rational, and not to add to my mother's misery, by rushing into danger. She also pointed out what she thought it would be most adviseable for me to do.

In a field of my father's, at the bottom of his garden, is a neat cottage, occupied by a respectable old woman and her daughter. This old woman is by profession a nurse, and was actually at that time in attendance on my father. Her daughter is a dress-maker, and a very respectable person, well known to us. The servant advised me to go to this cottage, and remain there till she could consult my mother respecting me. Oh! it was with a heavy, heavy heart, that I turned away from my sorrowful home to seek a refuge in this cottage, from the cruel disease which threatened the life of several of those most dear to me.

Such indeed was my agony, that the porter who was with me carrying my trunk, could not refrain from trying to comfort me as we walked along; and one sentence which he dropped at that time was not without its influence" Miss," he said, "don't be down hearted, God is all sufficient-You must pray to him, and he will have pity on you." I continued to weep and sob till I reached the little wicket which opened into the cottage garden, and had not the porter helped me out, I should not for some time have been able to have explained to Mary Evans, the nurse's daughter, the reason for my appearance at such an hour, with my trunks and with my dress all in disorder, for I had travelled, as I before said, most part of the night. As soon, however, as the young woman understood my distress, she shewed me every possible kindness, she put clean sheets on her bed, and made me lie down, for I was very much fatigued. She made me some tea, and brought it up to me; after which she sat down by me with her needle, and I slept for several hours. But when I awoke and looked round me, and

found myself in a cottage, instead of a gay lodging in a fashionable watering place, and remembered too the reason for my being there, I felt almost as if my senses would have forsaken me. I sat up in bed, and cried and sobbed with violence, wringing my hands, and calling on my dear father. "Oh papa, papa," I exclaimed, "Oh that I had never, never left you! How happy my sisters will be even if they should die, for they were with you, dear papa, when I was far away;" and then I insisted upon getting up, and going to inquire after my father.

"You must not go to the house, Miss," said Mary Evans. "Think what your mother's distress would be if you were to get the fever, and you would be more liable to get it than another, coming as you do out of fresh air; you will not promise me to keep at a distance from the house, I will go immediately and complain to your mother."

if

"I will promise, Mary, I will promise," I answered; "but let me go to the rails which divide the field from the garden, and let me look at the house, and call to the gardener; I shall go distracted if you will not let me do that."

"To be sure I will, Miss," said Mary, "I would not add to your grief-you have enough to bear ;" and she helped me to dress, for I trembled so, that I could not put on my clothes, and when I was dressed, I went out, promising to return by one o'clock, when dinner was to be ready. And now, my dear reader, think what I must have felt, I who had been accustomed to be the indulged and happy member of a large and affectionate family; who had but a few days past been moving about in the gayest scenes of fashion, and of earthly pleasure. What must have been the misery and horror of my condition, as I stepped out alone and unnoticed from the humble cottage, where I had been glad to find a refuge, and

entered by a little wicket into the orchard which joined my father's garden, being afraid at each step of meeting some one who might tell me that my father or my sisters

were no more.

The orchard is extensive, and is deeply shadowy in some places. A few benches were set here and there under the trees. I remembered scenes which had past in each of these places. There I had sat when a little child on my father's knee--there I had been with my sisters engaged in dressing our dolls-there I had gone alone to learn my lessons-and there our mother had sat with her young ones around her to amuse them with such little tales as children love. But all these recollections only added to my anguish, and every object I beheld seemed only to make me more and more miserable.

At length I was seen from an upper window of my father's house, as I stood leaning against the railing at the bottom of the garden, by the same servant who had spoken to me in the morning, and the next minute she appeared in the garden, but stopped at some distance. from me. "How is my father, Susan," I said. She hesitated a little, and then replied, "much the same Miss."

"He is worse," I answered. "I am sure he is worse." "No;" she replied, "no, I hope not, but he is very bad, I would not deceive you dear Miss. There is nothing now to be done for him but to pray that he may be spared to his family; but, dear Miss, you must not come nearer, Your mamma sends her kindest love to you, and begs you as you value her blessing not to come here. She is very sorry for you. She wept, when she heard you were returned, and she approved of what I had advised you to do; but you must not come a step nearer." So saying, she turned away, and I saw that she was weeping. I dropped on the grass at the moment Susan turned from

me, and I think that for some seconds I must have quite lost my recollection, for I can remember, as I came to myself, that every object in the orchard seemed to be reversed, and that it was some time before they appeared to settle again into their places. A violent burst of tears then relieved me, and I continued to weep for a length of time; and it so happened, that as I was drawing out my handkerchief from my pocket, to wipe away my tears, that my long neglected little Red Book fell at my feet.

It is written, "cast thy bread upon the waters, and after many days thou shalt find it." My father had done this, and it was at that time that this, his act of faith was to receive its reward. My eyes, as I wiped the tears from them, fell upon my book, and at the same time a tender and sweet recollection presented itself of the day and hour, and paternal manner, in which that book had been given to me; and with these recollections, came (I think I may venture to say,) the first truly gracious experience of contrition I had ever known; from that instant a sort of childlike feeling of sorrow for my past hardness and selfishness was shed over my mind, and I began to see that all I now suffered was no more than I had deserved from my undutiful and unfeeling conduct towards my parents; and whereas a moment before I had thought myself the most unfortunate of human beings, I now began to see that I had been dealt most mercifully with, in having (against my inclinations) been brought so near my parents, that I could hear hourly of my father's state of health, and look at the house which contained him, instead of being obliged to wait in cruel suspense at Barmouth, for the coming in of the post every four and twenty hours.

In this (I trust) improved state of mind, I took up my little book, resolving to make it my friend and counsellor, and opening it casually, I found these passages :—

"He hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted." Psalm xxii. 24.

"Afflictions, though they seem severe,

In mercy oft are sent ;

They stopped the prodigal's career,
And forced him to repent."

"Despise not the chastening of the Lord, neither be weary of his correction, for whom the Lord loveth, he correcteth, even as a father the son in whom he delighteth." Prov. iii. 11, 12.

And is it possible, I thought, that all these trials have been brought upon me to bring me to that which is right; and does my God love me, notwithstanding my pride and my rebellion; and I fell on my knees, and if I mistake not poured forth my whole soul in a prayer which denoted a contrite and a truly childlike spirit.

Although I had heard no good news, yet my mind was assuredly in a less miserable state when I returned to the cottage to dinner, than it had been in when I left it. Yet I had that intolerable anxiety and restlessness upon me, that I had scarcely tasted what had been provided for me, before I again returned to the orchard to watch for any one who could give me information. My mother, I found afterwards, could not bring herself to see me; but the gardener spoke to me, and tried to comfort me, although he had no good news to tell me, for my sisters were worse, and my father no better; and as I still lingered in the orchard, the nurse came out to me towards sun-set, and begged me to return to the cottage, assuring me that I should become ill if I exposed myself to the night air. Neither did I get any comfort from this second messenger, but during the whole of that long evening I had from time to time been consulting my little Red Book, and had been particularly struck by some passages which I had found, referring to the month of August.