innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every tear that sorwing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creatures that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven.

It was late when the old man came home. The boy had led him to his own dwelling, under some pretence, on their way back; and, rendered drowsy by his long ramble, he had sunk into a deep sleep by the fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they had taken care not to rouse him. The slumber held him a long time, and when he at length awoke the moon was shining.

The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watching at the door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway with his little guide. He advanced to meet them, and tenderly obliging the old man to lean upon his arm, conducted him with slow and trembling steps towards the house.

He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding what he had left there, he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they were assembled. From that, he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage; calling her name. They followed close upon him, and when he had vainly searched it, brought him home.

With such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest, they prevailed upon him to sit among them and hear what they should tell him. Then, endeavouring by every little artifice to prepare his mind for what must come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the happy lot to which she had been removed, they told him, at last, the truth. The moment it had passed their lips, he fell down among them like a murdered man.

For many hours they had little hopes of his surviving; but grief is strong, and he recovered.

If there be any who have never known the blank that follows death-the weary void-the sense of desolation that will come upon the strongest minds, when something familiar and beloved is missed at every turn-the connexion between inanimate and senseless things, and the object of recollection, when every household god becomes a monument, and every room a grave-if there be any who have not known this, and proved it by their own experience, they can never faintly guess, how, for days, the old man pined and moped away the time, and wandered here and there as if seeking something, and had no comfort. *

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At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with his knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little basket full of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone. As they were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened schoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the church-upon her grave.

They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in

the attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him then, but kept watch upon him all that day. When it grew quite dark, he rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself" she will come to-morrow!"

She

Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until night; and still at night he laid him down to rest, and murmured, will come to-morrow!"

And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave, for her.

How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of resting-places under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields and woods, and paths not often trodden-how many tones of that one well-remembered voice-how many glimpses of the form, the fluttering dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind-how many visions of what had been, and what he hoped yet to be, rose up before him, in the old, dull, silent church! He never told them what he thought, or where he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering with a secret satisfaction, they could see, upon the flight that he and she would take before night came again; and still they would hear him whisper in his prayers, "Lord! let her come to-morrow!"

The last time was on a genial day in spring. the usual hour, and they went to seek him. upon the stone.

He did not return at
He was lying dead

;

They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well and in the church where they had so often prayed, and mused, and lingered hand in hand, the child and the old man slept together. (By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)

THE FLOWER OF THE FOREST.

PROFESSOR WILSON.

[John Wilson was the son of a manufacturer in Paisley, where he was born, 1785. He was educated firstly at the University of Glasgow, whence he passed to Magdalene College, Oxford. On completing his studies he took up his abode on the banks of Windermere, and here wrote his first poems, the principal of which were "The Isle of Palms," 1812, followed by "The City of the Plague." He next essayed prose fiction, and added to our permanent literature "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life;" the "Trials of Margaret Lyndsay;" and "The Forresters." In 1820 he was appointed to the chair of Moral Philosophy in Edinburgh, and thenceforth known as "Professor." This position he resigned in 1851, when the Crown settled on him a pension of 3001. a year. He died 1854, and his works, including his magazine papers and the celebrated "Noctes of "Blackwood's Magazine," have since been published by the Messrs. Blackwood in a complete form.]

THE window of the lonely cottage of Hilltop was beaming far above the highest birch-wood, seeming to travellers at a distance in the long valley below, who knew it not, to be a star in the sky. A bright fire was in the kitchen of that small tenement; the floor was washed, swept, and sanded, and not a footstep had marked its perfect neat

ness; a small table was covered, near the ingle, with a snow-white cloth, on which was placed a frugal evening meal; and in happy but pensive mood, sat there, all alone, the woodcutter's only daughter, a comely and gentle creature, if not beautiful; such an one as diffuses pleasure round her in the hay-field, and serenity over the seat in which she sits attentively on the Sabbath, listening to the Word of God, or joining with mellow voice in His praise and worship On this night she expected a visit from her lover, that they might fix their marriage-day; and her parents, satisfied and happy that. their child was about to be wedded to a respectable shepherd, had gone to pay a visit to their nearest neighbour in the glen.

A feeble and hesitating knock was at the door, not like the glad and joyful touch of a lover's hand; and, cautiously opening it, Mary Robinson beheld a female figure wrapped up in a cloak, with her face concealed in a black bonnet. The stranger, whoever sh; might be, seemed wearied and worn out, and her feet bore witness to a long day's travel across the marshy mountains. Although she could scarcely help considering her an unwelcome visitor at such an hour, yet Mary had too much sweetness of disposition-too much humanity, not to request her to step forward into the hut; for it seemed as if the wearied woman had lost her way, and had come towards the shining window to be put right upon her journey to the low country.

The stranger took off her bonnet on reaching the fire, and Mary Robinson beheld the face of one whom in youth she had tenderly loved; although, for some years past, the distance at which they lived from each other had kept them from meeting, and only a letter or two, written in their simple way, had given them a few notices of each other's existence. And now Mary had opportunity, in the first speechless gaze of recognition, to mark the altered face of her friend; and her heart was touched with an ignorant_compassion. "For mercy's sake! sit down, Sarah! and tell me what evil has befallen you; for you are as white as a ghost. Fear not to confide anything to my bosom; we have herded sheep together on the lonesome braes; we have stripped the bark together in the more lonesome woods; we have played, laughed, sung, danced together; we have talked merrily and gaily, but innocently enough surely, of sweethearts together; and, Sarah, graver thoughts, too, have we shared, for, when your poor brother died away like a frosted flower, I wept as if I had been his sister; nor can I ever be so happy in this world as to forget him. Tell me, my friend, why are you here? and why is your sweet face so ghastly ?"

The heart of this unexpected visitor died within her at these kind and affectionate inquiries. For she had come on an errand that was likely to dash the joy from that happy countenance. Her heart upbraided her with the meanness of the purpose for which she had paid this visit; but that was only a passing thought; for was she, innocent and free from sin, to submit, not only to desertion, but to disgrace, and not trust herself and her wrongs, and her hopes of redress, to her whom she loved as a sister, and whose generous na

ture she well knew, not even love, the changer of so many things, could change utterly; though, indeed, it might render it colder than of old to the anguish of a female friend.

"Oh! Mary, I must speak; yet must my words make you grieve, far less for me than for yourself. Wretch that I am, I bring evil tidings into the dwelling of my dearest friend! These ribands,they are worn for his sake, they become well, as he thinks, the auburn of your bonny hair; that blue gown is worn to-night because he likes it; but, Mary, will you curse me to my face, when I declare before the God that made us that that man is pledged unto me by all that is sacred between mortal creatures; and that I have here in my bosom written promises and oaths of love from him who, I was this morning told, is in a few days to be thy husband? Turn me out of the hut now, if you choose, and let me, if you choose, die of hunger and fatigue, in the woods where we have so often walked together; for such death would be mercy to me, in comparison with your marriage with him who is mine for ever, if there be a God who heeds the oaths of the creatures he has made."

Mary Robinson had led a happy life, but a life of quiet thoughts, tranquil hopes, and meek desires. Tenderly and truly did she love the man to whom she was now betrothed; but it was because she had thought him gentle, manly, upright, sincere, and one that feared God. His character was unimpeached; to her his behaviour had always been fond, affectionate, and respectful; that he was a finelooking man, and could show himself among the best of the country round at church, and market, and fair-day, she saw and felt with pleasure and pride. But in the heart of this poor, humble, contented, and pious girl, love was not a violent passion, but an affection sweet and profound. She looked forwards to her marriage with a joyful sedateness, knowing that she would have to toil for her family, if blest with children; but happy in the thought of keeping her husband's house clean, of preparing his frugal meals, and welcoming him, when wearied at night, to her faithful, and affectionate, and grateful bosom.

At first, perhaps, a slight flush of anger towards Sarah tinged her cheek; then followed, in quick succession, or all blended together in one sickening pang, fear, disappointment, the sense of wrong, and the cruel pain of disesteeming and despising one on whom her heart had rested with all its best and purest affections. But though there was a keen struggle between many feelings in her heart, her resolution was formed during that very conflict; and she said within herself, "If it be even so, neither will I be so unjust as to deprive poor Sarah of the man who ought to marry her, nor will I be so mean and low-spirited, poor as I am, and dear as he has been unto me, as to become his wife."

While these thoughts were calmly passing in the soul of this magnanimous girl, all her former affection for Sarah revived; and as she sighed for herself, she wept aloud for her friend. "Be quiet, be quiet, Sarah, and sob not so as if your heart were breaking. It need not be thus with you. Oh! sob not so sair! You surely

have not walkea in this one day from the heart of the parish of Montrath ?" "I have indeed done so, and I am as weak as the wreathed snaw. God knows, little matter if I should die away; for, after all, I fear he will never think of me for his wife; and you, Mary, will lose a husband with whom you would have been happy. I feel, after all, that I must appear a mean wretch in your eyes.'

There was silence between them; and Mary Robinson, looking at the clock, saw that it wanted only about a quarter of an hour from the time of tryst. "Give me the oaths and promises you mentioned out of your bosom, Sarah, that I may show them to Gabriel when he comes. And once more I promise, by all the sunny and all the snowy days we have sat together in the same plaid, on the hillside, or in the lonesome charcoal plots and nests o' green in the woods, that if my Gabriel-did I say my Gabriel?-has forsaken you, and deceived me thus, never shall his lips touch mine again-never shall he put ring on my finger-never shall this head lie in his bosom-no, never, never! notwithstanding all the happy, too happy hours and days I have been with him, near or at a distance on the corn-rig-among the meadow-hay—in the singingschool-at harvest-home-in this room-and in God's own house. So help me God, but I will keep this vow!"

Poor Sarah told, in a few hurried words, the story of her love and desertion, how Gabriel, whose business as a shepherd often took him into Montrath parish, had wooed her, and fixed everything about their marriage nearly a year ago. But that he had become causelessly jealous of a young man whom she scarcely knew-had accused her of want of virtue-and for many months had never once come to see her. "This morning, for the first time, I heard for a certainty, from one who knew Gabriel well, and all his concerns, that the bans had been proclaimed in the church between him and you, and that, in a day or two, you were to be married. And, though I felt drowning, I determined to make a struggle for my life-for oh! Mary, Mary, my heart is not like your heart,—it wants your wisdom, your meekness, your piety; and, if I am to lose Gabriel, I will destroy my miserable life, and face the wrath of God sitting in judgment upon sinners."

At this burst of passion, Sarah hid her face with her hands, as if sensible that she had committed blasphemy.-Mary, seeing her wearied, hungry, thirsty, and feverish, spoke to her in the most soothing manner; led her into the little parlour, called the spence, then removed into it the table, with the oaten cakes, butter, and milk; and, telling her to take some refreshment, and then lie down on the bed, but on no account to leave the room till called for, gave her a sisterly kiss, and left her. In a few minutes the outer door opened, and Gabriel entered.

The lover said, "How is my sweet Mary ?" with a beaming countenance; and, gently drawing her to his bosom, he kissed her cheek. Mary did not, could not, wished not, at once to release herself from his enfolding arms. Gabriel had always treated her as the woman who was to be his wife; and though at this time her