reader to attend us, is one of peculiar but modest beauty. A small retired hamlet lay in a deep hollow, through which flowed a stream, whose pebbly bed was distinctly visible through its translucent waters. The sides of the dell were thickly fringed with wood, in various gradations of verdure. There, might be seen the chestnut in its full summer dress, the sycamore and lime just revealing their glories, while the noble oak, diffident as yet of the blandishments of the season, still stretched his naked branches in the breeze. The village, to which we must now turn, was built on the banks of the brawling brook, over which was thrown a rustic bridge. The church, a small Gothic structure, stood half concealed by trees, and "pointed its taper spire to heaven," in modesty and peace; near which rose the Parsonage, a neat unpretending edifice.

"What a heavenly morning!" said Mr. Yorke to his lady, as they crossed the bridge towards the hamlet; "how nature seems to rejoice in the early sunbeams! What greater proof of the certainty of regeneration can we have, than the return of this most delightful season?"

"What indeed!" returned Mrs. Yorke: "the spring, to me, is certainly the most welcome part of the year; it seems to diffuse a happy influence on all around."

"I think, my dear, you will except our good friend the Rector from that assertion; his countenance testifies considerable mental distress. Why, how now, Camden ?" he continued, addressing that gentleman, as he came up; "what is the matter? Fanny and I were just moralising on the contented appearance of every thing in this spot; when you present yourself, with a face that would do credit to dark despair itself. What can have driven you

into the dolefuls?”

"Indeed, Yorke," said Mr. Camden, as he saluted his friends, "you would be doleful, if you had been doing and seeing what I have. I was coming to the Grove, to consult you on the subject of my uneasiness."

"To make me as miserable as yourself, I suppose," returned Mr. Yorke, laughing.

"By no means: endeavouring to be useful to your fellow creatures must impart a feeling of satisfaction, although the business may make you grave. I know both you and Mrs. Yorke

well enough, to feel assured you will assist me in the present case. But, perhaps, you are going on some business to the farm now; if so, I will call upon you in the evening."

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Yorke; "a walk was our only object."

"In that case, I shall not disturb your plan much, for I wish you to accompany me to Mrs. Dickson's; and, as we go along, I will explain my reasons for wishing you to do so, if you please."

"Willingly, my good friend. I am quite anxious to know what can have arisen so important."

"Your curiosity shall soon be satisfied; for you must understand, that about ten days since, a lodging was engaged at Mrs Dickson's, by a young female, about twenty years of age, who, with two little children, and a maid servant, took immediate possession of it. Two days after, she was seized with a brain fever, which, despite the prompt attendance of Dr. Campbell, put a period to her existence at two o'clock this morning; leaving the poor infants (for they are not yet twelve months old) totally unprovided for; as the sum she had by her, I fear, will

barely defray the funeral expenses, and clear off the few trifling debts incurred during her illness."

"But," enquired Mr. Yorke, "have they no friends? Did she not mention to any one what to do with the children? Pray, who and what was she?"

"Bless me, Yorke, what a mass of interrogations! I scarcely know which to answer first. As to who the unfortunate creature was, I can only tell you, her name is written Mary Blessington in two or three books that I found in her room. But as I was not called to her bedside until all earthly hope of saving her had vanished, and she was in a state of dreadful delirium, I was only the auditor of her painful and frightful ravings. I remained with her to the last, hoping for the recurrence of a lucid interval, to offer the comforts of religion, but in vain; she remained in a state of stupor for some hours previous to her death. The names of Eugene, and Father, were the only ones she pronounced; and from what I heard her say, no clue can be discovered of her parentage. Therefore I wish you to assist me in deciding what is best to be done with the orphans."

"It is, indeed, a sad story," replied Mr. Yorke, "and seems, at present, wrapped in mystery; but I should think, my good friend, by examining the poor lady's papers, and questioning the servant, some light may be thrown on the subject."

"I trust such may be the case; though, I fear, much dependence cannot be placed on her knowledge, as it is only three weeks since the woman was hired; but we must hope for the best."

So saying, Mr. Camden opened a little wicket, and entered the cottage.

"Well, Mrs. Dickson," said the worthy man, "where are the little boy and girl?”

"With their nurse, in the room above, my good sir. Shall I call them down?"

"Not at present, dame. I wish to know first, if you ever heard your late lodger say any thing about her relations; or where you think she came from; for both Mr. Yorke and myself are anxious to place the children under the protection of their friends: their situation is most deplorable at present."

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any

Very true, sir. I am sure I would tell thing I knew, for the advantage of the sweet