under a load of accumulated cares, I thought my petty anxieties and griefs were not subjects to be laid before the eye of Omnipotence. A feverish tide of troubled thought was rushing through my soul, where hope had forsaken her last resting place, and frightful apprehensions contended for the empire she had just resigned. Not one of all the fair pictures of imagination now seemed tangible and true, but dark visions of futurity opened upon me through the mist of tears. If religion be the blessed messenger sent down upon earth to still the sighs of the sorrowing when the footsteps of time or death have trampled down their earthly treasures, to calm the waters of affliction, and bind up the broken-hearted; not less is her holy influence needed to smoothe the ruffled mind, which petty cares have made their prey, to quiet the rapid and tumultuous throbbings of the heart, and to direct the wandering wishes which find no certain gratification in this troubled world, to one whose pleasures are unfading, and whose rest is eternal. CHAPTER XIII. On the following morning I awoke with many serious thoughts, but still without any fixed determination to pursue a more decided path. My attention was absorbed by present difficulties, which I vainly tortured my ingenuity to find expedients to escape from. Indeed my whole life was a system of expedients, not to attain any laudable object, but to help me on the winding and circuitous way, by which I hoped to arrive at the universal good-will of society. I was pondering in my own chamber upon the propriety of returning the price of my picture to Sir Charles, whose charity (for I could not attribute to him any other motive in his purchase,) was not exactly what I wished to profit by; and against the return of this money I was setting the discharge of the debt I owed to Mrs. Wilson; weighing the difficulties, and comparing evils, when a letter was brought to me from my sister. Well remembering the insulting nature of my last to her, I opened it with nervous terror, soon quieted by the kind and delicate manner in which a very eligible situation was proposed to me, and a supply of the ever needful conveyed, without the slightest allusion to the past. I was now great again, for all human greatness is by comparison. I returned the ten guineas in a blank cover, made presents to the little Wilsons, prepared for my journey, and took leave of my poor friend, with that rapidity of execution with which we escape from the misery that we cannot relieve. I was met at the distance of one stage from my future residence by a gentleman's servant, whose kind and respectful behaviour was a sure and pleasant omen of domestic comfort. It was late in the afternoon when I first saw the lights of Mr. Morton's habitation glimmering through the leafless trees, as we wound along the side of a hill, and descended by a gentle declivity into a thickly wooded valley, where the bright line of a narrow and meandering river was here and there seen glancing through the mist. At the door I was received with a cordial welcome by a matronly-looking woman, who might be either housekeeper or nurse, and who in either situation had obtained sufficient knowledge of the domestic affairs of the family, to be able to satisfy the demands of my curiosity. Mr. Morton was a widower, within the last year deprived of a wife whom he had almost idolized, since whose death he had but rarely been seen to smile. He was a man of fastidious tastes, and secluded habits, not lavish of his affections, but when he did love, it was with tenderness unspeakable; and all that he now seemed capable of feeling was expended upon an only child, whose extremely delicate constitution rendered her an object of painful solicitude. "You will think Mr. Morton cold and forbidding at first," said my informer, who was kindly disposed to let me into every secret; "but there never was a more devoted husband, a kinder father, or a better master; and if you can but attach yourself to the poor child, and win her affection, you will be sure of his." Although the worthy woman possibly meant nothing more than her master's good will, when she spoke of his affection, I thought this was going too far, and changed the subject by asking some questions about the child, when I was shocked to learn that there was every probability of her remaining an invalid for life. and intelligent eyes of one who could think as well as feel. I saw at once the departed mother, whose sacred silence subdued my lighter feelings, and I inwardly resolved that the reverence with which her pictured form inspired me should be my safeguard and protection while cherishing her orphan child. Forcibly impressed as my mind already was with what I had heard and seen, I was yet more deeply interested on entering the room where the poor invalid lay. Her father was bending over her couch, and rose not until I approached, when he regarded me with an earnest and scrutinizing eye, as if to ascertain whether I were such a person as his daughter would find it possible to like. "She was a sweet young creature," said Mrs. Woods; "none can help loving her who have seen her suffer. Oh! what a comfort you will be, ma'am, to this family! "You have undertaken a wearisome task," For though we may nurse and do all that we said the child, holding out her hand to me, can, Miss Eleanor is now able to converse" but if you can bear with me and my impalike a woman, and wants better society than tience, every one else, I am sure, will try to such as me. Indeed we sometimes think make you comfortable." she is too sensible, and that having such busy thoughts and quick feelings, makes her health more delicate. But oh! ma'am, you will be a comfort to her. I know you will." And so saying, Mrs. Woods left me to enjoy without interruption, and for the first time in my life, the hope of being really and properly useful. The apartment into which I had been shown was called Miss Eleanor's study; but it wore more decidedly the character of a sick room, and though a few well-chosen books lay on the table, couches, cushions, and various inventions for the alleviation of suffering, bore testimony to the melancholy truth, that if this were the path to science, it was not strewn with flowers. A few appropriate pictures adorned the walls, such as simple cottage scenery, a girl drawing water at a well, a child at play, a favourite dog, a bird let loose. One large painting hung above the fire, concealed by a curtain, which I ventured to raise. It was the figure of a Madonna, beautifully executed, not with the unmeaning cour tenance by which most artists have chosen to disgrace this holy character, but with the clcar forehead "And will not you, my love?" asked the father. "I will do my best," said she-“ but there is very little that I can do." "You can tell me freely all you want,” said I. "Ah! that I am sure I will!" she exclaimed; "you look so kind I know I shall be able to tell you every thing. But are you strong? are you healthy? are you quite able to keep awake sometimes in the night? Poor Mrs. Woods sleeps so soundly, I do not like to disturb her, and the night is so long when nobody speaks to me. It is a sad thing, Miss Irvine, that sickness makes us selfish." "It has so pleased the disposer of our lives." I replied, "that no situation shall be without its peculiar trials. During sickness when we are exempt from any of the temptations of the world, and are almost compelled from our very weakness to seek for divine support, we might possibly grow selfrighteous, had not this temptation been permitted, to convince us that we are still subject to the most despicable of human frailties." Mr. Morton looked attentively at me, as if to discern the spirit which had prompted this speech; but the unsophisticated child, satisfied that none but a good woman could talk so well, asked me if I were not too weary to sleep beside her that night. She evidently wished it, and I could not refuse. Her father now left us, and we entered into many arrangements respecting personal comfort, and were soon as familiar and cordial as if we had been acquainted for years. Mrs. Woods would willingly have retained her place for that night, but the sudden preference poor Eleanor entertained for me, rendered me more than willing to share whatever disturbance she might endure. The enjoyment of sleep I could not even anticipate. Strange visions of the past and future flitted before my mind, nor was the present less strange to me that it was rich in promises of peace and comfort. To be regarded with affection by this suffering child, it might be with esteem by her father, and to contribute to the happiness of both, was a harvest of enjoyment I was all unworthy to reap. I looked back into my past life, and tried to blame my luckless fate for half the culpability to which my burning tears bore witness. I had few deliberate and determined sins to charge my conscience with. The world had certainly dealt unfairly with me. I felt nothing but kindness and good will towards the whole human race, and only wished I could prove by self-sacrifice, how inexhaustible was that kindness, how unfailing that good-will. Every subterfuge that human frailty could lay hold of I tried that night, to convince myself that I had no need to be unhappy, but it would not do. Conviction came not so readily as my tears, and I wished myself a child again, that I might offer up to heaven an unsophisticated mind, and bow before the throne of mercy in perfect simplicity and singleness of heart. It is true there was no moral stain upon my character. I had laboured hard to promote the happiness of others, and religious sentiments were familiar to my lips; but how stood my trembling soul in the presence of its Creator? I could weep at midnight over my thorny and bewildered path, but I never, either at midnight or noon-day, breathed an humble prayer that I might be solely guided by his will. I never formed an earnest resolution that I would serve Him and Him only. I never seriously endeavoured to lay hold of those promises by which the burden of past transgression is made more tolerable, nor looked with steadiness towards that star whose inextinguishable light would have led me safely through the storms of life. Unacquainted with the importance of liv ing for one object only, some may be disposed to think that I distressed myself more than was necessary, so long as what the world calls guilt was not stamped upon my conscience; but are we not told in the record of eternal truth, that those who are not for the righteous cause are against it? And though I could freely and fluently recommend religion to others as an ultimate good, where was the evidence of my own espousal. While pondering in my own mind upon a world of dark and troubled thoughts, my attention was arrested by the sweet voice of my companion, repeating, in a low and gentle tone, the following words:— In the still watches of the solemn night, While chilly dews are falling thick and damp, The silent mourner trims her cheerless lamp. Alone! There is no loneliness with God, No darkness that he cannot turn to light; There is no wilderness whose desert caves Are hid from his all-penetrating eye; There is no bark upon the trackless main, No pilgrim lone, whose path he cannot see Peace then, poor mourner, trim thy lamp again, The eye that knows no slumber, watches thee. These words were followed by a sigh so deep and heavy, that I roused myself from my fruitless meditations to ask, whether my young friend was in pain. "Not so much in pain, as weary,” she replied. "I am afraid I have disturbed you, but the night is very long, and my mother used to teach me to repeat verses and hymns when I could not rest. You must not pay any regard to me, but try to sleep again." I replied, that I had not yet slept. "Ah! I dare say you have been thinking of your home." ."I have no home, my love." "No home! Then you must sometimes be very sad. But still you have a home for your thoughts. Some secret resting place of which no one can deprive you." Poor child! she little knew in what a barren wilderness my thoughts were ranging, nor how long it was since they had found a resting place. I made no answer, and the invalid, somewhat excited by fever, went on with her conversation, asking with perfect simplicity, many close questions which I had no choice but to answer, yet to answer which, fully and candidly, would have deprived me for ever of her esteem. Towards morning, however, she slept soundly, and awoke without much recollection of what had passed in the night. I had now a severe ordeal to pass through in the presence of Morton, whose commanding countenanee, reserved manners, and strict scrutinizing eye, rendered him a truly alarming person, when brought into close contact with one who felt no certainty of his approbation. I soon found that the society of this man would either render me more contemptible, by driving me to the practice of deceit, or more worthy, by inspiring the desire to merit his respect, which it was easy to discover could be obtained in no other way, than by a steady, consistent, and rational course of action. The mind of Morton was not so expansive as his character was dignified, and his tastes refined and exclusive. Had he seen more of the world, he might have been more liberal, but his senti ments would have been less pure. What would I not have given for a full and complete conviction, that he thought he had acted wisely in choosing me for the companion of his child? I vain I sought to win his favour by every artifice which I deemed too remote for detection. Artifice had no effect upon a character so firm and sterling. What I failed to accomplish in this way, was, however, in time effected by my simple and unstudied services to his child; who sometimes gave her father such glowing descriptions of my unremitting kindness, that he rewarded me with a smile too expressive of entire confidence, for me ever to forget. It was, indeed, as the kind nurse had told me; no one could witness the sufferings of Eleanor Morton without loving her. She was not impatient, but so perfectly guileless, that she concealed nothing, and after having permitted herself to speak as she thought too freely of her own distressing feelings, she would sometimes shed, over what she called her weakness and ingratitude, tears more agonizing than pain alone had been able to wring from her. With no one was she so completely undisguised in her moments of suffering, as with me. "Mrs. Woods," said she, "pities me too much, and I cannot tell my father all that I feel, lest I should distress him. It is quite different with us all now that you are come, Miss Irvine. Are you not happy to have made us so cheerful again? Even my father is quite an altered man. I thought this morning, when he looked at you, that he smiled as he used to smile upon my mother. And do you know he talks of inviting company to the house again, for he says it is not good for you to lead so secluded a life. I replied, that my wish was only to be useful, and that I felt no want of society. "Well, don't say anything about it, for I am quite sure it will do him good, as well as you, to have some one now and then to converse with out of our own family. I dare say you will take all the trouble off his hands, and will not let him feel the want of my mother, who used to be so easy and pleasant in conversation, that entertaining company has appeared quite impossible to my poor father, since he was alone." I could not help feeling a secret glow of exultation at the idea that I should now be able to exhibit my character to Morton, in what I considered its most pleasing light. The guests arrived. I had dressed myself with studied care; and my spirits rose, with the prospect of once more having a fair field, in which to exercise my powers of pleasing. Knowing, too well, the trial of patience it must be to Morton to carry on the empty common-place of desultory conversation, I endeavoured to relieve his difficulty, by doubling and redoubling my natural vivacity; and whatever his guests might think of my proper station in his establishment, I was fully convinced of their perfect satisfaction in finding so lively and entertaining a person, for that day, at the head of it. More than once I detected the steady eyes of Morton fixed upon me, when his lips were silent, and there was an earnest meaning in his gaze, which made the colour rush into my face-I knew not why. At last he left the room, and for so long a time, that I began to think seriously of my little invalid friend; and apologizing to the company for the necessity of attending to duties which I had too long forgotten, I ran hastily up stairs to pay my first visit to Eleanor since the arrival of the guests. Her father was bending over her couch in the same attitude in which I had first seen him. They had been conversing, but their voices dropped when I opened the door; and when Morton rose for me to take my proper place, he pressed his handkerchief to his eyes with more emotion than he was wont to betray, and hastily left the room. "Come near to me, my friend," said Eleanor, stretching out her hand. "You have been a long time away. I am afraid my father thinks you have neglected me; and there is so much mirth below, he does not know how to bear it. My mother was a very gentle woman, such as you are in the nursery "I am always sorry when I have given pain," said I. "Perhaps you are too anxious to give pleasure," continued the child. "And that I am sure would give my father pain in any one he loved." I was almost comforted with the close of this sentence, for there was a certain refinement and devotion in the character of Morton, that made his esteem the highest object of my ambition. But his love!-I had never dared to think of his love before. "We heard of you," the child went on, "long before we saw you; that you were a very charming woman, a sort of idol in society. Now, my father is worth pleasing, but you cannot please him and all the world beside. He will explain to you better than I can, how it makes a person little and contemptible to be always studying to please, and how there is but one Being in the universe whose favour is worth the constant trouble of obtaining. Do not think me impertinent, Miss Irvine, for speaking to you in this manner; I am only an ignorant child, but I lie here upon this weary bed, pondering upon many grave and serious things, which, if I could enjoy exercise, and play like other children, I should most likely never dream of. Tell me, my dear friend, that you are not offended." "No, no," I replied, "I am distressed, but not offended. You shall be my kind and faithful monitress, Eleanor, for your Heavenly Father makes up to you for the privations he inflicts, by a clearer sense of what is right, than I have ever enjoyed." "But may you not enjoy the same? May not all who wish to be directed find a guide ?" "Yes, Eleanor, but to wish earnestly and with true sincerity of heart is the difficulty." "And to wish always is another difficulty. For sometimes when I am quite at ease, and kind friends are doing more than enough, I do wish from the bottom of my heart, that I may never be impatient again; but when |