what I may be hereafter, neither you nor have paid another hundred pounds to get I can tell." "You have been less than the meanest of hired servants on this farm; and yet you dare to imagine that you ever could be her equal." "I dare to imagine it. Her equal and yours. We are alone, and so I will venture to speak out. Your father kindly sheltered me when mine had left me to beg, starve, steal. He took me to the workhouse, where I lay between life and death, I know not how long ill with fever, from exposure to the sun and from excitement through the death of my poor ill-treated mother." Cut it short, Charley." Directly I began to recover, I saw the kind face of your father by my bedside. He wanted a cow-boy, to help him, and would give me a trial. As soon as I was on my legs again, he brought me back here in his cart, and I grew strong and useful, I have worked hard you know it- for little pay. You know also that I at present attend to most of the farming business for your father, and save him money in many ways." Arthur knew that this was true. He was very well aware that his father and mother would lose one whom they could ill spare, if they lost Charley. The boy had been faithful, diligent, docile, affectionate. In fact, there was not a fault that could be reasonably found with him as a servant, except-and this with Arthur was a decisive exception-that Charley had been for the last two years rising out of a position of servitude to one of peculiar trust with the farmer. For Arthur gave all his attention to other matters than business, and hard work did not suit him. He had been sent to a boardingschool to be educated, at a cost of a hundred pounds a year. and the result had not answered the anxious parents' anticipations. Arthur had learned many things in the great brick house at Enfield, in companionship with all those lively and facetious young gentlemen who amused themselves so pleasantly on a Sunday, in the four retired pews in the side gallery of the parish church; but a great deal of his learning, the farmer would gladly rid of. The heir of Holly Farm came home from school at sixteen, his edu cation finished; and proud indeed his mother was to welcome her young gen. tleman, who had cost the good man so much money hardly earned. But every day and almost every hour developed something unpleasant in the accomplished youth. But the most disagreeable trait, because the most inconvenient, was his animosity towards Charley. One cause for this has been seen. Every summer Elie and her governess came to stay at the farm one or more months, and this usually happened at the times when Arthur was at home for the midsummer holidays. There was some mystery about Elie; the governess had been engaged to take the sole charge of her from her infancy. That lady would acknowledge nothing more. She received her charge from a dying nurse, who had attended to the child from its birth until it was nearly five years old. It was the nurse who had advertised, and the governess received no information from her respect ing the parents of Elie. Miss Perkins was desired to rest satisfied with the assurance that Miss Elie was highly connected, and that Mr. Thomson, a rich London banker, would pay all money charges and watch over the safe keeping of the child. Mr. Thomson, in an interview with Miss Perkins, much excited the learned lady's curiosity, with out, however, gratifying it; for he stated that "important interests--he might say very important-hung upon this child's life, and he would personally guarantee that any reasonable expense Miss Perkins thought fit to incur for the benefit of the young lady would be freely paid. Her education was to be "as good as pos sible," and she was to live wherever Miss Perkins pleased. Arthur occupied his mind a good deal with puzzling out this mystery. He fancied the governess knew more than she said. Elie herself, he was convinced, was quite uninformed about her family, for he had often talked with her on the subject when he could find an opportunity, and she said she knew no one the world to whom she rightfully belonged, except to Miss Perkins and Mr. Thomson. But that which chiefly concerned Arthur was that it had some way crept out that when Elie married, with Mr. Thomson's approval, she would receive two thousand pounds. From that moment, Arthur made up his mind to win her. Yet that was not so easy. A character formed by Miss Perkins might be supposed to have some vigour in it, some power to resist soft impressions, and assuredly Elie was no piece of wax, but, at eighteen, was firm and sagacious, self-relying, and energetic. The promise of her infancy, as to rare beauty, had not been fulfilled. Her eyes were still soft as the turtle-dove's, and her very light hair and fair complexion imparted something seraphic to the face; but the originally tender constitution of her character had become changed under the learned training of Miss Perkins, and the whole face that had beamed so angellike before Charley, by the ditch, was grown sharp, and resolute, and self-confident. Her figure was rather short than tall, and not so perfect as it might have been. Still, Elie was extremely fascinating, especially with two thousand pounds as a marriage portion, in expectancy. She was sitting at needlework with Patience, who was now a staid, quiet, pleasing young woman, of six-and-twenty; they were in the spacious farm parlour, by the open window, looking into a garden chiefly filled with fruit trees and vegetables, and beyond the garden were the fields. Patience, like her father, had very little to say about anything, though she was a real domestic treasure. Her calm look, her passionless eye, her placid cheer ful manners, never altered. making a new dress for Elie. She was "What a poor hand I make at the needle," said Elie, throwing down her work. "I wonder how you can plod on so steadily, Patience. And you are always the same. How it rains!" "I wish you would talk to me," Elie said, blushing. "Talk to you!" echoed Patience. "O dear! I wish I had a sister or a friend," sighed Elie. Patience wondered a little at this singular exclamation, and said, rather hurt, "I wish to be your friend, and I thought you had the feeling of a sister for me." Her quiet sincere tones went to Elie's heart-if only Patience had been capable of more enthusiasm! But how could she unfold herself to this statue? And yet she knew that Patience was no statue, but a nature beautiful and valuable, though cast in so different a mould from her own, that there could hardly be confidence between them. Here Elie corrected herself again. Patience was worthy of every confidence, if Patience could only understand her. Elie sighed again, and with such energy that Patience laid down her work, and folding her hands on her knees, waited for the communication that she saw was to come. But Elie was silent: whilst over her speaking countenance flitted expressions so varied and so powerful that they quite passed the comprehension of the peaceable farmer's daughter. But Patience was still more surprised when Elie spread both her hands before her face, and wept passionately. She was not given to weeping, therefore this was the more inexplicable. "My dear Elie, what is the matter ?" Elie slipped from her embrace, and rushed out of the room, Patience looking after her, quite bewildered, not knowing what to make of such novel manifestations, and doubting whether it would be best to follow Elie, or to wait until she pleased to explain herself. Patience looked after Elie, surprised at her sudden flight. As Elie rushed from the parlour she met in the passage Charley Murdoch. Both stopped. Both were agitated. "I should like to speak to you, Miss Elie, if I might," said the young man, timidly. "O no, I can't indeed. What is it you wish to say?" Charley drew himself up with a great deal of wounded dignity. He was not as genteel a figure, nor dressed in as handsome a suit of clothes as Arthur; but he was manly and well formed, and tall, and his luxuriant dark hair rippled about his broad brows, and his dark eyes flashed with the ardour of a soul that had nothing in it of the meanness or baseness of his paternity. "Miss Elie, I must leave this happy home. I must go away. And I wished that you should be the first to whom I mentioned this resolution." There was strong suppressed feeling in his tremulous utterance. Elie leaned against the wall, struck motionless. She had changed colour, and cast her eyes down, oppressed with sudden anguish. In a few moments of such a crisis one seems to live an age. 66 'Elie, Elie! will you forget me when I shall see you no more ?" His ardent voice recalled her to herself. She shook off the spell, and, looking at him firmly, though with a white face, and quivering lip, inquired if the farmer knew of his intention. "No one yet but you, Elie." "And why should I care to know whether you go or stay ?" "You have been ever good to me," he replied, with fond humility. "It was you who first were the means of bringing me here; but for you I might have been now such a wretch as that man who deserted me. Oh, Elie, I can never forget what I owe to you-never-never!" Charley, don't go away. should you leave your only friends ?" Ah, Elie! Arthur is my enemy. That is why I must go. Arthur loves you." As Charley, unable to control his feelings, whispered these words, Elie fled from the sound of a voice that was dearer to her than any other in the world, and from revelations which needed no voice to make themselves understood by her. There was a general feeling of disturbance, perplexity, and sorrow in the house when it was known that Charley would leave. All was settled between the farmer and "his right hand" in a few sentences. "Mr. Wilkins, I hope I have satisfied 'I wish to leave, as soon as you can find any one to fill my place." "I can find no one to do that. You are my right hand. Why do you go?" "Your son wishes it. He has insulted me an hundred times over. I can bear much, but the time has come now, Sir, that I must go." "Send Arthur to me." Arthur joined his father in the garden porch. The farmer asked why he sought to ruin the farm. Did he not know that his father was growing old—and that all the business was managed by Charley, as clever and industrious a lad as ever broke bread, and upright too. Charley had schooled himself, learnt himself to read and write, and keep accounts; was as good as a conjuror at mathematics, and understood more of agriculture than half the squires in England. wasn't the likes of Charley to be found on never a farm within fifty miles. And the upshot was, if Charley went, Arthur should go too. If one went away, the other should. Ah, there "I have made up my mind to go to Mr. Thomson's, the banker's," said Arthur. "I have offered my services there as clerk." "You may go where you like," said angry Mr. Wilkins. And Arthur whistled and went out. "He little thinks," muttered the farmer, grasping his grey hair, “Oh! he little thinks But let him go. When ruin comes he will be sorry, perhapsand perhaps he won't." Arthur obtained the engagement which he had solicited through the me dium of Miss Perkins; but his real objects were to get free from parental control, and discover Elie's parents and connec tions. "I hope I am entitled to a little money, Mr. Wilkins," said Charley, frankly, the evening before he left the farm. Mr. Wilkins handed him a small canvas bag, which, without opening, Charley pocketed, warmly thanking his benefactor. THERE WAS SCARCELY A MORE FEARFUL CHARACTER IN ENGLAND THAN DAN MURDOCH. "Be a good man, and don't forget old friends," said the farmer. "Never fear that!" exclaimed Charley, gaily. "You'll get on, my boy, I don't doubt, if you fear God, and respect yourself. I saw ten years ago that there was something in you out of the common. God bless you, wherever you go." "Thank you, sir; thank you heartily; Is there anything more, sir, that I can do for you before I go?" "Nothing, thank you, my boy; nothing at all. You have put all as straight as you can. I can't see how I shall get on without you. But I must try." Arthur was present during this conversation. He looked ruthless and exult ing. Presently Charley arose, and approached him. "We may meet no more after to-night, Arthur. I'm off the first thing in the morning to London." "What to do there ?" "I shall let your father know as soon as I have secured what I have in view, and, until then, I shall keep my own counsel. So now, farewell! Let us shake hands for the sake of your dear friends and mine." Arthur was moved. He gave his hand, which Charley warmly held. There was regard-true regard after all, in their hearts for each other. And so they parted. And, in the meantime, where was Daniel Murdoch ? them for companions. Marian, however, though much admired, was not generally liked; many a plainer and less accomplished girl was often preferred to her; and for some time the friends were at a loss to account for this-to all appearance most unjust behaviour. Had they been a few years older, or had they had a mother to aid them by her intuitive knowledge in the selection of their friends, they would have discovered that Marian's great fault was "want of truth." It was very long before the friends would even admit that Marian in such a case did exaggerate a little; but then she is so fanciful, her flashes of wit are so bril liant and so much applauded, that it is not wonderful if she was for once thrown He had never seen or cared to see his off her guard; we must beg her not to boy from the hour that he left him in the be so thoughtless in future." Such were fields, but he knew well enough where the excuses often made by the unsuspect Charley was, and that he was prospering.ing girls; but at length Marian grew Happily for his son's peace, Charley was ignorant of the crimes that his father had committed, and was still committing -as poacher, burglar, and highway robber, there was scarcely a more fearful character in England than Dan Murdoch. more careless, and became impatient the now oft-repeated admonitions of her friends. Thought and speech were free, she said, and if they thought to presume on their friendship to check the one, or urb the other, she, for her part, would have none of it; they had better separate. FALSEHOOD AND SORROW. These hard words deeply wounded the EMMA and ALICE were friends; for affectionate hearts of Emma and Alice, many years they had lived in the closest and they agreed that, as they could evi intercourse, and most perfect harmony.dently do no good by remonstrating with At length "a change came o'er the spirit their wilful favourite, they must endea of their dream." "The friends were in-vour, by increased affection and strict vited to a large party, given by a lady of adherence to truth, to make her love it affluence and distinction: there they were for its own sake. But at last it was not introduced to the daughter of their longer possible to remain friends, with hostess, who, by her good sense and cour-out seeming to encourage her in this sad teous behaviour, at once won their regard. At parting she expressed a wish to be better acquainted, adding, that she had heard much of them, and hoped in due time to make "a third in their sisterhood's band." To this the friends cordially assented, with the rashness of youth (at all times too apt to judge from appearances), and after some time the trio were inseparable. Their new friend, Marian, was, indeed, richly endowed with beauty and talent, and the friends, so far "from feeling envious, often modestly expressed their surprise at her selecting crime (in our opinion the greatest of all crimes, because more sad in its conse quences), and Emma gently but decidedly told her that the time had come when they must part; that they trusted she would soon see her folly in its true light, when the arms of friendship would again be ready to receive her, and all the past should be forgotten." Marian looked at them scornfully; a derisive smile curled her lip, as she replied "Friends, indeed! hypocrites that you are with your pretended goodness; it were well if you added Charity to your |