virtuous course, and you will discover that life has still its pleasures for you."

"Not here! not here! my dear O'Brien," answered Mr. Mayburn. "Sometimes I determine to relinquish this parish, and accept one of smaller population, where the responsibility would be less; at other moments I am prompted to adopt an entirely opposite course, and to make up for my past wasted life by devoting my remaining days to missionary labors in distant lands, where I might be more stimulated to exertion, in the necessity of action. Give me your advice, O'Brien, on which of these two plans to decide. On the one hand, I have the temptation offered me to exchange for a small living on the north-eastern coast, where I should meet with many ornithological novelties; on the other hand, I know I have still sufficient interest among my old friends to obtain the appointment to some mission in the colonies. I should prefer Northern India or South Australia, both affording rich fields to the naturalist."

"A matter of secondary consideration," said O'Brien, smiling. "But wait a month or two, my good friend; we must not decide hastily on such an important step; and before that time has elapsed, you will have fulfilled the last pious offices for me. Do not be agitated, Mayburn. I know that I am dying; these old wounds have slowly, but successfully, undermined the fortress; it cannot hold out long. But be comforted; I am resigned and calm, nay, I am happy, for I know in whom I trust. Now, Mayburn, to you and to your sweet daughter I must bequeath my wild, half-taught boy. Give him all the book-lore he can be made to imbibe; above all, Mayburn, make him a Christian. To Margaret I intrust his physical education. I should wish him to be fitted to perform such work in this world as it may please God to call him to. I am thankful that I must leave him poor, as he will thus be exempt from the grand temptation, and forced into healthy action. May God direct his labors to the best and wisest end."

The words of his dying friend had for some time a salutary influence over the amiable but vacillating Mayburn. With remorse and shame he looked on his own discontent, and with a brief gleam of energy he turned to the duties of his office; but long habits of self-indulgence in literary pursuits and literary ease were not to be suddenly overcome; and when the grave closed over his faithful friend and wise counsellor, O'Brien, he soon shrunk back into morbid, solitary musings, and gradually sunk into his accustomed indolence. But a waking of remorse induced him to write to his old college friend, the Bishop of ——, to pray that he might be allowed to resign his living, and be appointed to some distant mission.

Mr. Mayburn, though upright in principle and amiable in disposition, was yet unfitted, from his deficiency in firmness, for the responsibilities of his office; but his constitutional timidity and indolence had escaped notice during the lifetime of his valuable and energetic wife, who had directed his actions and concealed his feeble nature. But it was the will of God that she should be suddenly called from him; and, stunned with his loss, he abandoned himself to sorrow and inaction. The death of his valuable friend and counsellor, Captain O'Brien, cut away the last prop of the feeble man, who was now alternately sunk in useless grief or haunted with the horrors of neglected duties.

Pious and eloquent, his people declared he was an angel in the church; but in their humble dwellings his visits, like those of angels, "were short and far between." In his family, it was his pleasure to communicate to his children the rich treasures of learning that he possessed; but the lessons of life, the useful preparation for the battle of the world, he had not the skill or the energy to teach.

His daughter, now sixteen years of age, had been ably instructed by her excellent mother, and possessed good sense and prudence beyond her years. Arthur, the eldest son, one year younger, had benefited by his mother's advice and example equally with his sister, whom he resembled in disposition. His brother Hugh, not yet thirteen years old, was too young to have profited much by instruction, and was more volatile than Margaret and Arthur. But the children were all frank, true, and conscientious; and had yet escaped the temptations and perils of the world.

Gerald, the orphan son of the faithful and attached friend of Mr. Mayburn, Captain O'Brien, was the most weighty charge of his timid guardian; though but twelve years old, he was bold, independent, and forever in mischief; and hourly did Mr. Mayburn groan under his responsibility, for he had solemnly promised to fulfil the duties of a father to the boy, and he trembled to contemplate his incapacity for the office.

"Margaret," said he to his daughter, "I request that you or Jenny will never lose sight of that boy after he leaves my study. I am continually distracted by the dread that he should pull down the old church tower when he is climbing to take the nests of the harmless daws, or that he should have his eyes pecked out by the peacocks at Moore Park, when he is pulling the feathers from their tails."

"Do you not think, papa," answered Margaret, "that you are partly responsible for his mischievous follies? You have imbued him with your ornithological tastes."

"He has no taste, Margaret," replied her father hastily. "He has no judgment in the science. He has never learned to distinguish the Corvidæ from the Columbidæ; nor could he at this moment tell you to which family the jackdaw he makes war with belongs. He is negligent himself, and, moreover, he allures my son Hugh from his serious studies, to join him in rash and dangerous enterprises. He is totally deficient in the qualities of application and perseverance. I have a dim recollection, Margaret, of a childish hymn, written by the pious Dr. Watts, who was no great poet, but was really an observer of the habits of the animal creation. This hymn alludes prettily to the industry of the bee, and if you could prevail on Gerald to commit it to memory, it might suggest reflections on his own deficiencies."

"Papa," said Margaret laughing, "Gerald could repeat 'How doth the little busy bee,' when he was four years old, and I do not think that a repetition of it now would make any serious impression on him."

"He has no taste for the higher range of poetry," said his distressed guardian; "and has too much levity to seek knowledge in the direct paths. What would you think of giving him to learn an unpretending poem by Mrs. Barbauld, which describes the feathered tribes with tolerable accuracy. It commences,

"Gerald is not lazy, papa, he is only thoughtless," said Margaret. "Let us hope that a few years will bring him more wisdom; then he will learn to admire Homer, and to distinguish birds like his good guardian."

Mr. Mayburn sighed. "But what shall I do with the boy," he said, "when my duties summon me to distant lands? I am bewildered with doubts of the future. Will it be right, Margaret, to remove you and my promising boys from country, society, and home, perhaps even from civilization?"

"No, no, papa, you are not fitted for a missionary to savages," answered Margaret, "you must choose some more suitable employment. And if you are bent on quitting England, surely you cannot suppose, whatever may be your destination, that we should consent to be separated from you."

"God forbid that it should be so!" exclaimed the father. "But I cannot but feel, my child, that I have been selfish and negligent. Give me some consolation—tell me that you think I may yet do some good in a strange land. I am persuaded that I shall be better able to exert myself among complete heathens than I am among these cold, dull, professed Christians."

"If you feel this conviction, papa," said Margaret, "it