterate him, I say, quite from your memory.

Lyd. Ah, madam! our memories are quite independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget.

Mrs. Mal. But I say it is, miss; there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never existed-and I thought it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman.

Sir Anthony. Why, sure she won't pretend to remember what she's ordered not! Ay, this comes of her reading. Lyd. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus?

Mrs. Mal. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise to do as you're bid? Will you take a husband of your friends' choosing?

Lyd. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.

Mrs. Mal. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They don't become a young woman; and you ought to know that, as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor—and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I made!—and when it pleased Heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed! But suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley?

Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would as certainly as far belie my words.

Mrs. Mal. Take yourself to your room. You are fit company for nothing but your own ill humours.

Lyd. Willingly, ma'am; I cannot change for the worse.

[Exit.

Mrs. Mal. There's a little intricate hussy for you! Sir. Anth. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am: all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, I would as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet !

Mrs. Mal. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony; you are an absolute misanthropy.

Sir Anth. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library. She had a book in each hand. They were half-bound volumes, with marble covers. From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!

Mrs. Mal. Those are vile places indeed.

Sir Anth. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge. It blossoms through the year! And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves will long for the fruit at last.

Mrs. Mal. Fy, fy, Sir Anthony; you surely speak laconically.

Sir Anth.

Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation now, what would you have a woman know?

Mrs. Mal. Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning ; I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman: for instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or such inflammatory branches of learning. But, Sir Anthony, I would send her at nine years old to a boarding school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; but above all, Sir Anthony, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not misspell and mispronounce words so shamefully as girls usually do and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she is saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.

:

Sir Anth. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with you. But to the more important point in debate: you say you have no objection to my proposal?

Mrs. Mal. None, I assure you. I will prepare Lydia to receive your son's invocations; and I hope you will represent her to your son as an object not altogether illegible.

Sir Anth. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter

roundly to the girl. Take my advice-keep a tight hand; if she rejects the proposal, clap her under lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come round.

Mrs. Mal. You are not ignorant, I conceive, that this giddy girl has somehow contrived to fix her affections on a beggarly, strolling, eavesdropping ensign, whom nobody has seen and none of us know anything about.

Sir Anth. I have heard of this silly affair before. It must indeed be very distressing to you.

Mrs. Mal. Oh! it gives me the hydrostatics to such a degree! I thought she had persisted from corresponding with him; but behold, this very day, I have interceded another letter from the fellow.

Sir Anth. If only the girl will do as she is bid, let us bury the past in oblivion.

Mrs. Mal. Well, Sir Anthony, since you desire it, we will not anticipate the past; our retrospection shall be all to the future.

Illiterate for obliterate, to blot out. Extirpate for exculpate, to clear from blame [L. ex, out, culpa, fault]. Controvertible for incontrovertible, not able to be controverted or proved false.

Intricate for intriguing, carrying on secret correspondence.

Laconically for ironically,-that is, saying one thing and meaning the opposite.

Progeny for prodigy, something extraordinary.

Inflammatory.-It is hard to discover what Mrs. Malaprop meant to say. Supercilious for superficial, on the surface, not deep.

Geometry for geography.

Contagious for contiguous, adjacent.

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