words to his wife about the work or the wages, and sank into a deep silence.

"I can't think where John is ?" said Jane to her mother, as she put down her bread and butter, and looked towards the door.

"I can't think, either," said Mrs. Dennis emptying the contents of her cup into the bason, "I dare say he's about some good work for Mr. Leonard.”

"Here he is," said Jane, as she sprung suddenly up and went to the door; it was quite clear her affections were in no small degree centred on her brother. The door opened, and John entered. He was worthy of being Jane's brother, and Mrs. Dennis's son: he was about seventeen, had the same hazel eyes as his sister, the same forehead, well made, and rather tall, dressed in fustians; his voice was full of cheerfulness and contentment, and seemed to spread happiness and joy around the little cottage family.

"Well, father?" said John.

"Ah !" said Dennis, grunting, and looking at the fire. "Well, John," said his mother, "the tea's got nearly cold; where have you been?"

"I've been minding Mr. Leonard's night school class, as he couldn't be there this evening, and I couldn't get here before; I've got to go back directly after tea."

"I'm sure Mr. Leonard ought to be very glad to have such as you to work for him, for you seem to think of nothing but Mr. Leonard all the day long, when you have a spare moment to give him.”

"I love Mr. Leonard," said John, turning his spark

ling eye on his mother; "I would work for him to the death; wherever Mr. Leonard goes, mother, I'm determined to go, mother, if you'll let me."

"Why, bless your heart, John, Mr. Leonard can't go no where else except to the wars, for he's a soldier, and you wouldn't go to them, eh, John ?"

As she said this Mrs. Dennis looked up with a quick anxious gaze on her son.

"I don't want to go to the wars, mother," said John, "there are no wars to go to that I know of, and I couldn't do anything without your wish and knowledge; all I mean is, I'm determined to live for Mr. Leonard, for he's a true Christian and a true gentleman."

Little Jane had long left her cup of tea, bread and butter, and everything, and sidled up to her brother's arm, staring up into his face, with an expression as if for the first time in her life almost the thought flashed upon her, that the cottage could possibly exist without John coming in to his supper, and holding her on his knee to tell stories by fire-light on a winter's evening. At this moment a loud but very distant cry was heard, piercing the wind which ploughed the air outside the cottage door.

Jane started.

"What's that?" said Mrs. Dennis.

"Listen!" said John.

The voice became louder and louder, as of some one coming along at a rapid pace.

"Go and see, John," said his father.

"Oh, no, no," cried Jane, "pray don't go to the door, John." Few things are more awful to the mind of a

child, than a sound outside the door at night, when the billows of the wind make it heave up and down.

John smiled at Jane's alarm, and proceeded to the door, and lifted up the latch just as a horse rode by with a messenger upon it.

The sudden opening of the door, the stream of warm and hospitable light which shot out in the tempestuous air, gleaming for a moment on the reeking flanks of the horse, which evidently had ridden many miles that evening, made the rider suddenly slacken his pace, and draw in the rein. He turned his face towards the snug and happy scene, which, like a bright and coloured picture, peered out from the dark and murky framework of the cottage and the trees.

"What's the news, master?" said John, as the man came to a stop just beyond the cottage door.

"News!" said the man, "stirring news enough, it's war, war is proclaimed with Russia."

They did not quite know why, but as that sentence was uttered it sunk like lead on more hearts than one of the cottage family.

And when the rider had ridden on, and grey darkness had again sunk like a leaden veil over the sobbing trees, and dripping hedge, and John had returned to the cottage and shut the door, a silence sank upon the room ; no one spoke; little Jane looked from face to face with an anxious glance.

After three minutes, Dennis said, as he sat gazing into the fire, "Then Mr. Leonard will go to the wars," and every heart in that room, though no voice said it, responded, "Then John Dennis will go too."

13

WAR THE LODGING.

In the village of Brandon there was one short row of houses, such as we often see in the country, standing together with a row of lime trees before them; they were inhabited by the smaller tradespeople, or labourers of the higher class in the village.

In one of these were two small rooms which opened into each other, which were let as lodgings furnished for six shillings a week. The furniture was plain and simple, the result of the savings of John Parker and his wife, who had been footman and lady's-maid at the hall. A plain clean white curtain that hung over the window alike marked the lodging to the traveller outside, and secured comparative privacy for the lodger within. In the last three or four years these rooms had seen various occupants, who came and went like birds of passage. At one time a sickly looking painter came from London with a wife and five children, who came down to get country air, held infidel opinions, spoke to no one, and went back to London with his face looking just as pale as when he came. Then after an interval of a fortnight came a young man with fair hair, swell-mob sort of a coat, German forehead, and falling collars; no one knew what he was, some said a short-hand writer, some said he was in the post-office; but never mind, he always disappeared at eight and came again at six by the train. A variety of occupants had resided in these rooms, and at length it was known that a widow had taken them, with a young man, whom report said was her only child. She had been there a week before anybody saw

her; she was evidently very poor, and very quiet; the old dimity curtain was let down to its lowest fold to make the room more private. She had driven from Lincoln in a one-horse fly, which seemed to contain her all, except a few articles of furniture which came in a cart, and betokening a house that had been furnished after a better kind; those sad signs of bankruptcy! with the faded silk which once was crimson, and the tarnished beading that once was gold, reminding one of a smile on the face of a corpse, or a single sunbeam on a winter's day. These when they arrived were carefully unpacked, "and," as Mrs. Parker said, "were arranged round the room, bless me, as if the widow was going to make it her state drawing-room through the rest of her life; lauk-a-daisy, what will lodgers come to at last!"

A small group of gazers gathered round the gardengate to see the widow get out of the fly; and a tall girl of fifteen, dragging a baby, named Peggy Tompkins, declared on oath, that "when the widow had paid the flyman, there wasn't a fourpenny piece left in her purse;" and as the same Peggy went on to aver in her own graphic language, "the widow's face was as pale and white as the soapsuds in her mother's washingtub; "and her eyes, why daisy me, mother, they looked as sad as the little print of the queen of France who had her head cut off, and hangs above our chimney-piece."

Such was Peggy's statement; and though it was somewhat roughly given, it was not far perhaps from truth. But why do we worry ourselves about the affairs of others, do leave the widow and her son alone;