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her bubbles, and bestowed upon Johnny a ball-such a ball as made him the envy of all the boys in the village. And yet the people prated of this matter under their breath as if it was almost a profanation to think of Mary's bridal. She had ever been so faithful to the dead-so constant, and yet so unpresuming in her constancy, that though they knew, that to the generality of women, gold and land are great temptations, something whispered that the heart of sweet Mary Myrvin was in the grave, and that she would never again be linked with aught but the clay that mouldered in his coffin.

"Sandy, gude mon!" exclaimed the greatest gossip in Lilyburn, "Make haste and come here, and tell me what ye see." Sandy, a stern, quaint, old labourer, moved to the door in obedience to his wife's command, and lifting his hand to his bonnet so as to shade the evening sun from his eyes, replied, "I see Baillie Gordon on his bay mare stopping at Mrs. Myrvin's cottage, and the laddie Johnny is aye glad to see him there."

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Sandy, gude mon, d'ye think there's ere anither body glad to see him there forbye Johnny.”

"Deed is there, woman; just then, little Jenny; the baillie is kind-hearted."

“Hoot, mon! it is na' that; dinna ye see that the baillie is as bra' as a maid on her weddin' day? I wonder at his extravagance! There's as mickle as a piggin fu' o' gold chain donlin' from his watch!"

“Well, and what is that to you or me either; what devilry are ye speering at noo; canna a mon gang to a neebour's house, but ye maun mak ́evil o' it?—"

"Evil!" retorted the dame; "whar is the evil? sure we a' ken that Madame Myrvin has been contented wi' little, but that doesna' say she is not be cantie wi' mair.”

"A woman canna mourn for aye."

"Nae; not sic wives as you, Ally. Ay, Ally, Ally, if I war under the sod, auld as y'e are, ye'd be speerin' for anither joe: nae, ye need na' whimper. But Madame Myrvin is another sort, Ally woman. In the kirk-yard, when her bairns sleep, and she thinks that none but the eye of God (and the old man lifted his bonnet reverently from his head as he spoke) is upon her, she steals out there in the night dew, and prays and weeps; and if there's any sense in ye'r words, it's an ill day the baillie has chosen ; for this day three years the minister died."

It turned out that both Sandy and Ally were right; for the baillie had gone to offer himself and his fortunes to the widow of Archibald Myrvin. He found her with her children, and saw that a gauze curtain shaded the portrait of her husband, which hung in its old place above the work→ table. The baillie thought what an exceedingly pale, thin person Mr. Myrvin had been, and congratulated himself upon his own portly presence.

How impossible it is for a coarse or common mind to comprehend the delicacy and tenderness of a gentle spirit! He thought how delighted Mrs. Myrvin would be to exchange her cottage for his large red-brick mansion; and, to do him justice, he also thought how pleased he should himself be to see Johnny mounted on the highest stool in his counting-house, and Jenny sitting bolt upright, practising "Blue Bonnets" on a piano-forte, which had been the first ever brought into the good town of Paisley. He dispatched Johnny to the garden to try the powers of a new top, and Jenny to see how the top spun; and then quietly asked the widow what she had been thinking of.

"The children were blowing bubbles," she replied; "and I was thinking how completely our hopes and fears, anxieties and wishes, are like the bubbles, which fly in the air, or float upon the stream."

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Very true, very true," said the baillie; "but my dear

lady, you are no bubble, nor am I a bubble; and, really, I think you have indulged your sadness quite long enough."

The poor widow smiled and shook her head; but the smile was one of sorrow. Her eye also glanced at the crape-covered picture; but the baillie at that moment was thinking what he should say next, and did not note it.

"In short, Mrs. Myrvin, I think Johnny will make a clever man, and I shall be very happy by and by to bring him on in my counting-house."

Mrs. Myrvin warmly and sincerely thanked him for his promised kindness;—" to see her children well off was all she now desired in this world."

The good baillie continued; and after a little more circumlocution got to the point,—would she be Mrs. Gordon? At once the feelings which time and habitual self-restraint had pent up in her bosom broke forth, and she burst into an uncontrolled flood of tears.

The good man paused; and then spoke at intervals. "Jenny shall have a new piano if the old one will not do; and sure am I—who ought not to say it-that many will envy you. Well, it is better to be envied than pitied. You shall have the finest coach in Paisley, and such horses! and as to the house—”

Mary Myrvin raised her face from between her hands, which were dripping with tears; and the change that had passed over it was so startling that the baillie stopped, and did not attempt to conclude his sentence.

"You meant me no wrong, baillie, you meant me no wrong; and yet, God forgive ye for having wounded the poor stricken heart! Did ye think I could forget him! Oh, God forgive ye, baillie, God forgive ye! Yes, there is one house I wish to share, but not yet;-one house."

"If it be in the town o' Paisley, you shall have it," exclaimed the worthy man, striking the table in the fervour of his eloquence.

"It is not in the town of Paisley," she replied: "it lies under the left window of the same kirk where he preached Christ crucified, and a blessed resurrection: it is low, and narrow, and cold ; but it will hold us both. The only house I will ever share is my husband's grave!"

The baillie returned in sadness to his home; but he did not neglect his promise. Johnny Myrvin, in due time, was promoted to a seat in the baillie's counting-house; and it is not very long since the wish of Mary Myrvin was accomplished ;—she shares her husband's grave.

A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.

"OH! I pine in the narrow house for thee!
If thou wert laid in the dust with me,
Methinks I could better bear to feel

The worm and the beetle around me steal;
Methinks I could better bear the dew

That drenches the moonbeams, and then sinks through,
Mixed with the vapours of this close cave,

A drooping down in the weary grave,
Though my wasting limbs I cannot raise
From the dew that falls, or the worm that preys.

"Methinks when I hear the snow-winds' might,
As it howls through the tombs on a winter night;
And the death-pale faces more ghastly grow,
Lest the fallen angel from below,

Like a lion roaring for his prey,

Is come in their shrouds to bear them away;
Methinks if thou wert laid by me,

I'd fear neither fiend nor his agony,

Nor the horrible yell of each withering one,

When the tempest crashes the

grey

tomb-stone."

THE FORSAKEN OF GOD.

By the Author of "The Five Nights of St. Albans."

"FOR Heaven's sake! Frederick, do not go," exclaimed the terrified Adolphine, holding her brother by the arm to detain him.

"Why not?" replied Frederick. "If Hermann can do his part, I'll be sworn to go through mine."

""Tis unholy! 'tis hellish! 'tis an impious daring of the Almighty! And you shall not go," said Adolphine. "My blood curdles at my heart to think only of what you have said!"

"Why, look you, Adolphine,” answered Frederick, laughing, as he disengaged himself gently from the clinging arms of his sister; "what is it after all? Hermann says he can raise the dead; and I say, if he can, I am he that will hold a parley with the dead; a conference such as living man ne'er yet had."

"Oh God!" exclaimed Adolphine, covering her eyes with her hands, and shuddering as she spoke, "the bare imagination of it is horrible."

"Shall I tell you a secret?" continued Frederick. "I believe Hermann less able to perform his part than I mine.” "Still, it is sinful mockery-if it be only mockery," said Adolphine.

The deep heavy bell of the cathedral struck eleven. Frederick starting up, threw his cloak around him, put on his hat, and prepared to quit the house.

"I have not a moment to play with now," said he. "Hermann expects me before twelve, and it is a long walk to where he lives."

"Do not, do not go !" exclaimed Adolphine, in a tone of

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