heart seemed full of joy, and thankfulness; but the suddenly assumed stern look with which Ella repelled these glances, chilled her heart, and arrested the impulse before it found utterance in words.

Each time, too, that Alice seemed to be in danger of committing herself by an outburst of feeling, Ella turned her attention into other channels, and some of them were so new in her experience, and all were so pleasant in themselves, that her thankfulness was easily set aside until a more convenient season. The time being was the time for wreaths, and veils, and snowy drapery; the future would do just as well for gratitude. So Alice sat down in her little chamber, and Ella placed experimentally upon her brow the wreath she was to wear on the morrow. It contrasted strikingly with the rich tresses of her jet black hair. And Ella helped her to fit on the graceful dress, to arrange her veil, and, altogether, to make sure that everything was right, and ready for the occasion. There seemed to be no flaw in any single article. A messenger came late that night to announce that the gentleman had arrived. Ella was glad of that, for she had felt no certainty whatever that he could be depended upon; and she retired to rest at a late hour, after having silently but fervently implored the blessing of heaven upon the transactions of the following day.

It was the last time, and Ella felt it deeply—the last time she would ever sleep with that adopted child beaneath her roof. In what respect, beyond the mere act of giving her clothing, food, and shelter, had she been a mother to this child? Or how had she prepared her for the realities of life upon which she was now, indeed, about to enter! Ah! these were sad and solemn the ughts, for the time was past now for her to correct what had been done amiss, to repair what had been neglected.

And what, she asked herself, in these silent meditations what had stood in the way of her duty to this girl? Not want of love-nothing but indolence, and vain idolatry of self, as

supreme above all other considerations-nothing but that slothful, sluggish, and disgusting absorption in self, which had so long blinded her eyes to every other object, so that nothing, and especially no duty, had ever been seen in its true light. But if in this case, the time had gone by for redeeming the past, was it so in all others? Was there not still a future to be looked into? She was not old. She might have many years to live-too many she thought, for any good which it was possible for them to bring to her. Ah! here was the old self again-self calculating its own good, and shrinking from a future, in which it was to gain nothing.

But the morning came with all that sweet, soft, calm of autumnal beauty which distinguishes the loveliest days of the departing year. All was so still, too, as if waiting for the merry bells to ring out, or, as if nature herself were listening to the joyous beating of expectant hearts. Ella's heart beat loudly enough, but not joyously. Her only comfort was, that time would not wait that the day would be got over in some way or other. She had no guests invited; the marriage was to be strictly private, and the happy couple were to set out immediately after the ceremony. A carriage would be in waiting for them at the door of the church, and Ella's great duty would be discharged when she had seen them enter it. For this quiet and unostentatious manner of conducting the marriage, there was a sufficient excuse in the state of the family at the rectory, for Mr. Stanley's health had failed so rapidly, that his life was scarcely expected to continue through the day; and a general gloom seemed to overspread the village and neighbourhood, where he had endeared himself to many beyond the circle of his nearest friends, and where the circumstances of a large and interesting young family about to be deprived of the best and kindest care of an excellent father, were of themselves sufficient to produce an amount of sympathy, which had little in unison with the common rejoicings attendant upon a marriage festival.

It is a happy circumstance, that to some sensitive minds the

greatest and most trying events of life seem to pass only like a flash of lightning-a convulsion of nature, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption. In the tumult and the chaos of such moments nothing seems clear-no single sensation is felt distinctly and by itself.

It was thus with Ella on the occasion of the marriage in which she had to act so strange a part. The whole scene was like some flitting pageant. Familiar objects passed before her eyes, well known forms and faces pressed around her. She heard the rustling of their garments, she felt the touch of their hands, their very breathing was so near that it fanned her face -his breathing too; but it did not cool her cheek, which glowed, and glowed, as if with some internal fire and people said she looked so well; they thought they had never seen her look so beautiful, and altogether so well, before.

"It will soon be over," said Ella to herself, as she stood amongst the throng, "If only it can be got through without a scene, I shall do very well." So she listened attentively to the solemn words of the clergyman, but knew all the time no more of what he was saying, than if he had spoken in some language never heard before. In fact, all her senses seemed to have failed her. She neither heard, nor saw; only, when the ceremony at last was over, she perceived that it was so. She perceived, too, that Alice, with tearful eyes, and outstretched arms, was turning towards her as a child would turn to her mother. Ella did not repel that natural overflow of feeling further than slightly to unclasp the arms that clung around her. This, however, she did in a way that none of the standersby could detect. There was another hand stretched out to her. She perceived that, too, and she placed within it the tips of her fingers, without once glancing up into the face.

All this passed as it were in a moment. The pageant was moving on, but yet not so quickly as Ella wished it to move. She could have dashed it away from before her eyes, as one breaks away the gossamer threads in walking on an autumn morning.

But there is a sudden interruption. The village crowd assembled at the door of the church make way for one who presses forward with a message to deliver. He must see Mr. Cawthorne. Ella listens to his words; and while she does so, the carriage door is opened. The bride and bridegroom step in. She has an excuse for not looking after them, or waving her adieus, in the serious and important nature of that message, to which she listens, and listens, but still hears nothing that she is capable of understanding. She hears nothing, because she is listening, also, for the rolling away of those carriage wheels. When will they be gone? Now now, they are moving off-they grate upon the gravel-the driver slashes his whip there is a sort of crushing sound, and all is over.

"Our poor

"Come with me," said Mr. Cawthorne to Ella. friend is much worse, I fear very ill, indeed. Come with me; we shall want your services to-day."

Ella obeyed almost mechanically. What else could she do?