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and without a friend, (for the pittance bestowed by a relation towards her support did not entitle him to that name,) grew up in her turn. She became indeed a very beautiful woman. And she attracted the love of a man named Elliott, of energetic disposition, whose brother had some years before emigrated to America. His prospects were very considerable; and it was agreed that Elliott and his wife should live in America, with this brother. But before going thither, Mary resolved, if possible, to see Truepenny, to ascertain his condition, and to give him certain tender messages which the tender and unforgetting Sophy had, on her dying bed, required her to give. Mary had already made various endeavours to communicate with him, but all, (from his change of residence and uncertain mode of life,) had failed. For this purpose she and Elliott came to London.

After many difficulties they found Truepenny, in a poor lodging, in a poor street. He had the same hopes and visions the same means and necessities, as heretofore. He had not gone back, nor forward. He made good resolutions daily, all of which he broke. He was so accustomed to these failures that he ceased to feel either shame or remorse. He owed a few small debts, which the labour of the coming month would enable him to discharge; but no money could remain in his hands, even for a day. He looked shabby, and worn, and dissipated; his face was red, almost bloated, and he complained of "twinges of gout.' Should he die in the next week, there was no doubt that the parish of B-- would have to sustain the cost of his funeral.

Before leaving England, Elliott and his wife (after expending a small sum for Jack Truepenny's "comforts")

pressed him to accompany them. "A literary man like you must do well in America," said Elliott. But Jack declined. "I shall only be a burthen to you," said he. "No, no; I'll stay here for a few years-three or four years —and if I work hard and save-and I will save—why I shall put by something for rainy weather. Yes, yes," added he, warming into his old delusion, "I have no doubt that in three years I shall start for your log house. What shall I bring you, Mary-eh? Something for the children?" "But if-" interposed Mary. "Well, and suppose I don't," broke in Jack," what! You'll give me a crust and a cup of milk, and a bench in the chimney corner, I am certain."-They bade him farewell-they, with bright visions of the future -well-founded hopes-he, with golden dreams also, which enriched and covered the poverty by which he was surrounded.

A few words will complete this little story.-" As for Elliott and his wife," said an American, when giving me an account of some poor emigrant families, "they got on admirably. They were just the sort of people to thrive in a young colony. They had some money; a good deal of prudence; could put up with hardships; and were not afraid of work. Their children are healthy, their land well cultivated, and their neighbours intelligent and social.”

They, however, sincerely pitied and desired to help the poor man left in England-him whom Sophy Arnold had so long loved. They wrote to him repeatedly, but obtained no answer; they remitted him money for his journey, but in vain. At first, they were grievously disappointed; but custom inures us to almost everything. They would not

give up all hope of his coming; yet they taught themselves to expect disappointment. When the spring came round, as usual, Mrs. Elliott would say, "I hope poor Mr. Truepenny will come out with the emigrant vessels;" but he failed to come. And the next year passed, and the next, -and the next,-and he never came!

He lived, for a few years, after the departure of the Elliotts, still the same infirm, profitless, struggling, dreaming man as formerly. Without any strong affections, but with the same appetites as ever, the same hopes, (never realized and never abandoned,) he travelled onwards, on the great journey which is common to all; stumbling, at last, into a parish grave; without money or friends, or help of any kind; and leaving nothing behind him, except a moral by which, perhaps, no one will ever be wise enough to profit.

High and Low,

A TRUE TALE OF TRAQUAIR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "GUY LIVINGSTONE."

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JADY HELEN called on her foster-sister-
Said "Come thou hither, my May,

A dead man cumbers my bower to-night:
'Tis time the corpse were away:

Foul shame it were, if they found him there,
Sith to-morrow's my wedding day."

He lay, with blue eyes open wide,

One hand on his sword-hilt pressed,
His brow just curved in a startled frown,
A round red stain on his breast.

And just in the midst of the sanguine spot
Where the doublet had fallen apart,

A portrait, tied to a silky tress,

Kept its place, on the pulseless heart.

"Now lift thou the corpse's head, my May,
And I will carry his feet;

We will cast him in at the mouth of the linn
Where the tide and the torrent meet."

Maid May, she stood at her mistress' side
And gazed in the face of the dead

Till her cheek grew whitest of the three,
But never a word she said.

One at his head, one at his feet,
Slowly they bore him down,

To where the rush of the rising tide
'Counters the torrent brown.

Under the moonlight met like swords
The eyes of the living two;
Lady Helen's lip was steady as stone,
Maid May's was bitten through.

The moon shone full on portrait and tress,
And lighted the features fair:
No living face save dark-browed May's
Might match their beauty rare.

The tress was black as mirk of nights
When the year is at full Yule-tide:
Red-brown, as waning Autumn's leaves

Were the curls of the great Earl's bride.

"Though his blood is wet upon my hand Thine is the deadlier sin:

But I wed at the noon, and the East is greySee I curse thee not, but I only pray

By the mother that nursed us both, false May, Help me to cast him in!"

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