The windows were mostly broken, and patches of paper were pasted up to keep out the wind and rain. There were but two rooms, and though all but empty the furniture was kept very clean. Lucy entered the inner room with slow and noiseless step. It contained one bedstead, on which was lying a man bowed down by sickness. There were two straw pallets on the floor. It was too sad a scene for Lucy to look upon, and such as her eyes had never beheld before. She hastily withdrew, made some few inquiries of Mrs. S., and, leaving some money for their pressing wants, returned homewards.

66

But her step had now lost its lightness, and she tripped not over the frozen ground. Slowly did she make her way, for her heart was heavy. For the first time in her life she had been inside a poor man's cottage; and though but for a moment, she had learnt enough to teach her what it is to suffer, unaided, unbefriended, and alone. Her young heart was capable of strong feeling, and her eyes had seen a sight which could not easily be obliterated from her memory. But this lesson was soon more firmly written on the tablet of her heart. She was so buried in her own thoughts, that before she knew it she was in the midst of the factory hands, who were just leaving the mill. Nor was she aroused from her reverie until voice after voice was heard saying, There she goes, that's Ashcroft's daughter." She then raised her eyes, and what a sight met them! Tall men, who should have been strong, walking slowly onwards for very weakness, with pale thin faces, on which the madness of despair was too plainly evident; young girls, many younger than herself, pale and care-worn, some gentle and tender as she, clothed in a few spare rags, plodding their weary way, whilst every now and then pieces of ice pierced their unprotected feet. However different they might be in size and form, the faces of all wore the same miserable, downcast, death-like hues, as if never a hope had flourished in their breasts. It was a sad and a sickening scene, on which she could not bear to look. At length she had threaded her way through them, and had already reached the park gate, when she observed a little gentle girl walking behind the rest. She called her to her.

"Will you walk with me a little way?" said Lucy tenderly, as if to give her courage, "for I should like to talk to you a while."

6

"Yes, ma'am, if so you loike to walk aside on a poor boddie loike me."

"What's your name? how old are you?"—

66

'Mary Neale, an please you, ma'am. The lassies calls me Simple Polly,' because I woant goa wi' 'em i' their bad ways. I'm fifteen next birthday, an I live as long."

"And how long have you worked in the factory?"

"Ommost three year now, but th' doctor says as how I shanna work much longer. I shall be i' my grave, and then I shall be at rest, for there's no working then.”

66

66

Poor girl! you must hope for the best.”

Noa, I can't hoape; and what's more, I doant want to, an it please GOD to take me, I try to live so as I may be ready to go when GOD may please to call me. It's a weary life is mine. T' factory all day long, and then to stitch, stitch, at neet, when other folks is asleep, and not owt to eat at after." "How is it you are forced to do so?

enough to keep you?"

66

Are not your wages

'Oi, ma'am, they might doa that, may happen they would keep myself, for I could live o't three shillings a week, but there's five on us, and father's dead and buried, and mother's a sickly woman who canna do much. Little Jem were turned off t' week afore last, because they're goaing to hev fewer bands; and so we gotten him at home now doing nowt. I'm ammost clemmed, for I've hed nowt to eat sin yesterday morning, and then nobbut a dry crust."

Lucy could hear no more, but dismissed the girl with a sum of money, and followed the retreating girl with her eyes until they could not longer see her. She then turned towards home, her limbs trembling with emotion, and conflicting thoughts raging within her bosom. When she reached home she could not but contrast her situation with that of the miserable beings with whom she had been conversing. "In what," thought she, "do I differ from them that my lot is so much happier? For me there is the song of the birds, I delight myself with flowers, and for some I pay prices which would banish sorrow from many of their homes. I am surrounded with luxuries, and brought up in the midst of all that wealth can produce, while these are dying with hunger. Oh! how my heart chides me. But I will henceforth devote myself to atone for past neglect, and in me, by GOD's grace, these poor women shall find a friend. Does my father know that his own workmen have not, many of them, bread enough to keep life within them? He cannot, or he would surely make some alteration. When he returns, I will broach the matter to him without delay."

Thus thinking, she longed for her father's return, and yet, somehow, she dreaded it. At length, somewhat later than usual, he returned home. The extraordinary excitement of the day, and the misery of the scenes she had witnessed, weighed so heavily upon her, that the welcome she gave her father was somewhat statelier, and less hearty than usual. Besides which, her face was pale as marble. This did not escape Mr. Ashcroft's

observation, for, as I have already said, he was devotedly attached to his daughter, and daily watched the slightest change in her countenance, fearing to see any indications of that insidious disease by which he had been deprived of his wife.

"Are you not well, Lucy dear?" said he, when they sat down to dinner. "Your face has not its usual bloom ?"

66

'Yes, thank you, father, I am as well as usual; but I have been much alarmed and pained to-day, and there is a load of grief at my heart, but I hardly like to tell you."

"Why not, Lucy? Are you not dear to me as life itself, and may I not be able to comfort you? Come, tell me at once."

66

Well, then, father, this morning everything looked so bright and beautiful without, that I felt tempted to take a walk. I had not gone far before I saw a poor girl sitting on the stump of an old tree, and upon going up to her, I learnt that her name was Mary Simpson.'

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Ashcroft, "Mary Simpson in my park. How often, I wonder, am I to tell that blockhead of a gate keeper not to allow any of those vagabonds to enter my grounds. It is too bad that a man cannot enjoy a place when he has bought it. You of course told her to go about her busi

ness.

66

"No, indeed, father. She looked so sad and pitiful that I felt drawn towards her, and asked her what she wanted."

66

Indeed, miss: so you are practising some of those fine notions about charity, which that fellow of a parson has been putting into your head. A pretty thing indeed, for you to be talking to my factory girls. What next?"

"She told me all about their sufferings at home, and how that

66

'Yes, yes, I know it all; the old tale over again. Poor people are never content, do what you will for them. They are a sad set, and the sooner their grumbling is put down the better. If they wont work they must starve. They are so idle that I believe if you were to prepare their meals for some of them they would scarcely take the trouble to eat them. And besides,— though you don't know it,—they are impudent and proud as well. Why, only think, Lucy: the other day, when I was at the board of guardians, a woman came and asked relief, saying that her husband was ill. This was very properly refused, and she was told that they might come into the house, but she said she would sooner die on a dunghill, or work on a treadmill, than enter a bastile, and be parted from her old man.'

"Well, father, and is that anything strange? 'What GOD hath joined together let no man put asunder,' is pronounced in Church whenever a marriage takes place. And would you have

been parted from my mother, whose memory is so dear to you now that she is gone?"

This allusion to his wife touched Mr. Ashcroft for a moment, but, dashing a tear hastily from his eye, he said,

"But

you must not be imposed upon by what poor people tell you. They get more by their lies than honest men by their labour."

"At all events, father, Mary Simpson's was no feigned tale. I went with her to the cottage, and saw everything with my own eyes."

"What! do I hear aright-you-disgrace yourself by going into their cottage! Let me hear no more of this, nor that you have ever been there again."

Lucy saw that in the mood in which her father was it would be useless to press the subject any further. She therefore dismissed it, and contented herself with timidly telling him that danger was to be apprehended from the excited state of the workmen, who, driven to the very verge of madness and despair by hunger and toil, intended to turn out before long.

"Don't let that distress you, Lucy. They may do that as soon as ever they please. What right have they to complain, I should like to know? They work for me, and I pay them wages; and the matter ends between us. They may turn out to-morrow for anything I care, for I am a magistrate, and will use the full power of the law against them; turn them out of their cottages, and in a very short time supply their places. Work is scarce now-a-days, and there are plenty of hands that can be got for less wages than I am paying at present. So let them do it; they will be glad to come to my terms. But away with these subjects, which should not trouble your young brain. Come, Lucy girl, cheer up, go to your piano, and sing me a song."

She did as she was commanded. At length, unable any longer to control her feelings, she bade her father a hasty good night, and sought her own room. Awhile she read and prayed for strength from above, and then laid her weary head upon her pillow, but not to sleep.

THE PRESENT CRISIS.

THE present is confessedly a crisis in the Church of England. That her position is one of no ordinary difficulty none can doubt. The great struggle for her Catholicity has now commenced. It must be seen whether she will keep the "Faith" or not. The decision in the memorable Gorham case has now been pronounced;

a decision the ability of which consists in the ingenuity that has discovered and sanctioned the principle of charitable hypothesis; that stealthily undermines the foundation of our faith, and subintroduces a standard of doctrine, which the Church cannot admit without sacrificing her right and title to be considered as a branch of the one holy Catholic Church a decision that has carried consternation far and wide, increased the fears of the doubtful and the wavering, and yet which we fain would hope will arouse the latent energy of the Church, and make hundreds resolve manfully to contend in the well-grounded hope that their labour will not be in vain in the LORD, but that as the battle has come,

"GOD will defend the right."

It is beside our present purpose to enter into any inquiry as to the character of the Court, and the manner in which this judgment should be regarded. We do not want to indulge either a morbid sensibility upon the point, or to terrify ourselves and others with fears as to the future. The same GOD Who has watched over our Church in other and perilous times will watch over and shield her now. Ten thousand may rise up against her, but He that is with us is more than all that are against her. Pained at the result we must necessarily be; distressed we may be, perplexed on every side, yet we are not cast down nor forsaken. Still our Baptismal services are preserved to us in all their integrity and fulness; services in which, thanks be to GOD, the Catholic doctrine of Holy Baptism is more fully and positively asserted than in any other liturgy now in use. Non-natural interpretations may be put upon them-judgments confirmatory thereof may be given-but these cannot alter plain words, nor dispense with the doctrine so long as these words are part and parcel of our Prayer-Book. To none of these subterfuges has the Church herself consented. But this is not enough. Quietude will be equivalent to assent. Previous concessions are now thrown in our teeth; and such conduct we can no longer pursue with safety to ourselves. The moment for action has come. The judgment of the Privy Council must be plainly and distinctly repudiated. All honest men must unite to prevent the dishonesty of attributing to words other than their real and legitimate interpretation. All Churchmen who love their spiritual mother, and value their privileges, must with one indignant voice protest that the foundation of all Christian teaching cannot and shall not be regarded as an open question. And the past history of the Church fills us with hope that united, prayerful exertions will be attended with success. This has been beautifully set forth in a little pamphlet by the Rev. J. M. Neale, which should be circulated through the length and breadth of the land. We cannot express the pleasure and satisfaction with which we have perused