Cicely, who, with the very greatest respect and regard for Miss Burnet, never let an opportunity pass of rebuffing her, especially on theological points, on which Cicely really had a large mind, and Miss Burnet a singularly narrow one.

"Events will show," said Mr. Loraine, "but, I must confess, I am not so sanguine as many of our neighbours."

"You don't mean we shan't lick the Russians, sir ?" said Maxwell.

"Well, my boy, time will show that, too, and in the mean time, Cicely, let us hear the remainder of Leonard's letter."

Cicely read on,

"My wound is rapidly mending; pray do not in the least degree alarm yourself about it. I miss my poor Dennis sadly, he was invaluable to me; his kind, honest attentions can never be replaced. I only trust he is safe and well cared for. They say the Russians are very kind to their prisoners, and some of our fellows who have already escaped, say that they really had nothing to complain of. But imagine what a state the town must soon be in with our firing-the dead already lying in the streets, and the shells bursting in all directions. I fear much for his safety. Randall and the youth are there, and I believe that Dennis will be of great use to them if they reach each other. Do let his family know how deeply I value him, and how I feel for their trial, pray do everything you can to console them—"' "Has that basket gone down to Mrs. Dennis?" said Mrs. Loraine, addressing the governess. "Yes," said

Miss Burnet, "I took it yesterday, and she begged me

to thank you much for it." "Poor thing," said Mrs. Loraine, "It must be a sad trial to them." "It's a singular thing," said Mr. Loraine, "but Parker told me yesterday that since the news of John Dennis' capture, four youths have enlisted on the mere strength of it. It seems to me that the greater the danger is, the more there are not only willing, but anxious to share it." "Do go and enlist," said Alice, looking past the governess at Maxwell. "Miss Burnet," said Maxwell," will you teach Alice to respect her brother?" "Respect you indeed," said Alice, "I should like to know" "My dears," said Mrs. Loraine, "your sister wants to go on." And Cicely proceeded. "The French are very fine fellows. They are very civil and obliging to our men, and seem to know far more about warfare than we do, at least they have come out better provided. They seem to know what they are about; they say the Algerine war did this for them. We have lost a few of our poor fellows at Balaklava. The other night two of our men were out and came suddenly on the Russian pickets. The fellows set upon them and pursued them; one of our men succeeded in leaping over an embankment, but the other, poor fellow, a sergeant, was bayoneted through to the ground. It is sharp work. Shells often explode among us, and the other day a party of our men were dining in a tent, when a shell came right in through the tent among them; it did no more mischief than to spoil the dinner, but it shows what sort of vicinity we are in." &c. So ran Leonard's letter. "I will take it across to Jessy," said Cicely, rising.

"I think not, my dear," said Mrs. Loraine, "I have no doubt she has heard herself by this mail, and I think this will keep till she calls, she will be sure to come in the course of the day, and I will read part of it to her. I have my own reasons."

"Very well, mamma," said Cicely in a voice which implied that she could not understand her mother's view. And the breakfast party scattered.

But one morning the postman had a letter addressed to Mrs. Childers, who by this time had made up all her preparations for starting, and the next day was to leave Brandon. She had adhered to her own quiet resolution with the utmost firmness; and she was going out in connection with that noble body of women, who, under the direction of Miss Nightingale, were vindicating the character of their sex, if they might not of their Church in the East. What few things she meant to take were already packed up, and those articles of furniture which she had brought so carefully with her from Lincoln, Mrs. Loraine had very kindly offered to take charge of at the Hall.

Peggy Tompkins, who with the baby in her arms, had been watching the removal of the goods, and who had so carefully noted the events of the widow's daily life since the day of her advent to this one, the eve of her departure, averred most solemnly, "that she believed that the widow was going to change her situation, and that a young man, the very picture of her Lubin, had

S

visited the widow more than once, and that she, Peggy, knew how it would be." The young man having simply been a messenger employed by Mrs. Sidney Herbert with whom she had been in communication with regard to the arrangement for her journey to the East.

This morning the postman had a letter for her, and with a hand whose agitation even her calm mind could not control, she broke the seal.

"Dearest mother," it ran, "I think it right to tell you my wound has taken a worse turn, and I fancy my days are numbered. Would to GOD I might have been spared to support and cherish you, but, as you used always to say, 'Let Him do what seemeth Him good. I have received good at His hand, and shall I not receive evil?' I feel I am now writing my parting word to you, my dear, dear mother; how hard it is to know quite what to say, I believe all that could have been done has been for me, but I have been too ill to be removed to Scutari, and the hospital at Balaklava affords but poor accommodation. How frequently I have longed to have you by my side! I have often in the night closed my eyes and fancied you were by me, and been unwilling to open them to discover that you were not. How much I have thought of that long illness you nursed me through when I was sixteen!

Forgive me, my dear mother, for saying all this to you. It is not, God knows, to wound or excite your feelings; but in the long hours of my suffering and loneliness I cannot tell you what a comfort it is to me to have some one to whom I can tell my feelings. Indeed,

the very memory of past scenes like these is full of reality and power in moments such as those I have to spend. There is one medical man here who has been exceedingly kind to me, a Doctor Burgess. Oh, what might not the medical staff do out here, if they would do their duty! What words of sympathy and consolation they might utter to those whom they tend; but alas! there is a sad neglect in this department. My impressions which I used to have in old days are much deepened, that the next work to the minister of GOD is that of the physician. I do not in the least wonder that some savage nations used to look on the physician as nearly divine. The other night, when Burgess was with me, I was talking to him about my old illness and your care of me. Do you remember how you used to sit and read those long tales to me which have ever since been mixed up in my keenest impressions about religion? Sickness seems to me to be like a plough, which forms the furrows in the memory; but while it does so, a hand ever goes with it, which drops into the depth of the furrow seeds which spring up to the end of time. Do you remember those long drives we took when I was getting a little better, and the first green leaves of the approaching spring so delighted my eye after the thraldom of sickness? The peculiar scents of the early April day; the hyacinth and the narcissus, which you bought for me at the little shop at Chelsea, and those prints you got for me to colour, while my hand trembled too much with approaching health to execute the envied work. Oh those long days, my own mother, how I remember them now!