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thing of all this; and she was often repulsed by Edith's calm cold ways, which sometimes made her doubt whether she really cared for her. There was no one else to make a companion of, for she had no playfellows, and she saw very little of her papa, for S. Olave's was a large parish, and he was devoted to the duties it entailed upon him. So she turned to her flowers and birds, and books, and felt as deep an interest in the heroes and heroines she read of, as if they really lived and felt, and sympathized with her. A dreaming, musing, little thing she was; very small and slight, with dark long silken curls, and soft dark eyes, and a singularly childish face; she looked much younger than she really was, and generally seemed very quiet and demure, till something excited her, and showed some of the energy and enthusiasm hidden by her quiet ways. Effie lived in a world of her own—a world of dreams; and Edith lived in reality; the cold touch of sorrow had crumbled her visions; the daylight had looked through her palace roof, and shown her the unreality of her bright dreams; she could live in a Dreamland no longer, and she could not understand Effie. That was the worst of it, and Effie was afraid of her, and kept all her fancies to herself. Edith knew enough of her to wish to put a stop to all this musing and unreality, and make ber more like other people-more like a child-(for Effie was much older than her years in some things.)

But this was not very easy to be done. Edith considered long before she could come to any conclusion, and at last she decided to take advantage of an invitation often given, but never before accepted, from an aunt of hers, who had a large family, and had often wished to know her two nieces better. But she very seldom left home; she had only been once at S. Olave's, and Edith was equally disinclined to go to Compton Tracey. Her eldest cousin had been a very dear friend of Blanche's, had been with her through most of her last illness, until she died at Clifton; and Edith could not help thinking of Mildred in connection with that time, till the sight of her recalled painful thoughts to such a degree, that she quite dreaded seeing her again.

That was unavoidable if they went to Compton Tracey; but Edith never shrank from anything, merely because it was unpleasant, so having decided it was best for Effie they should go, she steadily put her own feelings out of the question, talked the plan over with her father, settled time, place and all, with a quiet indifferent manner, as if she had no likings or dislikings either way. If Edith disliked it, however, Effie did no less. She had never left home in her life, and she could not endure strangers; and this was quite a journey; and then all those strange cousins—and to be left without Edith-for Edith was to return in ten days or a fortnight. She did not venture to remonstrate; but her eyes filled with tears, and her voice quite faltered, as she asked, "When are we to go?"

"Next week, on Tuesday," said Edith, not choosing to see Effie's very evident dislike to the place.

"Not on Monday ?” said Effie, feeling quite reprieved at the one day more than she expected.

"No, Monday is so inconvenient; one never can get all the packing done on Saturday."

"Are all my cousins at home?" asked Effie next.

"Yes, all. Do you know all their names? I should think not," said Edith, laughing.

This allusion to the number of the " strange cousins" increased Effie's dismay, as she asked "How many are there ?”

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Why really I must consider.

Lilly, and Clara, and little Betsy."

Cecil and Edmund, Ellen and

"And Mildred," said Effie, "she comes next to Cecil."

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Yes, Mildred," answered Edith, with a sigh, and a passing contraction of the forehead. "She is twenty. You will not have much to do with her, except at lesson time, if she will take the trouble of teaching you with the others."

The idea of being taught by a stranger was so unpleasant, that Effie tried to get away from the subject immediately, and asked-" And Ellen-how old is she?"

"Seventeen-engaged to be married, too."

Effie's eyes brightened; there was a touch of romance in such an early engagement, and she liked romance, in spite of never reading novels. Edith did not notice the change of expression; she was not quick at reading faces; and Effie seeing she should hear no more about Ellen, continued-" Bessy is the youngest, isn't she? She is a great pet, I suppose-spoiled too, perhaps?"

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Probably not; if your aunt were inclined to spoil her children, I should not send you there," answered Edith drily. Effie was silenced, and made her escape, to think over the wonderful event before her.

THOUGHTS ON THE SEASON.

THE leaves are falling fast, and all the flowers
Wear on their petals symptoms of decay;
Their brilliant hues are fading, and each day
Their perfume fainter grows; yet a few hours,
And they will pass from us; but not for aye:
O no! the spring-tide will bring back the flowers;
And God will send them in the warm soft showers,
Perfumes far sweeter than those passed away.

O sad yet joyful season, how my heart
Responds to all that passes. Father mine!
Let all my withered hopes and fears depart,
Strengthen my love with Thine own love divine;
And when the winter comes, teach me to die
In certain hope of the Eternal Spring on high.

C. T.

TALES FOR BOYS.

EARLY AND EVERY-DAY TRIALS.

A Sketch for the Circumcision.

BY trials we generally mean the outward afflictions of life. They are the trials seen of men, and therefore talked about and easily, so at least we fancy, understood; but there are trials known only to Him to Whom all hearts are open, and it is good that we should think of them; that we should learn to look upon every pang and weariness and sinking of the spirit as His messenger as much as we do sickness, pain, or bereavement. We may regard with especial reverence those who seem most deeply afflicted, and, if we are passing through life calmly, without the difficulties with which the path of the Saints is strewn, it is well that we should feel it as a proof of our own inferiority, and let the reflection humble us; but let nothing shake our confidence that the circumstances through which we are led are exactly those best adapted to our souls' good. He Who was lifted up that He might draw all men unto Him can draw us by those inner trials which lie deep within by the most trifling incidents of every-day life, as well as by more outward trouble, and we may rest in the blessed hope that if they have sufficed to wean us from earth and to make us desire nothing so earnestly as to be indeed His, they have done the work for which they were sent. We may not attain the brighter crown, the higher mansion of those who in outward as well as inward suffering have been more conformed to their LORD; but blessed, thrice blessed, if we may be admitted to the lowest place in that pure region where the least and lowest are holy.

Mary Grey was naturally a timid and very sensitive child, one of those children who are constantly misunderstood and who, feeling most keenly that they are so, shrink within themselves, and are often sad at heart even before life's cares have fallen upon them. One of Mary's first trials that can well be described was going to school, a day-school within sight of her own house. We are apt to take it for granted that dislike to going to school is a proof of dislike to learning; and it may be so in many cases, but it was not so with Mary. From the day she could distinguish a picture she was instinctively fond of books, and when she struggled against the great dread which such temperaments only can feel, and kept down the swelling of her little heart, so that there was but a rising tear when her impulse was to sob and beg a reprieve, yet was she called a naughty child for not liking to go to school; there was an intuitive sense of injustice mingled with

the feeling that this was not the sort of naughtiness for which she was sorry when she said her prayers, and Mary was taking her first lesson in that habit of silent appeal to our Heavenly FATHER, which is the stay of so many otherwise lonely souls in their passage through this life. Mary in temper was irritable, inclined to peevishness; she was too submissive to be troublesome, but she had not that sunshiny good humour which enables its possessor, in the nursery, as well as in after life, to pass through little daily trials as scarcely feeling them. She was apt to think that few loved her, and as her elder sister was a remarkably clever child, she early imbibed the idea that she was herself of inferior ability. To her sister, whose open, fearless disposition was the very reverse of her own, she looked up with almost reverence, doing as she did, and feeling her presence quite a protection in every encounter with strangers. But her sister was early taken away, and more trying than ever was it for poor little Mary, for now she must go alone. I am not sure that her first being sent to boarding school was a greater trial than the day-school had been in early childhood, but she could remember more distinctly how utterly desolate she felt when the door closed upon the kind parents who had brought her, and she was left alone amongst strangers. It is difficult to say which she dreaded most, the ladies to whose care she was entrusted, and who seemed to her something quite awful; or the girls, of various ages, who could laugh and talk and appear at their ease in such a place. Mary's first consolation, and it was the consolation of all her school trials, arose from the thought which came to her in her sadness that she should not mind what she went through if her father-her dear father, who, from infancy she had always felt, loved and sympathised with her more than any one else-if he could but see her; then she thought she would cherish the belief that he did, and try and act as though it were so.

Mary, when, in more advanced life, she traced the inner feelings by which she had been led, saw in this the germ of that sense of God's abiding presence, which she was gradually enabled to realize. When her father was taken hence she felt that he was still near in spirit, and this communion with the unseen world was as a spell to wean her affections from earth, and draw them heavenward. Another of Mary's school feelings which she loved to think had been purified to higher, holier aspirations, was her continual longing for home. From the first day of her arrival to the last of her stay this was her one desire. It did not make her neglect her lessons; it did not, it may be, make her less enjoy an occasional holiday excursion; but the lessons were reckoned as so many steps in the way home.

In the Church of the village where Mary then lived the canopy of the font was an angel bearing the lid, suspended from the roof;

her seat was at the chancel end looking down the aisle fully upon it, and the thought of this angel embowered in Christmas (for her school was rather distant and her indulgent father, who had not resolution to send her in the depth of winter, undertook to teach her himself the intervening half year, so that her return was always at Christmas,) the thought of that angel was so connected with her school anticipations of home, that, though but a childish fancy at the time, it made it, to look back upon, a fuller type of the calmer, but not less earnest, longing with which her soul now yearned for its true rest. Mary's was a character especially to grow happier as she grew older. I say especially, for all who are really conquering self and increasing in holiness must, notwithstanding that the sense of their own sinfulness will deepen with the increase, become happier; but Mary's natural disposition was one to feel it most thankfully. The shyness, so painful in childhood and youth, had, as she had grown in humility, learned to look with more singleness of heart to Him Who was with her in society as well as in solitude; to pray for His blessing before she entered the former, and, when she returned to the latter to examine its effect upon her soul, that shyness had gradually worn off. As in the outward conflicts of life those who fear GoD most will fear man least, so it is in those minor and more hidden trials which affect the every-day happiness and the spiritual being of so many. The more we think of what we are in the sight of Him and of the cloud of witnesses who encompass us about and can realize their presence, the less we shall think of what we appear in the eyes of men. We shall grow calm and composed in the duties and courtesies of life, naturally; just as timid children, who are harassed by imagination in darkness, forget their fears in the light of day. To Mary this calm, quiet feeling was happiness. Her natural irritability of temper had been gradually subdued, very gradually; at first the hasty word was checked; then the sudden silence was overcome, and she was able to give the meek answer which turneth away wrath; till she was even surprised to find how little she was moved by what at one time would have sorely annoyed her. She grew less isolated too in feeling; she could sympathize more readily with others; she had learned from books, if not much from converse, that though apart she was not alone even on earth, and she loved to dwell upon that holy bond of Church communion in which so many souls were walking the same path, led by the same guiding Hand, sustained by the same spiritual sustenance. How might they in the blessedness of heaven compare their pilgrimage, and wonder how, while often so near, they had yet known each other so little.

Mary's greatest latter trial had been the want of more frequent participation in the ordinances of the Church; but she learned to regard this exclusion as a just retribution for the small value she

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