jumped into the water and saved her, and he sat by her all the day yesterday, and came again in the evening, and remained until three this morning, comforting and praying to her, and——"

"It was only my duty," he replied, now perfectly calm, and in a cold tone.

"Now I understand," said Aunt Dorcas, "why you declined dining with us yesterday;" she felt how much he self-sacrificed in not spending the privileged hours of dinner near her niece, especially as he was seldom invited by her brother.

"Oh, Mr. Skaife!" cried Minnie, her eyes swimming, as she held out her ungloved hand and grasped his; "forgive me. I have been a wicked, wrong-judging girl. I said you did not possess the sacred fire necessary for your calling; forgive me, you are following an example in meekness, not arrogantly dictating one—forgive me!"

Skaife could scarcely speak as he pressed her hand.

"Now," she said almost gaily, to remove his embarrassment, "let me follow up this wholesome lesson to myself by an exercise of charity: we will go and see Mary Burns; come, dear aunt;" and once more she was at the other side of the stile, and half-way down the lane with the child, before they overtook her. Minnie and her aunt entered the humble bedroom of poverty, alone. Mr. Skaife left them at the door of the cottage to pay a visit in the neighbourhood. From a neighbour sitting there, to take care of the paralytic mother of Mary Burns, they learned that the unfortunate girl had been driven to attempt the dreadful act of the previous day, on account of the cruel desertion of one who had led her from the path of right; he led her into darkness, and left her there to fight her way through shadows to the end of a dreary maze, without a word to cheer, or a thread to guide her footsteps. There was no one to tell her of a far off light, which with much seeking and sorrow she assuredly would find. Nothing but despair around her, she flew to death, a sad thing to meet in our unrepented sin! It was to this poor wounded heart that Mr. Skaife brought life and balm. Though humbled and sorrowing, the girl was hopeful now; she did not, however, allude to the one whose desertion had maddened her. Aunt Dorcas forbore questioning her too closely, seeing her evident desire to withhold her seducer's name; and poor Minnie sat and wept. She had learned two lessons that day: not to judge too hastily from a calm exterior, as in the case of Mr. Skaife's warm heart, and that there are sorrows in this world leading often to suicide or madness, hybrids of opposite things—confidence and deceit. They quitted the cottage, promising to see the unhappy girl shortly, and as Minnie bade her cheer up and not despond, she leaned over the low pallet of misery, leaving a better gift in the sight of Heaven than the purse she hid beneath the pillow—a sister's tear over a fallen sister; for are we not all one large family? and of children, too, ever learning something new—Earth our school, Heaven our home—with glad faces to rejoice over our coming thither, when our weary lessons here shall be over! Mr. Skaife joined them outside, and, by mutual consent, none alluded to poor Mary Burns; but Minnie turned smilingly to the young curate, and spoke more kindly than she had ever done before, as he walked beside her, her aunt leaning upon his arm. However, they parted from him before arriving at Gatestone, and the aunt and niece entered the old hall together, to receive a double fire of indignant reproaches from Sylvia and Juvenal, though the latter was one who appeared ever more inclined to weep than scold; he became whining and lacrymose when injured in any way; he did not stand up boldly to fight his enemy; there was something decidedly currish in his disposition. "I do think," he began, "that I am hardly treated as master here; no one obeys or consults me; Dorcas goes out without saying where she's going, taking Minnie with her; and Sylvia blames me for supineness;—how can I help it?—and Marmaduke Burton blames me too, and threatens never to come again."

"Well, that wouldn't much signify," said Sylvia, bluntly. "I don't like Mr. Burton; he's cunning and sarcastic; you would do much better to attach yourself to Mr. Dalby, he is a charming man."

"I don't like Dalby," hazarded the wretched man in his thin voice; "he has a significant manner of talking which makes me quite uncomfortable; I always fancy some one is going to law with me, or that I shall be forced into an unavoidable lawsuit."

"Talking of that," said Dorcas, hoping to change the current a little, as all was more or less directed against herself and niece for their escapade, "does Mr. Burton say any thing more about his threatened suit with his cousin, Miles Tremenhere?"

"Dear me, no!" answered Sylvia; "Mr. Dalby says that affair is quite at an end; this illegitimate cousin has wisely left the country; they never hear even of him."

"I sincerely pity him," replied Dorcas; "it was a sad affair, and his father was much to blame, leaving him so long in ignorance of the truth; it was most painful."

"What's that, aunty?" asked Minnie.

"Well, dear! the manor-house belonged some eight years since to a Mr. Tremenhere, a cousin of the squire's, as they call him; this Tremenhere had an only son, a very fine, noble-hearted young man, beloved indeed by almost all, though very haughty to those he disliked. He attained his twenty-first year; the rejoicings were great at the manor-house; you were at school at the time; a month passed, and the father died; scarcely was he in his grave, when Marmaduke Burton arrived, a distant cousin of Miles's (the son), and disputed the property with him. After a tedious and painful investigation and suit, as no proof could be produced of Mr. Tremenhere's marriage with Miles's mother, whom he was said to have married at Gibraltar, Miles lost the fortune, manor, all, and quitted the country."

"Poor Mr. Tremenhere!" said Minnie, much affected; "what a dreadful thing for him! and where is he, aunt?"

"No one knows, I believe, except it may be one or two persons, tenants of his father's, who have boldly opposed Mr. Burton in every way for his treachery, and upheld Miles Tremenhere."

"Oh, that was nobly done!" cried the girl enthusiastically.

"What do you mean by treachery?" exclaimed Juvenal and Sylvia in a breath; both joined together in one common cause against Dorcas, who indeed was only kin by name.

"Well, I call it treacherous, mean, and wicked," she answered decidedly, "his having been Miles's companion and playfellow from youth, and indeed in the house but a few weeks before old Mr. Tremenhere's death; and scarcely was the breath out of his body, when he put forth a legal claim to the property as next heir, which claim had been prepared, as it was proved, months before the old man's death." Minnie sat thoughtfully listening, but her colour came and went, like the sun passing over a landscape on a showery day.

"It is very evident," said Sylvia sarcastically, "why you mention this now before the child—to disgust her with Marmaduke Burton; it is kind and sisterly towards your brother, who desires the match." Sylvia gained two things in this speech—she never spoke unadvisedly. She pointed out the squire's position more forcibly to her niece; and also, by a counter-stroke, enlisted her unseeing brother on her side.

"Exactly so," whined he; "but that's always the way with Dorcas; she's very cunning."

"I'm sure dear aunt is not that," cried Minnie, starting up, her face glowing, and putting an arm round her neck.

"What business have you interfering?" exclaimed Sylvia; "you should listen, and say nothing."

"Aunt Sylvia," said the girl, calmly reseating herself, "as it seems all this discussion is about me, I am forced to speak, and say, too, that I'd die rather than ever marry Mr. Burton!"

"That's your doing," rejoined Sylvia, nodding at her sister. "I'm sure Juvenal has reason to be obliged to you; and as regards you, Minnie, I sincerely wish you were