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familiar—to use, for example, the type of his own friendship for Jocelyn, and of his own boldness in defending him at the peril of his life, in order to lead him to the apprehension of that redeeming love, before whose glorious brightness the strongest glow of natural love fades as the beams of the moon in the effulgence of the noon-day sun.

Horace had, in fact, come to the conclusion, ere yet he was disturbed, that if left for any, the shortest time to cultivate the affection, and enjoy the presence of the poor despised Jocelyn, he would endeavor to lead his mind right forward, without other consideration, to the apprehension of the knowledge of the Redeemer.

Before we satisfy our readers respecting what Horace was enabled to do with the poor simple one, it is needful to sum up succinctly all the remaining history of the highly favored son of Mrs. Langford, to whom might he aptly applied that passage which, although of no authority, is yet full of beauty, occurring in the Apocryphal book of the Wisdom of Solomon, “For honorable age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor that is measured by number of years. He pleased God, so that living among sinners he was translated—He being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time.”

The friend of poor Jocelyn, for some days after he was brought to Barwell Hall, continued to rally, and was for a time so well as to be able to be present at some of the family meals, and to take one or two airings in the park in a pony carriage with his little companion, who never would leave him for a moment when he could help it. The sweetness and courtesy of his manners

were such as to win more and more upon the heart of the justice. The kind old gentleman was prepared from the first to love him, though he by no means understood the finer parts of his character. He however hesitated not to pass his word to him, that Jocelyn should never again, with his consent, be subjected to severe treatment.

Mr. and Mrs. Rokeby also treated Horace with great politeness, and probably not the less so from finding that he was the heir of a man of large property, and already it began to be talked of that Horace when he returned to Craddock Court, which it was thought he would soon be able to do, was to take Jocelyn

with him, when he was seized with a complaint on the chest, with a great soreness precisely where the heavy piece of wood had struck him, which seizure first cut short his airings in the park, and next his visits to the family sitting room.

One circumstance connected with the last of these airings must not however be omitted. As the little carriage was bowling along one of the avenues cut in the trees, they overtook, near the edge of the pool, one of the servants of the hall who was about to drown a young mastiff which had met with the misfortune of breaking its leg, and was never likely to be of any manner of use. Jocelyn cried and begged for its life, for the poor creature trembled whilst the man was fastening a stone to its neck, and Horace having added his entreaties to those of his young friend, the dog was given up to his deliverers, and they brought him home, and Horace bound up his broken leg; and from that time he remained always with them, having received from them the name of Cæsar—and truly it might appear that the creature knew what he owed to them, so profound was the affection which he showed to them, and so deep was his dejection when one of them was takeu from him by death.

It was before the green buds appeared on the trees, nay before the mezereon and the snow drop began to open their blossoms, that the remains of the pious and once beautiful youth, Horace Langford, had been added to those of his many ancestors in the vault of the Craddocks, and his sorrowing uncle, and bereaved nurse who had been sent for to Barwell Hall when the danger became imminent, were returned to their homes—the one to endeavor to banish thought as well as he might do with such poor assistance as his old habits could render, and the other to indulge the memories of her beloved and lovely one, as one of the sweetest consolations she could experience.

Mabel South, in such memories of her son by adoption, loved most of all to dwell on those scriptural tests of his having been chosen as a vessel and depository of the living waters which flow from the wells of salvation. It was through her, though of course not directly from that good woman herself, that manyof the circumstances attendant on the last days of Horace reached the knowledge of the writer of this series of simple narratives ; and probably the reader, who assumes that there is no evidence

of the truth having passed from the pious youth to any of his companions or acquaintance since his second residence in his nurse's house, may anticipate the necessity of turning back to Mabel Souith, and endeavoring to discover whether she did not prove the channel of the truth to others besides Horace-others to whom it might be permitted in the arrangements of Provi. dence to carry it to future generations.

But could not God, we ask, prevent the truth which Horace poured into the mind of the poor boy from wasting away and sinking into the depths of the natural foolishness of the young and feeble-minded individual, as the streams of the hills lose themselves in the quicksands of the desert ? The next number will answer the enquiry

M. M. S. (To be continued.)


(Resumed from page 119.) Nothing could exceed the beauty of the morning, (at least so they both said) on which Catherine Simpson and Emma Maxwell set out to pay their long-talked of visit to Strawberry Hill, the pretty residence of the elder Mr. Simpson. The girls were both in high spirits, particularly Emma, who had scarcely breathed the fresh air since the memorable day of the bazaar, now nearly three weeks ago. To her, they had been three long dull weeks, and now that winter seemed to have passed away, and the bright blue sky and the soft mild air heralded the return of spring, it appeared as if a dreary gulf were passed that separated her from the source of so much unhappiness; and she exulted like a bird set free from its cage.

Mrs. Simpson only was at home, and she gave them that cordial welcome with which she always received her friends, whether young or old. She had led a very active life in earlier days, but advancing infirmities now principally confined her to her chair by the fireside, which she might truly be said to adorn; and so unvaryingly neat was her appearance, so placid yet cheerful her demeanour, that few young persons ever visited her without wishing that should they live to be old, they might be just such another as Mrs. Simpson.


Her drawing room, too, possessed much to interest and attract, and at this time was almost overpoweringly fragrant from the number of beautiful hyacinths which were in bloom, some of which, imbedded in moss, occupied a large china bowl which stood on an ornamental stand in the centre of a bay window at one end of the room. After the first mutual greetings were over, Catherine advanced to examine a very beautifully worked screen which stood on one side of the fire.

“Why, grandmamma,” she exclaimed, “you quite surprise me: whose table was this lovely screen at? How very odd I did not see it at the bazaar! Oh, do forgive me, but I really had believed you did not buy anything, but I see now how mistaken I was.”

“I fear, dear Catherine," said Mrs. Simpson smiling, “I must be content with a low place in your opinion, for indeed I did not buy anything at the bazaar: that screen I ordered from the repository."

“From the repository?" involuntarily repeated Emma, thinking in her own mind that the price paid for it would have nearly purchased all her own work twice over.

Yes, my dear,” said the old lady, a good deal amused at her look of blank astonishment. “I dare say you are surprised that I should go to any other mart of fancy work, when you young ladies had taken the trouble of opening so gorgeous an one; but I never buy anything at bazaars. The repository, you know, is for the sale of work by those whose altered circumstances prevent their gaining employment in any other way. Of course the names of the workers are from motives of delicacy concealed, but little secrets sometimes transpire, and I have reason to know that that is the work of a young lady who was formerly a governess, but the illness of her mother whose only support she is, compelled her to relinquish her situation. She was educated in Germany, where that beautiful style of raised flower work is brought to such perfection; and she was in hope of being able to turn her acquirements to account, but the bazaar of course has prevented her having any orders with the exception, I believe, of that one group."

“Then, grandmamma, you and grandpapa really do not approve of bazaars ? Do you know I have long had a suspicion of the kind ?”

“We do not,” was the firm but gentle reply.

“Then why have you never told us so before, dear grandmamma, when

you know how we have been toiling for one ?" "Because your mother, I know, wished you to work for it, and far be it from me to interfere between parent and child. However, as when your mamma and Mrs. Maxwell dined here yesterday, I mentioned the circumstances to them which first induced me to think that more good might be done by the same amount of substance disposed of in other ways, and as they both requested that I would name them to you to-day, I of course can have no hesitation in complying with their desire.

" It is now many years since the first bazaar for a charitable purpose was proposed in our neighbourhood. I forget just now what its object was, for there have been so many since. However, that does not signify. It was for something that excited universal interest, and about which no party feeling could exist, and the fingers of all the ladies in the neighbourhood were soon busily engaged in preparing for it. This house was not then so empty as it now is : I had all my dear children about me, and my girls entered into the scheme with the utmost ardour. My dear Catherine, (after whom you are named,) was then beginning to droop, though she was spared to us for nearly a year afterwards, and her father and I were delighted that any thing had occurred to provide her with interesting occupation in the house, now that she was confined to it almost constantly. I suggested to my daughters that they should make none but useful articles, for I thought that whenever there was a professed purchase, the value of the article ought to correspond to the price paid for it. I had just before bought a very pretty little dress for your uncle James, who was then beginning to trot about. It was beautifully braided, and Catherine, who was fond of that kind of work, made several like it. They were so much admired that many more were bespoken, indeed more than she could undertake herself, so that she induced different friends to make them, as it seemed a pity that so much should be lost to the funds of the bazaar : indeed they became quite the fashion, so that at last I think I scarcely exaggerate when I say that there was hardly a gentleman's child in the county who was not provided with one, if not more of these dresses. Catherine of course was very much pleased with

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