len's cold but polite invitation, and Alford's whispered entreaties to enter the mansion, rode off, vouchsafing to his fair hostess only the bow and good morning of an almost stranger.

"Helen! Helen!" said Alford, reproachfully, as he lingered a moment, "when will you learn to pity the pangs of la belle passion?”

"When will your friend learn to control his temper?" "When blessed with your hand. Let me but hint a hope, and it will be done."

He was surprised at her sad and decided tone; he would have remonstrated, but she kissed her hand in adieu, and entered the house.

ON a review of the past, Helen came to the conclusion that Mr. Dormer would make no further effort to see her, at least before the conclusion of this present visit; and we are by no means prepared to assert that the conclusion gave her pleasure so difficult is it for even strong minds to free themselves from the weakness of regretting the necessary consequences of their own acts! She grieved that the necessity for caution existed; and such is the weakness of our nature, she would probably have rejoiced had any motive, sufficiently powerful to absolve her to her own conscience, induced her to act otherwise. But no such motive was likely to arise, and the warning of her parents to beware how she allowed genius or talents to dazzle her, was present to her mind. It would

almost seem as if they had foreseen the future. Not that her affections were as yet beyond her own control, but the enchantment in his society, the void in his absence, the taunts of Catherine, and the arch looks of Alford, had all shown her that they might soon become so if she indulged in the dangerous excitement. This had induced her to speak more decidedly than she would otherwise have done; but now that she considered all friendly intercourse at an end between them, she sighed to think that it must be so; and she sighed still more deeply, to think how passion might mar and taint a noble mind.

Conclusions, though formed on reasonable grounds, are not always correct, and the next day, to Helen's great surprise, and at the first instant to her pleasure, she saw Mr. Dormer on his way to Hurlestone. She was walking in the grounds at some distance, but a glance was enough; she could not be mistaken. There was a slight struggle, a slight hesitation, and then she turned into a contrary path. He might apologize, though that was doubtful; but how could she expect him to curb his impetuosity for her, when it had remained unchecked from higher motives, and when even she had been its object more than once. She felt no displeasure towards him, but she felt distrust of herself.

It was late ere she returned to the house; for his having traversed the woods in every direction had rendered it difficult to avoid a meeting. A note from Lady Marston, about some flowers, had been the avowed motive of his visit; but Helen suspected, and suspected truly, some other object was in the back ground.

Early on the day before the pic-nic, Helen went to the village to visit the widow Watts, who, from having been a servant of her mother's, was a great favourite. A little wicket opened into a gay but very small flower-garden, before the cottage; whilst jessamine, roses, sweet-briar, and honeysuckle, covered a rustic porch and the space between the windows. The inside of the cottage was as neat as the hands of the most tidy of housewives could make it, but the dame herself sat in her arm chair, sad and sorrowful, with her spectacles lying on a large Bible, which lay open before her, tear after tear chasing each other down her pale thin cheeks.

"Good morning, dame," said Helen, in a kind winning tone, for her light step, as she passed through the open doorway, roused not the widow from her mournful thoughts.

"God bless you, Miss Helen! for all your kindness,” said

the old woman, rising and placing a chair for her visitor. "It almost makes me happy only to look upon your sweet smile."

"I am come to see if I cannot do more than smile upon you," replied our heroine, with her own sweet cheerfulness, which, bright as it was, never seemed a mockery even to the most miserable. “You were out when I called before, but you must tell me now why you weep, and how I can help you ?"

66

Oh, Miss Helen! Miss Helen! you have just got your blessed mother's own sweet look and voice, that makes one happy and yet cry too. Oh, if you would but speak to my poor James, perhaps he would mind you. It is breaking my heart, that it is, to see him sitting all day long without speaking a word, only sighing; and leaving all the garden to run to ruin; and only thinking of dying; and taking on so about poor Henry Feller."

"But you must tell me first how it all happened, for when I saw you last you were too ill to talk much."

"Yes, Miss Helen, I was very ill indeed then; but thanks to God, and the doctor, and the nice things you sent me, I am quite well now, only a little weak, or so; and if it would please God to make James smile again, I should be quite happy then. But I have been thinking, since this happened, that 'tis a sad thing for fathers and mothers not to bring their children up in the right way, and now I mind your good mother used to tell me, time after time: Ah, Mary Watts, says she, you punish the boy for doing wrong once in twenty times, and let him do wrong without saying any thing the other nineteen. If you never gave him any thing he cried for, but quietly made him do as you told him, you need never. punish at all. Then you tell him, when he is in a passion, that the beggar-man, or the chimney-sweep will have him; which he will soon learn to be a story, and then never believe you again; whereas teach him, as soon as possible, his violence will offend a just though merciful God, and you will give him a good motive for a good deed; and should he be tempted to go astray, he may return to the right path in after life.' I remember her words well; but alack-a-day! I never minded to do them; and now I feel it all as she said. be sure James is as good a lad and would not hurt a worm if he he is as furious as a mad bull. Helen, and so I'll tell all about

To

as ever was in most things, warn't in a passion, and then But I am tiring you, Miss it at once. My James and

Henry Feller was like brothers, even when they was boys, and was always together; and his mother was a widow too, and we had been in the same service once, and so we liked to let them be with one another, and we rather hoped Jane, that's Henry's sister, and my boy would take a liking to each other when they was old enough. They was always together, even when they grew up; and I never knew James in a passion with him, though Henry used to keep on joking and laughing at him by the hour at a time. But a month since James and he was at work together, along with some others, and I don't know how it was, and nobody knows-for my boy himself says he can't tell how it was-unless the evil one put it into his head, for he loved Henry all the time. But somehow or other Henry said something to vex him, and would not give over joking, and so James got in a great passion, and struck him, and Henry fell; and my boy was the first to take him up; and they carried him home, and sent for the doctor, but he only lived nine hours. And oh, Miss Helen, only to think of his having killed one like his own brother in a passion; and all, may be, because I did not teach him better in his youth, and the blood is on both our heads,—and I made him a murderer! Here tears checked the poor woman's utterance.

Helen allowed her to weep for some time without speaking, whilst she too was thinking of the fearful effects of passion, and fancy gave Dormer to her with the look and mien of a Cain, the murderer's brand upon his brow. She shuddered at the thought, then strove to recover her own composure to comfort the weeping widow. Her soothings were not tendered in vain. How could they be?

"Then the fault 's all mine, for not teaching him better, and James is not to blame. Oh, do tell him so dear, dear Miss Helen !"

"Not exactly so, Mary. At his age all have the power to subdue the passions, if they apply humbly and sincerely for strength from whence only strength can come; but your inju. dicious indulgence made the task difficult indeed. Did the young man die without forgiving him, or could not he speak?"

"Yes, he forgave him; and told every one he was sure James meant him no harm, and that his head had struck against a stone as he fell; and then he made James take hold of his mother's and sister's hands, and told him to stand in his place, and be a son and a brother to them; and my poor boy says 'tis this kindness that's killing him. Oh, Miss Helen! do pray speak to him; for you can comfort any body;

he is sitting in his favourite arbour now.

him?"

Shall I call

"No!" said Helen, the tears standing thick in her beautiful eyes," we will seek him. But why did he not go to Mr.

Norton ?"

"He said it was of no use, he knew he was too wicked to be saved; and he mopes, and sighs, and has got so weak, I am sadly afeard he will never recover. He sits all day long in that arbour that Henry and he planted, and he won't have it cut, for he says 'tis fitter for him as it is; and he won't tend to any thing, and 'tis as much as I can keep things a little tidy and he won't go out to work, for he can't bear to see any one.

They passed through the house, and entered a garden at its back, where they found the young man just as his mother had said.

"Here is Miss Helen come to see you, James.'

The wretched young man withdrew his hands from his face, and rose instantly, but evidently with the intention of avoiding the meeting, if possible, but as this could not be done without brushing rudely past Helen, who stood just before him, he was obliged to remain; for not a creature within miles of Hurlestone would have shown her disrespect. But though he still stood before her, his pale face was half turned away, and his trembling limbs plainly spoke his agitation.

'James," said Helen, in a tone which told how much she pitied him, "your flowers always look so gay and so flourishing, you must come and attend to my favourite garden at Hurlestone."

He turned round abruptly, met her look of pity, then glanced at his mother, and understood every thing at once.

"No, no! Miss Helen," he said, in a wild and melancholy tone, "it cannot be-I see my mother has been speaking to you, and I thank you for your kindness, but I could not do a day's work now, even if I would; and I could not bear to be with others, for their looks would tell me, more than I know already, what a wicked creature I am. No, no, no! I can do nothing but lie down at his feet to die;" and he turned away as though the sight of a fellow-creature was hateful to him. Helen's tears fell as fast as the mother's, but she was not thus to be turned from her kind purpose.

"It is right and natural you should grieve; but not as one without hope. I will not say your guilt was light, even though the deed was done in passion, not malice, and sorrowed for instantly, as that very passion was a crime; but where is the