tions of mishaps that have occurred to my predecessors who left their country home and broad acres to enjoy the pleasures of London. One in particular returned to Windmere, after a three months' absence, with a broken leg, but I happen to know that this was caused by a kick from his own horse, which might have happened in this village as well as anywhere else. My servants shake their heads as I pass, and sigh as though I was about to leave the world instead of merely travelling a hundred miles."

"But, " interposed Mr. Lyndhurst, "have you considered that at your age you may experience some discomfort ?" "Tush, man, "exclaimed the Squire, "what are these in comparison to the enjoyment I shall feel in surprising Charles with my presence when he least expects it? I may perhaps see the dear boy on the platform, advocating with all the warmth of his honest heart the claims of the destitute. I may hear the applauding voices of thousands hail the name of Langford, and bless the speaker. Talk of petty inconveniences, why a scene like this would repay them a thousand times."

"Have you heard lately from your nephew?"

66

'No, I have not, and this makes me more desirous of accomplishing my purpose. Charles is doubtless a man of energy and action in the good cause, and as such his time must be quite absorbed. But still he should have some regard for the ancient house he will soon be called upon to represent. I want to see him married, Lyndhurst. The boy will make a glorious husband for Ellen, for he is full of noble, manly aspirations."

"I have been thinking, Squire, about this union; and there is only one thing that nilitates against my conscience, and that is the small sum my daughter will receive from me as her wedding portion."

66

"Not one word more on the matter, my good friend," exclaimed the Squire warmly, why a girl like Ellen is worth the Indies to any man? besides, have I not a superfluity of wealth? Do not my estates increase from year to year; and have I not already said that Charles is my heir,-with only one proviso; which is that he marries the dear girl in whom we are both so greatly interested?"

A tear stood in Mr. Lyndhurst's eye, as he grasped the hand of his old friend; and after some further conversation, they separated, the Squire to renew the battle of argument with Mrs. Davis, on the propriety of going to London, and Mr. Lyndhurst to pay a visit to the clergyman of the parish, with whom he was on terms of great friendship, and to confide to him the secrets of his heart. Meanwhile we must return to Ellen, who, supposing the Squire had business matters to arrange with her father, had left them to call upon a few poor dependents, who lived in the neighbouring cottages, to administer to their necessities, and to shed in their rooms the cheerful light of consolation. Sweet and touching were the words that fell from her lips, at the bedside of the sick; kind and encouraging were her remarks to the young, who crowded eagerly around to attract her notice. All blessed and loved her. The gray-headed man bent with years, and looking with calm hope to a speedy rest from toil and suffering, hailed her as the type on earth of the ministering spirits in heaven. The stalwart sons of the village as they gazed respectfully on her pure and beautiful countenance, felt the glow that nerved their peasant fathers, to protect those they loved; and would have united at her slightest bidding, to render her service. matrons of Windmere called their daughters to the door as she passed, and pointed to her as a model of all that is excellent in woman, and worthy of imitation; and followed thus by the benedictions of all, the gentle maiden passed onwards with a lighter step to her dwelling, communing with her thoughts, and reading occasionally from a volume she held in her hands.

66

The

Certainly," ," she said, emerging from the village into the hill-side road, leading to the cottage, "the most exquisite pleasure that can be realized is that of doing good. It seems to me as if the mother who gave her life for mine accompanied me on these visits, for I feel an approving voice within, which tells me that I am pursuing what she would have done, had she survived. I am thus fulfilling a sacred duty, although perhaps not so zealously as I should. How exquisitely does George Herbert express this feeling, when he says,

"If as a flower doth spread and die,

Thou would'st extend to me some good, Before I were by frost's extremity

Nipt in the bud;

The sweetness and the praise were thine;
But the extension and the room,

Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine
At thy great doom.

For as thou dost impart thy grace,
The greater shall our glory be;

The measure of our joys is, in this place,
The good with thee.

Let me not languish, then, and spend
A life as barren to thy praise

As is the dust, to which that life doth tend,
But with delays.

All things are busy: only I

Neither bring honey with the bees,

Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry
To water these.

I am no link of thy great chain,
But all my company is a weed.
Lord! place me in thy concert; give one strain
To my poor reed."

"But," continued Ellen, as she closed the book and resumed her soliloquy, "if I cannot do much myself, I may obtain in Charles an active coadjutor. How delightful it will be for us to concert plans for the welfare of our poor neighbours, to establish schools, and rescue children, now wandering in ignorance and destitution, from the darkness in which they are plunged. No idle moments for us, every day and hour employed in some good work; and who knows," added the enthusiastic girl, her features beaming with tenderness and sympathy, "but we may become the benefactors, not merely of a simple village, but of communities,the inciters of those who may hereafter regenerate society!"

Her meditations were abruptly interrupted at this moment by the approach of a servant from the house, bearing a letter. Ellen glanced at the address; and seeing it was in her cousin's handwriting, retired to her chamber to read the contents at greater leisure. The reader is already acquainted with the purport of this communication. The effect of it, upon the heroine of our story, shall be related in another chapter.

"ONLY ONCE."

A TALE FOR THE YOUNG.

ONE evening, towards the close of December, the family of Dr. Walton sat in their pleasant parlour, conversing on the anticipated pleasures of the coming holiday. A ride was suggested by one, a party by another, and but one dissenting voice was heard.

"Father," said Henry, "I wish you would let me go with William Miles and the other boys to Long Pond to skate."

"And pray who may the other boys be?" asked his father, laughing.

"Why, father, Charles Ellis, Adams, Philip Hall, and the rest."

"Philip Hall is not very good company; and I fear the rest,' with the exception of Charles and Adams, are of the same class. I am willing to gratify you, but I do not wish you to associate with bad boys."

"But let me go, father, only once," pleaded Henry. "We shall have such a fine time, and I should be so disappointed if I do not go."

Dr. Walton had one weak point of character. He was one of those indolent, ease-loving persons so often to be met, and being very indulgent with his children, he frequently yielded his better judgment to their solicitations. Henry knew his father's failing; and with the requisite amount of coaxing, obtained, as usual, the wished-for consent.

New Year's day came, and Henry set off to enjoy his expected pleasures. A large number of boys were assembled, the majority of whom were of that class who, if not really bad boys, were not very profitable companions. Henry heard their conversation with surprise, and as an oath or a rude jest mingled with their discourse, his cheek reddened with indignation; but before long the same expressions fell less jarringly on his ear.

At noon refreshments were brought, and the boys, with a keen appetite, prepared to partake. "Let us say grace," said Philip Hall; and he mockingly commenced.

"O don't, Philip!" exclaimed Henry, now really shocked, while a loud and jeering laugh followed his interposition.

To the infinite surprise of Henry, Charles Ellis, and several others, a bottle

66 Then you have been really happy?" "Why, father, there were some things" and Henry hesitated a moment, and then added, "you know you said some of the boys were not very good company; but I kept with Edgar Fergy and Charles Ellis."

"Well, I am glad you spent the day so pleasantly," returned his father. But Henry felt far from being satisfied, especially when his sister Adaline told him of their beautiful ride, and their visit to a friend, whose green-house was filled with rare plants in blossom and beautiful clusters of ripe fruit.

Time passed, and Henry having once associated with those whom he should have avoided, found it easy to meet them again.

To avoid the difficulty of persuading his father, Henry would sometimes steal away from home and join his comrades, whose oaths were now quite familiar, and whose slang expressions he could unblushingly use.

It was a beautiful thought of the fableloving ancients, that each person has a guardian angel that attends him through life, deserting him not, even in danger and in evil, but guiding and supporting him to the end of his life. Such a guardian had Henry Walton in the person of his sister.

For a

Adaline Walton was some three years older than her brother, and was very different from him in character. long time she had seen with intense pain, the course which her brother was pursuing, and as another winter came, with its long and monotonous evenings, and Henry still joined his wild companions, she resolved to rescue him before it was too late. Her

parents were now on a visit, and her brother, released from the nominal control of his father, plunged into dissipation more than ever.

'Henry," said she one evening after tea, "I am very busy this evening, and I wish you would read to me from this book, with which I am so delighted." Henry seated himself, and commenced reading "Newton's Letters," but in a short time he laid down the book, saying, "I cannot stay longer, Adaline; I have an engagement."

Adaline laid her hand tenderly on her brother's shoulder, and said, “Do, dear brother, stay at home to-night; I am very lonely without you. Oh, my brother, could a love as deep and pure as ever sister felt, win you back to your home joys, mine should be that love.".

Henry's lip quivered, and a tear came in his eye; but repressing his feelings be replied, But I promised to go, sister; you would not have me break my word?"

66

"Oh, no, Henry, if your word was pledged with good intentions, and in the performance of duty, I would not chide you, brother; but I fear it is for no good your would leave me alone to-night. But you shall judge if the love you feel for your associates is greater and purer than that you bear your sister."

Henry leaned his head upon his hand, in evident deliberation. His sister had often pleaded with him before, but this time there was something so kind and touching in her manner it overcame his resolution, and raising his head at length, he said, “[ will stay, Adaline."

How many times in after life did Henry Walton bless his sister for that evening. The party with whom he was to meet called for a supper at one of the hotels, and in payment passed counterfeit money. The following day they were arrested and sent to jail; and at their trial Philip Hall and three others were sentenced to prison, and the rest, though acquitted, bore the ignominy of a felon's companion.

66

Henry, more thoroughly aroused to a sense of danger, reformed, and never after did he give way to the temptation of vicious company. Only once" associating with evil, had almost proved his ruin, and yielding to the persuasion of his sister, only once" had saved him from disgrace.

HOME IS WHERE THERE'S ONE TO

LOVE US.

Home's not merely four square walls, Though with pictures hung and gilded; Home is where affection calls,

Fill'd with shrines the heart hath builded! Home!-go watch the faithful dove

Sailing 'neath the heaven above usHome is where there's one to love!

Home is where there's one to love us! Home's not merely roof and room,

It needs something to endear it; Home is where the heart can bloom,

Where there's some kind lip to cheer it! What is home with none to meet?

None to welcome, none to greet us?
Home is sweet, and only sweet,
Where there's one we love to meet us!

MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME.
I have tasted each varied pleasure,
And drunk of the cup of delight;
I have danced to the gayest measure
In the halls of dazzling light;

I have dwelt in a blaze of splendour
And stood in the courts of kings;

I have snatch'd at each toy that could render
More rapid the flight of Time's wings.
But vainly I've sought for joy or peace,
In that life of light and shade;

And I turn with a sigh to my own dear home-
The home where my childhood play'd.
When jewels are sparkling round me,
And dazzling with their rays,

I weep for the ties that bound me
In life's first early days.

I sigh for one of the sunny hours,

Ere day was turn'd to night:

For one of my nosegays of fresh wild flowers,
Instead of those jewels bright.

I weep when I gaze on the scentless buds
Which never can bloom or fade:

And I turn with a sigh to those gay green fields-
The home where my childhood play'd.

AUTUMN.

BY LONGFELLOW.

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by rain,
With banners by great gales incessant fann'd-
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harness'd to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

Upon thy bridge of gold: thy royal hand Outstretch'd with benedictions o'er the land, Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain. Thy shield is the red harvest-moon suspended

So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves; Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended; Like flames upon the altar shine the sheavesAnd following thee in thine ovation splendid, Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves.

THE RETURN OF YOUTH.

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight; Thou musest with wet eyes upon the time

Of cheerful hopes that fill'd the world with light,

Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,

And prompt thy tongue the generous thought to speak,

And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summon'd the sudden crimson to thy cheek. Thou lookest forward on the coming days,

Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep; A path, thick-set with changes and decays, Slopes downward to the place of common sleep: And they who walk'd with thee in life's first stage, Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, Thou seest the sad companions of thy age

Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear. Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone. Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky: Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,

"

Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; Waits, like the vanish'd spring, that slumbering bides

[Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand.

On his bright morning hills, with smiles more Than when at first he took thee by the hand, sweet

Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, Life's early glory to thine eyes again,

Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear A gentle murmur of the morning gales,

That sweep the ambrosial groves of that bright shore,

And thence the fragrance of its blossoms bear, And voices of the loved ones gone before,

More musical in that celestial air?