cowardly—poor fools

Ye are as destitute of information

As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts!

COQUETRY.

It was in one of the most picturesque parts of South Wales, on the banks of the lovely Towy, that two ladies sat working at an open casement, which led into a veranda, covered with clematis and honey–suckle. The elder of the two might be about fifty, perhaps not so much, for her features bore traces of suffering and sadness, which plainly told, that sorrow had planted far deeper wrinkles there than time alone could have done. The younger, an interesting girl of nineteen, bore a strong resemblance to her mother; they were both dressed in deep mourning. The room which they occupied, though plainly and simply furnished, had yet an air of taste and elegance.

Mrs. Fortescue was the widow of an officer, who died of cholera in the East Indies, leaving her with one daughter, and no other means of support than a small annuity and her pension. An old servant of her own had married a corporal in the same regiment, who having purchased his discharge, now followed the trade of a carpenter, to which he had been brought up, previous to enlisting, and was settled in his native place, and the faithful Hannah, hearing of the Captain's death wrote to Mrs. Fortescue, telling her, not only of the beauty of the spot, but the cheapness of living in that part of the world, concluding by saying, a house was then vacant, and could be had on very reasonable terms. Mrs. Fortescue immediately wrote and engaged it. Though a common looking building, yet by putting a veranda round, and making a few alterations inside, it soon, with a little painting and papering, was transformed into a pretty cottage. The work required was an advantage to Mrs. Fortescue, inasmuch as it occupied her mind and thus prevented her dwelling on her recent affliction, in other respects too, she felt that a kind providence had directed her steps to the little village in which we find her—and the good she found to do, was the greatest balm her wounded spirit could receive: for though her means were so limited, still, a wide field of usefulness lay before her.

Mrs. Fortescue had a strong mind, and though her trial was hard, very hard to bear, she remembered from whom it came, and not a murmur escaped her. Devotedly attached to her husband, she deeply lamented her loss, still she sorrowed not as one without hope: she had the consolation of knowing few were better prepared for the change; and she strove to take comfort in reflecting how greatly her grief would have been augmented, were not such the case. But she felt that her shield had been taken from her; and knowing how precarious was her own health, she saw how desolate would be her child, should it please God to remove her also, but a true Christian cannot mourn long; and as the tears of agony would force themselves down her cheek, and her feelings almost overpower her, she flew to her bible and in its gracious promises to the afflicted, found that support and consolation, the mere worldling can neither judge of, nor taste. Some delay, though no actual doubt, as to ultimately obtaining her pension, had caused inconvenience, as all their ready money had been absorbed in the alterations of their house, though they had observed the utmost economy, and demands were made which they had not at the time funds to meet. Ethelind was miserable, but Mrs. Fortescue bore against all, trusting something would turn up,—and so it did; for while discussing the matter, a letter came, with an enclosure, from an old school fellow, begging them to procure her board and lodging in the village for a few months, intimating how much she would like it, if they could accommodate her themselves. The terms for the first quarter were highly remunerative and they gladly acceded to Miss Trevor's proposition, and the few requisite preparations being made, we will, if our reader pleases, go back to the evening when mother and daughter sat awaiting the arrival of their new inmate.

Mrs. Fortescue had never seen Beatrice Trevor, but Ethelind was loud in her praises. They sat in anxious expectation much beyond the usual time for the arrival of the stage, and were just giving her up for the night, when the rumbling of wheels was heard, and a post chaise drove up, out of which sprang a young lady who in another moment was clasped in Ethelind's arms, and introduced to her mother, who welcomed her most kindly.

"Oh what a little Paradise!" said Beatrice, looking round her, "how happy you must be here. Do Ethelind let me have one peep outside ere daylight is gone;" so saying, she darted through the French casement, on to the lawn, which sloped down to the water's edge. "Well I declare, this is a perfect Elysium, I am so glad I made up my mind to come here, instead of going with the Fultons to Cheltenham."

"I am indeed rejoiced that you are so pleased with our retreat, my dear Miss Trevor, it is indeed a lovely spot."

"No Miss Trevor, if you please, my dear madam: it must be plain Beatrice, and you must regard me as you do Ethelind, and be a mother to me; for I know I greatly need a monitress; for you will find me, I fear a sad giddy mad–cap."

Mrs. Fortescue smiling benignly promised acquiescence, and taking her hand, which she grasped affectionately; led her into the next room, where tea was waiting. After which, Ethelind took her up stairs, and showed her the little bedroom prepared for her. They remained here some time, chatting over their old school days, till summoned to prayers. On taking leave for the night, Mrs. Fortescue begged if at all heavy in the morning, that Beatrice would not hurry up. But she arose early, much refreshed and delighted with all she saw. Ethelind soon joined her, and offered to help her unpack, and arrange her things, while the only servant they had, prepared the breakfast.

Soon as the morning meal was over, and little necessary arrangements made, Ethelind proposed a ramble, which was gladly acceded to on the part of Beatrice. They passed through an orchard into a lane, and as they crossed a rustic bridge, the village church came in view. It was a small gothic structure, standing in the burial ground, and as they approached it, Beatrice was struck with admiration at the beds of flowers, then blooming in full perfection on the graves; this is a very beautiful, and, by no means, uncommon sight in South Wales; but she had never seen it before. "Well, I declare, this is lovely; really, Ethelind, to render the charm of romance complete, you ought to have a very interesting young curate, with pale features and dark hair and eyes."

"And so we have," said Ethelind, "and had he sat for his picture, you could not have drawn a more correct likeness; but I regret to say, Mr. Barclay's stay is not likely to be permanent, as one of Lord Eardly's sons is to have the living, soon as the family returns from the Continent, which