"And you will let me? I did it, you know," said Clara, with some indistinct hope of evading confession, or at least softening the offence.

Effie was out when Herbert returned. The thought of the picture had haunted her all day, but she thought he would soon know all about it, and she did not care so long as all was told openly and honestly. She wished they had told Mrs. Vivian, but Clara would not, and her promise kept her silent. It was a rash promise, and Effie was beginning to think so; but she did not know yet how rash. Herbert had returned, and gone to his painting-room, and there what a sight met him! the easel prostrate, the painting materials scattered about, the portrait daubed with oil-the precious portrait! Of course inquiries were made, but no one knew anything about it.

"The picture is ruined," said Herbert. "Whoever did the mischief knows how dear it was to me; but I would rather have anything than concealment."

Clara half came forward, paused, and thought how much worse the mischief was than she had imagined; she did not know the picture was so injured. And Herbert seemed so vexed!

"Clara, do you know anything about it?"

The question was sudden; the habit of Clara's mind was not truthful, and in great alarm she answered, "No." Then she would have given anything to take back the word; but Herbert had passed to some one else, and the opportunity was gone. Herbert was exceedingly vexed, but he never suspected Effie. He noticed she was not there, but some one had said she was in the village. Any one but her; insincerity was so unlike Effie. accompanied him to his painting-room, offering to put things right again. Herbert had rather rejected the offer, but Lily was too anxious to find out the culprit to care. She had a secret hope it was Effie, a hope she was ashamed to own even to herself; and during the examination she had ventured to suggest, "Has every

one been asked ?"

"Yes, every one."

"Effie is not here," said Lily.

66

Lily

No, so I see; but if Effie knew anything about it, she would be the first to own it," said Herbert, coldly.

"I'm sure she didn't do it," cried Clara, eagerly.

"That's right, little maid; always stand up for absent friends," said Herbert.

Lilias said no more, but she thought, and indignantly too, that Herbert might have trusted her as fully. She began to arrange all the things again; and as she did so, she noticed something twisted in the easel. "What is this?" she asked, taking hold of it. "What is this?"

"It is a handkerchief! and it must belong to whoever did the mischief," said Lily.

Herbert looked up. "Whose is it ?" and Lily began to examine eagerly. "E. M.! Effie Moreton! it is Effie's!"

"Effie's! O, impossible-quite impossible !" exclaimed Herbert. "Look," answered Lily, coldly.

66

'It is—it certainly is," said Herbert; "and yet—it is so unlike Effie. I will not believe her guilty till I have questioned her myself."

When Effie came in, every one was in the drawing room. She came up to speak to Herbert, and her manner was nervous and stiff, and every one noticed it; and Effie felt they did, and that made her worse. Clara turned red and pale, and red again, wondering if Effie would tell, and trying to think, if she did not, it would not so much signify, for Mr. Vivian would be sure not to scold a visitor much.

"Effie, do you know anything about the picture in Herbert's room?" asked Mr. Vivian, after a little pause. "The easel has been overturned, and the picture nearly spoiled. If you know anything about it-❞

"I ? Has not-has not-" began Effie, in great amazement, and turning quickly to Clara; but Clara looked steadfastly away. Mr. Vivian continued "Every one denies having done it. You are accustomed to go in and out of that room; can you help

us ?"

"I went in-I did not know we might not."

“Effie, I told you all not," said Herbert.

"Indeed, indeed, I did not know," exclaimed Effie.

"But at all events you knew you were not to look at the portrait," said her uncle, sternly.

Effie was silent; she dared not speak, lest she should betray Clara.

"And you disobeyed, and you overturned the easel," said her uncle. "Why did you not own it at once?"

"I did not," exclaimed Effie.

"You have partly owned it," said Mr. Vivian. "Effie, these evasions are unworthy of you. Tell us simply and plainly how it happened?"

Effie was silent, and tears gathered in her eyes. "She is very sorry," said Ellen kindly.

66

Very sorry it is discovered," said Mr. Vivian.

"True sorrow

would make her honest; better now than not at all. Now, Effie,

did you or did you not do the mischief?"

"Not all," faltered Effie.

"Not all! who else did?"

Effie's words were inaudible; something about Dash she murmured, but nothing was articulate.

"Dash!" said Mr. Vivian, still more displeased. "I see it is no use questioning you; I shall say no more, except that I am very, very deeply disappointed in you. You may go."

Effie retreated, not daring to look up. Clara followed her. "Effie, dear Effie, thank you! it was so kind of you not to tell ; papa would have been so angry. Don't look so unhappy, please."

Effie turned away from the kiss, and Clara had no time to say more, for Lilias appeared. There was something of triumph in Lily's manner that was harder than anything to bear. Then Mrs. Vivian spoke to Effie so kindly, but so gravely,-how Effie longed to tell her all! Every one seemed changed; every one was, or seemed, cold and stiff to her. Poor little Effie! it was very hard to bear; and the last touch was Herbert's passing her without speaking to her. Effie could stand it no longer; she ran into the garden and disappeared, and there, after a long search, Edmund found her, sobbing bitterly, and lying on the turf; and the turf was very damp, and it was raining even then, but Effie had not noticed it.

"Effie!" said Edmund. The sound of his voice made her start and look up. "What are you doing here, you silly little thing?" "His-they are all—” Effie's voice was choked with sobs,

and she could not get on.

66

Well, I don't understand this, but I don't believe a word of all that picture humbug, that's certain," said Edmund.

"Thank you," exclaimed Effie. came into her mind, and she stopped.

"I did-" Then Clara

"You didn't do it, then? I knew you didn't,” said Edmund. "Now just tell me who did ?"

"No, don't ask me, I can't tell you; but thank you for trusting me, Edmund," said Effie.

"Well, come in now; you'll be ill," said Edmund. "You are quite wet, you little goose. There, don't begin crying again; I don't believe a word of all this, and never mind the rest. Come in."

Edmund's rough good-nature comforted Effie for the time, but it was the most miserable day she had ever spent. And her papa and Edith would hear of all this! It was no great wonder if Effie grew feverish and ill towards evening; the excitement of that day, and the chill from lying on the damp grass, was enough to make a stronger person ill. Mrs. Vivian looked at the pale face,-pale, except where two crimson spots burned on her cheeks,-and the dark, glittering eyes, with alarm. She felt her hand-it was burning-and inquired what she had been doing? "not sitting out of doors, I hope?"

"Yes, aunt; I forgot it was damp, and I lay down for a long while on the grass," said Effie, bravely.

Mrs. Vivian blamed her, but Herbert's manner softened; he

began to think it was very extraordinary she should face certain blame so fearlessly, if she had shrunk from doing so as he had believed about the picture. There was evidently a mystery somewhere, and he began to fancy Effie could not be the culprit after all. Meanwhile, Mrs. Vivian ordered her to go to bed, and Effie accordingly prepared to do so.

66

Good-night," ," she said, coming up to Herbert, and looking up timidly and wistfully.

"Good-night, my dear," answered Herbert, kindly; and the unexpectedness of that kindness made it very hard for Effie to help crying. She could not sleep; and we all know how long the night seems to one ill and sleepless. Effie thought she had been awake half the night, and just then it struck eleven. She grew more and more restless, and a feverish longing seized her to go and look at the portrait of her sister Blanche. She used to do so every night when she could steal in unobserved, but this evening she had been prevented. Mildred was not gone to bed, for she heard music in the drawing-room. There were matches in the room, and Lily was sleeping elsewhere that night, as Mrs. Vivian thought Effie would be better alone, as she was not well; and wrapping her dressinggown round her, she lighted a lamp, and stole into Mildred's room. All was still; Mildred was not there. Effie put down her lamp, and stood gazing at the portrait. The sweet face seemed to look sadly upon her, and to Effie's excited and feverish imagination it seemed as if the portrait-the image of her dearly loved sisterunderstood and sympathised with her trouble; and clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "O, Blanche, dear sister, let me come to you !"

As Effie spoke, Mildred came in, and started to see her there. "Effie, my dear child, you here! what is the matter?"

Effie turned to her as if she did not understand her, or quite know who it was.

"My dear Effie, are you ill? what has happened? have you been here long?"

Effie put her hand up to her forehead. "I could not sleep, and I had not seen her to-night; so I was obliged to come, you know." "You must go back to bed now," said Mildred, terrified at the wandering manner, and hot, parched hand. "You will be ill; how feverish you are!"

Mildred carried her back to her own room, and watched by her till she fell into a sleep which seemed calm and sound; but early next morning, Mrs. Vivian was roused by nurse's entrance, saying she thought Miss Effie seemed very poorly-had they not better send for Dr. Vaughan? Mrs. Vivian was alarmed, for nurse was not easily frightened; and she dressed hastily, and went to see Effie. It was evident nurse had not been anxious without reason, and it only remained to follow her advice as speedily as possible.

101

THOUGHTS OF THE PAST, SUITED TO THE
PRESENT.

To the Editor of the Churchman's Companion.

REV. SIR,-There is a book not yet half a century old, which, for its profound and attractive wisdom, winning tenderness of tone, and a certain sprinkling of playful humour, deserves to he in every English hand, and heart. But, like many other good things in this restless, novelty-craving age, the thirty years' correspondence between Jebb and Knox is so little familiar to the general reader, that it may not be a piece of needless impertinence to invite attention to the following passage, bearing so remarkably as it does on "the things which be," that it might with almost equal fitness have for its date eighteen hundred and fifty-one. I am, respectfully yours,

A. M.

"Our evenings at B- ," writes Knox, (March, 1824,)" for some time before I came off, were particularly pleasant. It had struck me to recommend for Mr. L.'s amusement, as he always expects reading in the evening, that Clarendon's History of the Rebellion should be read en suite. I was not disappointed; Mr. L. became interested to my fullest expectation; and no old lady could ever have longed more for her evening cards, than Mr. L. for his evening regale from Clarendon. Mrs. L. was generally our reader. I could not assist," (one of the writer's eyes was at this time painfully affected,) "but it so engaged me, that I thought of going with double regret, until it struck me that I could get Michael to read the same to me from the point at which the last reading at B- ended. He has done so, and this day (March 26th) we have passed poor Charles's last

scene.

"Having gone so far through it, I deliberately say, every thinking inhabitant of this United Kingdom ought to read Clarendon. It is the most interesting and instructive human history I ever knew; and I am certain there is none like it. It has made me a more intelligent Church of England man than I ever was before. It could not make me a more cordial one; but I see more clearly than I had ever yet seen, that the perfect entablature of Christian faith and practice, without daubing or defilement on the one hand, and without defect or mutilation on the other, is to be found only in the Church of England.

"The hand of Providence seems in this history as really ma