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“Oh; but you shall be happy with us, for everybody will love you; and we have lots of playthings for you, nice dolls with eyes that open and shut, and cups, and saucers, and many other things of the same sort. So don't cry any more, but be a good little girl, and then you'll soon be one of us."

But Rose wept the more bitterly, and her sighs were deeper drawn, until again she sank into a sweet sleep, and felt as if she were once more by her mother's side.

Thus for some days matters continued, until the gipsies thinking they were in safety, encamped on a wild common a little way from a town, though not so far distant but that they could go out at night, and get a supply of provisions from the hen-roosts of the neighbouring farms.

The morning after they reached this spot was most beautiful. There was over nature a mild and gentle calm, and the honeysuckles in the hedge, on which the dew still rested, seemed tinged with silver and gold, and filled the air with their grateful fragrance. The arch of heaven above them was covered all over with the bright blue, that spake of hope. The birds sang their morning hymns of thankfulness in their richest and most delicious notes; so that when Rose awoke, she could not but think of the day on which she had been taken from her home. She thought of her dear parents, who were mourning her loss, and she tried to bring to her little mind how they had looked, and what they had said, and how many times she had grieved them. And then she thought of her little pet dog, and her Shetland pony, and all the playthings she had left behind her. And so her little heart was very sad. She was sitting by herself. The young children belonging to the gipsies were sporting gaily over the common, for they were happy in the roving way of life, as they had never known any other. The elder portion of the group were sitting round a large fire of wood, at which a fowl, a portion of their ill-gotten spoil, was being roasted. Upon the grass was spread a cloth, on which were placed the breakfast things. When Rose saw all this, and remembered how differently she had been situated, she wept again more bitterly than before, and said to herself, “Mamma used to tell me of a great God Who dwells in heaven, and that He careth for us, and blesseth the good. Oh! I hope He will care for me.

The old gipsy brought her breakfast for her, but she turned away, and could not touch it for weeping. Her face was covered with her little hands, and she did not know that any one was beside her, until a gentle, silvery voice, so different from any she had heard amongst that rude people, said, “Do take your breakfast, Rose dear, or else you will be ill, and perhaps may die, and then you may never see mamma again.'

At the mention of her mamma Rose looked up, and a smile seemed to play upon her face, as she said, “ See mamma again! Oh! I would do anything for that; and I will always take my food, if you will bring it, and sit by my side, and I will try to love you."

“Dear little child,” answered the stranger, “I love you deeply already.”

For this there was a reason which Rose did not know. Mary, the beauty of the gipsies, (as she was called,) had not been more than a year amongst them. She was the daughter of a poor labourer, and had married one of the men connected with the camp. She was of a kind, gentle disposition, and though she had never been trained in religion, or even never heard of God, except when her father had used some fearful oath, yet her heart had not yet been hardened by the company she was now amongst. Within a year of her marriage she had lost both husband and her child, a sweet little girl, and in Rose she had met with one on whom to pour out her heart's affections. From the first moment she heard that a child had been taken away from its mother, she, remembering how bitter her own feelings had been as she stood over her departed infant, resolved to take the stolen one under her own care, and, as far as she could, be a mother to it. Having travelled in another cart, she had no opportunity, and so when the aged woman said, “Mary, go and see if thou can get the child to take her breakfast," she was only too glad to hasten to her.

From that day Rose began to be more happy, and in time to be reconciled to the new way of life, for Mary and she used to wander together over the fields, and to gather flowers, and so they became daily more attached to each other. And she was even pleased with the other gipsies, because they had not taken away a little gold locket, which was fastened round her neck, and which she always wore. Ten years of gipsy life had passed away, and Rose, when budding into womanhood, became more beautiful than she had ever been as a child. Hitherto they had never ventured near to Collingfield Hall, but as no one would now recognise Rose, and as they thought her parents would conclude she was dead, they determined to go once more within twenty miles of the place; and if they found they could do it with safety, to go even still nearer. They had nothing, they thought, to fear from Rose herself. All the early lessons she had learnt whilst a child, had vanished from her memory ; she did not know that she had any other name than Rose, nor was she acquainted with the name of her parents' residence.

But they little thought that there was anyone whom they should fear more than Rose, and that was Mary. She had long

determined within herself to restore Rose to her parents, if ever there should be any chance of escape. In order to prepare Rose for this, she used in her daily walks to talk to her of her own early days at home, and how happy she used to be with her poor father and mother. “Oh! 'tis a queer sort of life is this we lead now," she would say ; “ and as soon as I have done something, for which I have been content to bear it these last ten years, I will leave it at once and for ever, and go back to dear old Somertown. I should never have begun it but for my poor John, who now lies in Somertown churchyard, where some of our tribe every year scatter flowers over his grave."

“What," asked Rose, “ is it that makes you stay? I will go with you anywhere, and we can at least be happy together.”

“No, Rose," replied Mary, “it must not be yet; in a little time I will tell you why, but I cannot now.”

In this manner did they talk on many a day, when they were out alone ; and Mary was forming her plans when the others little thought of it. As soon then as the projected journey to the neighbourhood of Collingfield had been performed, Mary, deeming that the fitting time had come, persuaded Rose to take a stroll with her. When they had gone some little distance from the camp, they seated themselves on the green grass, which covered a sloping hill, on the sides of which some sheep were browsing. Mary looked wistfully round, and as she saw no one near, she said,

"Do not these sheep look happy and peaceful here in this quiet spot ?

“0, they do indeed," answered Rose : “but look at the pretty little lambs, how they skip to and fro, as if they were full of joy, and then run up to the sheep there, as if they were talking with one another.”

“ The lambs are so joyous,” said Mary, “because they have their mothers at their sides. 0, there is happiness, true and solid, for a child, even in sorrow, when it can sit by its mother's side, and tell its little griefs and joys, and the smile of its mother is like sunshine to its heart. We, Rose, have long known no such joy. You were so young that I dare say you have forgotten yours, but mine I can never forget.”

“ No, dear Mary, I have not forgotten, though I knew her not; but I think of her every day, and wonder what she is like, and what she would say to me; and I would give anything to see her.”

" And that you will,” answered Mary, “for I can now tell you why I have lived a gipsy life so long. I loved you even before I saw you, and made up my mind to stay in the camp until I could contrive to get you in some way or other to your

home. The time has now come. If it is not done now it never will be. In a few days you are to be sent away to a lady, who saw you this morning, and who is going to pay them a large sum for you.”

When she heard this Rose trembled greatly.

“Never fear,” said Mary cheerfully, “we will deceive them yet. We are not many miles from your own home, though I cannot tell you exactly where it is; but from what I've heard them say, it lies in that direction. There is a village about five miles from here, the one in which I was born, and if you can only reach that, you may yet be safe ; for any one to whom you may tell your tale would give you shelter, until some inquiries could be made. It would hardly be safe for you to go to my old home. Now you are a good hand at walking, having been so much used to it, so that distance is nothing. The only thing is how to get away, when they are asleep at night in the camp. The road is straight from here to the village, and if we could only contrive, we may do it to-night. Now I know what we'll do. I have to go at nightfall to the farm-house that you see in the distance, and it will only be natural for you to go with me, and then I will set you part of the way, and return late to the camp."

“Well, but Mary, cannot you go too? Why should you stay after I am gone ?"

" It must be so, Rose, at first, in order to escape suspicion ; for they will hardly think you have set off alone to any distance: but I will continue to hear of you before long, perhaps sooner than we think.”

(To be continued.)

The Cabinet.

SIN BEFORE AND AFTER COMMIS. SION.-Beloved, let us take warning. Whatever object we pursue by wicked means will, after it has been obtained, appear in colours far different from those which it previously wore. Temptation sees a thing in one light; but the memory of guilt and the fear of judgment see it in another. Before the crime is committed, it wears, perhaps, the aspect of inestimable profit, or of transporting delight: but afterwards come reflection and remorse, the advantage dwindles into nothing, and the soul is overwhelmed with confusion. What profit, may we then think, bad we in that of which we are now ashamed ?Lancaster to Confirmed Persons.

THE GOSPEL COVENANT. - The Gospel Covenant is one of the plain.

est things, as well as one of the most sublime that ever was proposed to man's understanding. It is simply this : repentance and remission of sins. He whose heart is changed from sin to holiness; whose heart is so changed that he seriously pur. poses a corresponding and undelaying change of life: that man is qualified for the benefit of the covenant. The covenant itself is first made in baptism : it is renewed in the LORD's Supper. Otherwise than by this covenant, there is no way proposed by God in which man can embrace the joys of heaven, or escape the pains of hel.-IBID.

They who flatter themselves with hopes that how carelessly or wickedly soever they live, they shall be able upon a death-bed to do all which is

necessary to fit and qualify them. In the work of salvation, as in that selves for eternal life cannot believe of husbandry, man must do his part, what our SAVIOUR says of the strait. and God will not fail to do His.ness and narrowness of the way to IBID. heaven ; for if a death-bed repentance The time of sickness or any other be a way which will certainly bring

affliction, is like the cool of the day them to heaven, we cannot desire a

to Adani ; a season of peculiar proshorter or an easier way than that is.

| priety for the voice of God to be -Bp. BLACKALL.


God be praised, unless Christians observe from this Epistle, that an

are very much wanting to themselves, opportunity of doing a good turn to

they may suffer ; but if they keep in another (how mean soever it may be)

their eye the rewards of a future life, as to soul or body, is a most Christian

and live like men that do so, they apostolical practice. How careful

cannot be miserable.-BP. WILSON. was S. Paul, first to convert this vagabond servant, and then restore him to his master's favour. Secondly, that it is the duty of a master to for.

Poetry. give and be reconciled to an injurious and negligent servant, on his repent

LIFE. ance, submission, and reformation.

I MADE a posy while the day ran by; --Collyer, Suc, Interpreter.

“Here will I smell my remnant out, If we cannot attain to high degrees

and tie at once, God's grace is ever with us, My life within this band.” to lead us on step by step, daily rising But time will beckon to the flowers, higher toward the heavenly mount.

and they PINDER.

By noon most cunningly did steal THE DEPARTED SPIRIT.- For crea

away, tures so much addicted to the things

And wither in my hand. of sense as we are, it is hard to fix My hand was next to them, and then our thoughts on the soul rather than

my heart; the body. We shed a gloom over I took without more thinking in good death with dark clothing, and sable

part plumes; and excite our feelings, and Time's gentle admonition : torture our imagination with these | Who did so sweetly death's sad taste funereal associations, when we should

convey, rather be thinking of the happy spirit Making my mind to smell my fatal if departed in the faith of JESUS, as at

day, peace before the LORD; holding con Yet sugaring the suspicion. verse with the blessed martyrs, apostles, and saints of every age, beyond

Farewell, dear flowers! sweetly your the pressure of pain and sorrow,

time ye spent ; temptation and trespassing. - PIN Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornaDER.


And, after death, for cures, THE BREVITY OF LIFE.- Providence hath afforded us an unusual

I follow straight without complaint

or grief; and special instance of the brevity

Since, if my scent is good, I care of life in the ephemeron, whose dura

not if tion is from six in the evening till

It be as short as yours. eleven. At the beginning of its life,

G. HERBERT. it sheds its coat, and spends the rest of its short time in frisking over the waters, on which the female drops

THE OCEAN. her eggs, and the male his sperm to impregnate them. Having thus Roam ye where the moonbeams served their generation, and provided

glisten, for the continuance of the species, On the soft and summer sea! they die, and are turned again to Roam ye where 'tis sweet to listen their dust, and all this in five or six

To mild strains of melody! hours.

To the gentle plaint of ocean,
Here, fond man,

Waking dreams of days gone by,
Behold thy pictured life!

Lulling in a pleased emotion

Every sad and earth-born sigh.

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