upon them, and acknowledged how deep and bitter had been the trial of thinking that she ought to leave them; but now, she would no longer" add sorrow to sorrow," but do as their dear mother had told her-"look forward with hope to being permitted even to be of some use to them." This being settled so satisfactorily, they left her to repose after so much agitation, and returned to Ernest and Frederick, to consult on the next important point,-where they were to go? But this was soon decided: Mrs. Rivers told them she intended remaining where they were there they were known, and beloved, and respected. Poverty was not in itself either a disgrace or degradation; it could not deprive her children of the honour reflected from their father's name and character; it could not deprive them of the advantages of their birth or rank in society; their father's friends would still be their friends; they would continue to have the advantage of mixing with those who were the most estimable in the so

ciety of the place-the "excellent of the earth;" those who honoured God by their lives and conversation, and those also who were eminent for their literary and scientific attainments; while those acquaintances they could not be called friends-who had visited them merely because they lived at the Grange, and kept their carriage, and gave dinners, and lived (as they expressed it)" in good style," should they now abandon them,-could not be deemed worthy of even a moment's regret.

To leave the place, and go where they were unknown, would be at once to sink them in the scale of society in which God had placed them, and deprive them of the advantages of that society to which their father's character entitled them. Had the loss of their fortune been occasioned by anything which could cast even a reproach upon his name, Mrs. Rivers would have felt it a duty to leave the place, and not have subjected his children

"To the blush of shame, that crimsons at a father's name."

But when that name reflected upon them only honour and praise, how could she deprive them, by removing them away from that spot where he was best known and valued, of an inheritance infinitely more noble, more valuable, than that of "great riches." *

The only remaining subject to be discussed was, "What was to be done about John Duff?" He was an old soldier, who had lived with Major Rivers since the time he first had joined the army-a period of thirty years. He had followed his master in every scene of danger-had nursed him during the long sufferings which had followed his wound at Waterloo. He had himself been wounded, and was now too old to seek another service; and, though he had in the savings' bank a sum which would provide a maintenance for his old age, he was still too hale and active to wish to "eat the bread of idleness," or even to seek for quiet and repose. Yet it would be impossible to retain his services, * Proverbs xxii. 1; and Proverbs xvii. 6.

unless they could dispense altogether with a nursemaid, and keep one maid-servant only. This subject, therefore, still remained undecided, and would be influenced much by the wishes of poor John himself, when informed of their present circumstances. The following day, it was determined, should be devoted to seeking a residence; and when that was settled, the servants must be discharged.

CHAPTER III.

From darkness here, and dreariness,
We ask not full repose,

Only be Thou at hand to bless

Our trial hour of woes.

Christian Year.

THE morning was lovely. The month of May-clothed with all the beauty in which poets have generally delineated it, but which, in our uncertain climate, more frequently deserves the reproach of

"Winter lingering in the lap of May,"

had just commenced.

The gardens of the

Grange were rich in luxuriance of blossoms of every varied hue. Every shade of green refreshed the eye-the lilacs, among which