of concealing many things from her husband. As they grew up, she failed completely in winning their respect.

The eldest two of the family were girls; then came the two boys, and two more girls. The eldest girls and the boys were never sent from home to school, but were educated in schools in the town. This, of necessity, left them almost entirely to the influence of their mother's training -if training it could be called. When they were old enough, the girls, and the elder of the boys, were taken to assist in the business, whilst the younger boy, who did not like it, was articled to a solicitor in the town. The youngest girls, between whom and their brothers there was an interval of five or six years, were sent to a boarding-school in a neighbouring city. It was a sad conclusion for a husband and a father to reach, but by this time Mr. Emsall had reached it, that it would on many accounts be better for them to be brought up under other influences than of home: so, somewhat against his wife's will, on the pleas that their education would proceed more satisfactorily, and that it might also be beneficial to their health, they were sent from home. Fortunately, the school he fixed upon was a good one, presided over by ladies of sound judgment and true piety. His wife, indeed, when she found he was bent on sending them away for their education, would have liked them to be sent to a much more showy and pretentious establishment; but in this matter Mr. Emsall was decided, and both Kate and Marion, and he himself as well, had good reason to thank God that he did so.

Jane and Emma, the eldest daughters, grew up, in too many respects like their mother; but it was in the misconduct of his sons that Mr. Emsall reaped most largely and bitterly the fruit of his mistake. From the first, their mother was foolishly indulgent, far more indulgent to them than to any of her daughters. Their father, though not by any means a stingy man, never deemed it right that either boys or young men should have a great amount of pocket-money, and fixed what he deemed a sufficient allowance. That was a trifle, however, compared with what their mother gave them privately. Indeed she scarcely ever refused them anything. As they grew older, their demands increased in large measure; and it was not very long before the utmost she could give proved quite inadequate. She screened, too, their late hours and their general irregularity from their father, till at length con

cealment was no longer possible. It is a sad fact that young men sometimes go far astray who are trained up with the utmost wisdom and care; but it was quite evident to all who knew Mrs. Emsall's treatment of her sons, that their ruin-and they were ruined-was to be traced mainly, if not entirely, to her weak-minded indulgence. One of them died an untimely death; and the other, after disappointing every hope, left the country. The grief occasioned by all this, whilst it sorely tried Mr. Emsall, quite undermined the health of his wife, and she was not very long in following her younger son to the grave. It was a melancholy satisfaction to her husband, that before her death she saw and deplored the hindrances she had thrown in his way in the right-training of their children, and that she found peace in an humble reliance on the mercy of Jesus.

Mr. Emsall's elder daughters were now married, although not very satisfactorily, and he was left with the two youngest. The retrospect of his life was a very sorrowful one. It was true that, in spite of every drawback, he had succeeded in business, still he could hardly think of his course as otherwise than a failure; nor could he conceal from himself how different everything might have been had he taken his excellent mother's counsel, and married 'only in the Lord."

66

Through God's blessing the sorrows through which he had passed left their precious fruit in a chastened spirit; and the last ten years of his life, soothed by the loving attentions of his youngest daughters, who were in every respect all that his heart could wish, were the happiest he knew from the time he left his father's house to set up his Own.

T was

THE MOURNER COMFORTED.

FIRST PART.

A

a pretty morning room into which the golden rays of the early spring sunshine crept, and made even its bright and elegant adornments look brighter and more beautiful. piano stood open on one side, and music-books, and various kinds of fancy work lay about, as if each had been taken up in turn and thrown aside again, as in truth they had; and their owner now sat restlessly tapping her foot on the

elegant carpet with a look of such utter weariness and dissatisfaction, in her otherwise bright and pleasing countenance, that one might have fancied she was suffering from some grievous trouble.

She grew tired of tapping the carpet at last, and moved to the window. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "The sun will scorch up my beautiful hyacinths, I'm afraid;" and she heaved a sigh as she turned away and seated herself at the piano. She was a skilful musician, and played with feeling, and therefore effectively; and having a deep love of music was soon lost in the sweet strains of Mozart, when there came an interruption, and a servant appeared. “Your mamma wishes to speak to you, miss," she said, deferentially.

Now that Ellen had contrived to arouse herself to take some interest in her employment, she did not like being disturbed, and she gave vent to her vexation in sundry exclamations of impatience. "Is mamma up?" she said, at length, swinging herself off the music-stool and facing the servant.

"She is dressing, miss; but says her head is very bad to-day."

Another muttered exclamation from Ellen, and she quitted the room. Her mother was an invalid, but seldom troubled her daughter for any of those little loving services it is usually a daughter's pleasure to render, under the mistaken notion that it would entail too much confinement and self-denial upon her only, and idolized child; so that Ellen was rather surprised at being summoned to her mamma just now, and imposed some little restraint upon her vexation and impatience, as she drew near her mother's

room.

"Are you worse to-day, mamma?" she said, throwing herself languidly into a low chair, and playing with her gold chain.

66

"Oh no, dear! nothing to speak of," replied the lady; only I wanted to tell you that the dressmaker has sent to say she cannot get your lavender silk done for this. evening."

"Not get it done, mamma?" exclaimed the young lady, with considerable energy; "but she must!"

"She says it is quite impossible. She has a large mourning order on hand, and there was not sufficient time given her to obtain extra assistance."

“What nonsense, mamma! why it was sent last evening. How lazy those dress-making people must be!" and she rose from her seat and began pacing the room impatiently. “Mamma, it must, and shall be done,” she said at length. "I will go myself and tell them so. I have set my heart on going to this party to-night, and I have nothing else to

wear.

Mrs. Long never thought of imposing the slightest restraint upon her daughter's wishes; but while Ellen had been speaking, a sudden feeling of increased illness had come over her, and she expressed a wish for Ellen to stay with her for a short time.

"I will when I come back, mamma. I shall not be long walking into the town about this dress."

Arrived at the dressmaker's, Ellen found that her dress had been commenced, but was obliged to be laid aside on account of the illness of one of the workwomen.

"Is it anything catching?" asked Ellen, in a tone of alarm.

“Oh dear no, miss! only a little over fatigue."

"Is that all? Well, I must have my dress, or I shall find some one else to do my work in future,” replied Ellen, and she turned from the room without another word.

"What a miserable world this is!" sighed Ellen, as the possibility of not having her dress home in time rose to her mind, and she turned to look in at a shop-window, and wonder whether a wreath of daisies would not look very becoming with the lavender silk.

"How selfish ladies are!" exclaimed the dressmaker, as soon as Ellen had taken her departure. "There's poor Emma Mansfield worn out with the close-sitting, and yet I must send for her to come and finish this dress; for I cannot afford to lose Miss Long's work, tiresome as she is." The dress was finished in time; but the poor, weary worker was utterly exhausted, and went home to bed, not to leave it again for several weeks.

Ellen had been on the rack of suspense all day, as to whether her dress would be done in time or not; but when it was brought to her by the servant her vexation was all forgotten for the time, and she carried it to her mamma's room quite exultingly.

66

See, mamma!" she exclaimed.

"I knew it would be

done," and she held it up for her mamma to admire. But Mrs. Long felt too ill to bestow much notice even upon

ner daughter's dress this evening; and if Ellen had not been so engrossed with her thoughts of this party, she would have noticed the unusual weariness and depression of her mamma's manner. As it was, however, she soon left the room, and summoning the servant to do her hair, began to dress.

When she was ready she went to her mamma again. Mrs. Long was in bed then, and held out her arms yearningly towards her radiant daughter as she entered the

room.

66

Ellen," she said, faintly, "I have such a strange, strong wish to keep you with me to-night: I wish you would stay."

66

Oh, mamma, you are nervous!" exclaimed Ellen, quickly. "I will stay with you all day to-morrow, but Mrs. Lascelles will be here for me directly, and I cannot disappoint her." As she spoke there was a loud peal at the hall-bell. "There they are," said Ellen, as she heard it, and bending over her mamma, she imprinted a kiss upon her cheek. The invalid raised her eyes to those of her daughter with such an earnest, wistful gaze, and clasped her in her arms with such strength and tenacity for a moment, that Ellen half resolved to stay by her mother's bedside instead of going out, even now; but the announcement that Mrs. Lascelles was awaiting her in the carriage checked the half-formed purpose, and with another kiss, and a promise to stay by her mamma all the next day, she ran down to join her friend.

In a short time she was in the midst of a gay scene, and apparently the gayest of all that bright company; but in reality the most miserable. Do what she would she could not forget her mother's sad, wistful gaze. In the mazes of the dance-while the laughter trilled upon her lips-her mother's eyes seemed to follow her; until at length, utterly unable to keep up even the appearance of gaiety, she went to her friend and begged to be taken home.

"But, my dear Miss Long, you are the life of the party and seem to be enjoying yourself so much?" expostulated the lady.

Ellen shook her head: "I never felt so miserable,” and then she added petulantly, "It does not seem that I am ever to enjoy myself."

"But, my dear, about going home now I really do not

see "