"Dear Doctor, have you seen papa?"

The Rector started, hastily brushed the moisture from his eye, and took the little girl's hand in silence. The beauty of the child did not tend to restore his equanimity. He thought he had never seen her look so lovely; there was a depth of tenderness in the eyes— "Each about to have a tear,"

a melancholy sweetness in the faint smile which lingered about the mouth, which added beauty of expression to mere beauty of feature. Dr. Leicester sighed heavily, and his first words were,

"No man can be wretched with such a child! Florence, you will comfort your father."

"I will," she cried, and the eyes brimmed over. She looked up timidly into the Doctor's face,-" Must we leave home? must we lose everything? I cannot part with my pony and my flowers."

"Florence, listen to me. At the call of honour your father gives up everything; he resigns house, lands, and all that makes life desirable. Will you murmur when he is cheerful? will you refuse to part with a pony, with your dolls"

"I do not care about dolls!" she cried, indignantly. "But you love your pony: do you not love your father also?"

"Then you will make the sacrifice, not only readily, but cheerfully, for his sake. Do not add one pang to your father's bitter trial by indulging in selfish regrets. Young as you are, you can soften his sorrow or add tenfold to it. Do you understand me?"

Florence faltered "Yes;" then, fearing to trust herself to more, she broke from the Doctor, and left sue the train of thought she had interrupted.

CHAPTER III.

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,

With old achievement charms the wildered sight;
And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest,
On the dim window glows the pictured crest.
The screen unfolds its many-coloured chart,
The clock still points its moral to the heart.
Those muskets, cased with venerable rust;

Those once-loved forms, still breathing thro' their dust,—
Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life, all whisper of the past!

Ye household deities! whose guardian eye
Marked each pure thought, ere registered on high;
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
And breathe the soul of inspiration round.

Pleasures of Memory.

THE last day was waning to a close; on the morrow Mr. Dudley and his daughter would take a long farewell of their happy home.

Father and daughter, utterly worn out by the painful scenes and conflicting emotions of the day, were seated in the library.

In a few manly words Mr. Dudley had taken leave of his tenants and dismissed his household. Tears of unaffected sorrow had been shed on both sides; but they had parted. One only, with a fidelity by no means uncommon in her class, had refused to abandon the fallen fortunes of her master. This was Mary, the nurse of Florence, and the favourite attendant of her

mother. With or without wages, she would follow her nursling; her entreaties, backed by the prayers and tears of Florence, wrung from Mr. Dudley a reluctant assent that she should share their future home. Another painful feature in this "day of bitterness," was the surrender on the part of Mr. Dudley of all his household gods to the agent who had formally taken posses

sion of the manor-house.

Everything was prepared for that great social evil— an auction.

It is painful to visit the desecrated hearth of a stranger; but when the shrine which has sheltered the dearest objects of our love is thrown open to the vulgar gaze-and what scene of traffic possesses greater attractions for the hard-hearted and the worldly than an auction? - the trial is hard to bear. A history is attached to every object; the inanimate furniture claims a large portion of our regard.

Mr. Dudley dwelt with sorrow of heart upon the happy hours which he and his beautiful bride had devoted to the improvement of the decayed mansion. He recalled with melancholy pertinacity each alteration her elegant taste had dictated; the childish glee with which they had received package after package of costly furniture and articles of virtù, which the generosity of Mr. Dudley, senior, had supplied. One room excited feelings of unconquerable bitterness; this room was Mary's boudoir.

When the Dudleys arrived at the Wilderness, shortly after their marriage, they found the apartment in question in a peculiarly dilapidated state. It had been used by the last occupant as a receptacle for fishing-tackle, guns, and all the miscellaneous litter of a sportsman. The windows, however, commanded a very beautiful view over the park and woods. Mrs. Dudley, who had an eye for natural beauty, declared at once that this desolate room should be hers, par excellence. Her husband readily assented, upon condition that she would not a second time cross the threshold until he

released her from her promise. With some demur the fair bride gave her word and kept it. Verily, she had

her reward!

On the anniversary of their wedding-day, Herbert Dudley introduced his bride to the coveted apartment. Mary uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight as she paused in the door-way. Once more she was transported to the sunny south she loved so well. She saw before her the fac-simile of a boudoir which had repeatedly excited her admiration, if not her envy, at Florence. The walls and ceiling were covered with those delicate frescoes so well befitting a lady's chamber. Wreaths of roses mingled with clusters of the purple grape and numerous parasitical plants, converted the hitherto sombre walls into a summer-bower. Hangings of pale sea-green satin festooned around the doors and windows, toned down this brilliant colouring. The floor was inlaid with various-coloured woods, the whole forming an elegant design.

Couches of pale green satin, tables in pietre dure, a few choice prints after the chefs d'œuvre of the Florentine galleries, the works of the Italian poets, and two vast circular baskets filled with the sweetest and most brilliant flowers Covent-garden could supply, completed the tout ensemble.

Mary could not express her gratitude in words, but tears of unspeakable delight filled her eyes.

""Twas bliss but to a certain point;

Beyond, 'twas agony."

Childish as our lovers must appear in the eyes of all sober persons, that moment was one of the happiest in their lives.

It is not too much to affirm that one of the bitterest pangs Mr. Dudley suffered in his change of fortune was associated with Mary's boudoir. The well-turned periods, the high-flown encomiums lavished upon this charming apartment (worthy to enshrine a Peri, or serve as a bower to the Graces), in the public papers, drew tears from the proud man's eyes.

In truth, Herbert Dudley was a sorry philosopher! Shame on the faint heart which recoils from visionary evil!

Up to the present time everything in Mary's boudoir remained as she had left it. The book she had been reading, the page marked by a myrtle-leaf, lay upon the sofa-table; the unfinished embroidery filled the frame; the baskets were constantly replenished with flowers. The sole addition to the treasures contained in this fairy bower was an exquisite portrait of Mrs. Dudley; it was screened from the vulgar gaze by a rich curtain of crimson satin. A finely carved scroll bore the following verse, in letters of gold :

"For there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore! "'*

The happiest hour in our little heroine's daily life was that devoted to a visit to "Mamma's room". -a visit which no pressure of business or pleasure was suffered to set aside. Dearly as her father loved her, she was never so dear to him as when he watched her, an “airy, fairy" thing, flitting about her mother's room, or arranging the flowers in the quaint old baskets. No thought of sorrow in connection with her mother saddened the little girl's heart. A bright vision, a phantom of delight, an invisible presence gladdened while it awed her.

Mr. Dudley's last weeks at the Wilderness were harassed by the constant demands of strangers to see the house-demands which were never refused, however thoughtlessly or uncourteously they might be urged.

In the afternoon of the very last day a young fellow, of family and fortune, had persisted in an application to see the place, and had not been satisfied until he had succeeded in ransacking every hole and corner; Mary's room did not escape. Mr. Dudley, not aware of the

*Rev. Charles Wolfe.