this honour with him; whilst you tell him of sweet Dora's love, and the risk her life and reputation is running in this false contest between affection and ambition, I will hasten to Dora's side, and there await your return." And the happy lady, renewed, as it were, by youth again, thus sought to serve the fortunes of her little friend. No sooner was this plan talked over than it was acted on. A covered gig was procured, which the landlord of the little inn undertook himself to drive, and in one hour from this time, Anne alighted at the parsonage-gate, whilst Horner proceeded on his way to Broadlands. Anne found dame Northwood sitting knitting by the fire, and waiting till her patient awoke out of the deep and refreshing sleep into which she had fallen, and so to her at once (for she had known her from a child) Anne poured out her heart, both as to herself and Dora. No sooner had the lady ended, than dame Northwood taking up the candle quite mysteriously, led the way into Dora's chamber, where she lay in such profound and balmy sleep, and shading the light as she approached the bed, turned slightly back the coverlet, and exposed to the wondering gaze of Anne, as it lay amidst unfastened tresses, still hung to the pedlar's ribbon, on the matchless bosom of the girl-THE HIDDEN RING! Surprised, overcome, almost wild with joy, Anne's convulsive, though smothered sobs awoke Dora, who, finding in an instant that her secret was known, for Anne held the sacred ring within her fingers, and pressed her lips upon it, all was confessed and owned, and Anne now knew that Dora was a wife. And now Anne related all which her fears for Dora had led her to undertake, and in so undertaking an act of pure and holy friendship, what happiness for herself had sprung up; and how the morrow, which would bring Dora's husband, would also bring a friend to her own heart. "Sweet Anne, what priceless news this is," wept Dora, "Yes, for fifteen years," spoke Anne, still kneeling and still cherishing within her hands the hidden ring, "this is the first minute that I have known happiness; but, oh, dear friend, for ever through your future life, believe in the purity of the zeal with which I wished to serve you, for I had a crushed and broken heart, and wished to spare your youth and beauty, such ordeal of long suffering; and if I now ask a reward for my humble service, let us make the sign of our sisterly friendship and affection this one, that under all circumstances, and all changes, we have faith and trust in the virtue of our sex." "We will," said Dora, "and our husbands will have faith with us, I am sure.' Whilst the night thus passed, and the homely parsonage thus sheltered Anne, Horner proceeded on to Broadlands, and reaching its outskirts at an early hour, procured some breakfast at a little rustic inn, and after it, went on foot to the hall. Amazed at this visit of the man he had been led to believe his worst enemy, Riddle received Horner with haughty coldness; but when Horner, stating the object of his visit, spoke of Dora's cruel persecution by the squire and Miss Cadwallader, of Anne's generous interference in her behalf, of his own probable change in life, of any absence of rivalry or evil doing on his own side, and how he wished to be considered a friend, rather than an enemy, and at last pleaded Dora's love as a hope that Mr. Riddle would be true to her, all that was noble in Walter's character ruled supremely, and taking Horner's hand as he led him to an adjoining room, he said, firmly, "As we have hitherto strangely misunderstood one another, Mr. Horner, we shall henceforth be the truest of friends, for as you, in rescuing Anne Fieldworth from her miserable home, can be no longer, even in semblance an enemy, I could, by no possibility, be yours, for Dora Longnor has been my wife since the day I met you on the mountain side. But here is her father-returned well and happy, as you see; and here my mother, both longing as I do, to behold one so pure, and true, and beautiful." Thus, as Riddle spoke, he led Mr. Horner into the breakfast-room, where sat Dora's father and his own mother, to whom he related all these strange circumstances; and whilst thus, happy to praise Horner's noble generosity, he blamed himself for having suffered Dora to quit his side, even for an hour, for a motive so childish and unworthy, he added emphatically, "But I will repair the wrong with noble penitence, and with the worship and duty of a life." And in conclusion, he explained, that Dora was scarcely from his sight before he repented, and would have brought her back, but for the anticipated pleasure of sharing with her, her father's return and his mother's visit, to both of whom he had dispatched the written letters on the very day of Dora's departure. No time was lost after breakfast in their departure for the parsonage, which they reached in the early part of the pleasant afternoon, just when the sun is most golden and most beautiful. But they could in no way anticipate the love and care of Dora, who was there all ready to meet them and to be folded in a loving father's and loving husband's arms, and by turns to be caressed by Walter's mother. "You should have let me know somewhat about this matter, sweet child," chided Walter's mother, "if only for the sake of fittingly preparing your home. But on your return you will find it more worthy of you as Walter's wife." But scarcely had the curate warmed his hands before the blazing fire (for he loved a fire at all times), scarcely had the young wife and her husband strolled round the sweet sequestered garden, scarcely had Anne and William sat down in the quaint little study, or Podd arrived, or Leah and Mrs. Northwood commenced preparing tea (for the company had dined early on the road), before the squire burst in unannounced, and with him his two daughters, for Anne's disaffection and retreat to the parsonage were now known, though nothing, as yet, of her interview with Horner. In a moment he approached the curate and commenced his angry enquiries about Anne, in a way which brought in, not only Podd, but Dora and Walter from the garden. "You won't say, will you," again repeated the halfdrunken squire, "that my daughter's here, will you?" "Mr. Fieldworth," replied Longnor, quietly, 66 this conduct is most unseemly. I am but just home from a long journey, and wish for a few hours of quiet repose with my child and friends." "Child," ejaculated the squire, foaming with wrath, "pretty child for any'un to be proud on. Dunna thee know she been across the forest, the Lord knows where, and for a whole week? dunna thee know my daughters here shall never speak to her? dunna thee know that I shall write to the Bishop in the morning, and that my son, Tom, is already looking out for a new curate "Mr. Fieldworth," spoke the haughty and self-collected husband of Dora, "Mr. Longnor is perfectly aware his daughter went across the forest, Mr. Longnor is perfectly aware your daughters will never again address his child, Mr. Longnor is perfectly aware that you, Sir, will need a newcurate: But it is because his daughter went across the forest to become my wife, because your daughters are too unworthy for speech with one who bears my name, and because Mr. Longnor is inducted into the living on my estate, that your son will need a curate. And now, Sir-" Maddened by every word he heard, the squire would not outlisten to what Mr. Riddie had to say, but now recommenced the subject about Anne, and had just burst out into a fresh invective against her, and into new threats of searching for her, when Horner, opening the studydoor, came in leading Anne. The sight was too much for the patience of either the squire, or Miss Sophy, or Jane, and they all three darted forward and tried to separate Anne from Horner. But the man was nerved against their spiteful impotence. "For fifteen years," he loudly said, "you have separated us, but you shall no longer; your rage is as powerless as your threats." "But she shall come home," said the squire, "you had better come, Anne, and that, this minute." "I will not, papa," replied Anne, "for fifteen years you and your daughters have served me as you pleased. Henceforth my course is my own." "Then not a shilling of my money shall you have," swore the squire, "and my doors shall be closed against you." "So be it," replied Horner, "before the week is out she will be my wife, and need neither home nor friends." of this letter, to the Postmaster General. Now, go home and recollect two things, my advice, and your future words about my darling child, dear Dora." Miss Cadwallader sneaked away more abjectly than the squire. As the evening shades descended, Horner and Anne returned with Mrs. Riddle to Broadlands, for such few days as would pass till they were married; and thus once more the old home, consecrated by stillness, Dora sat between a noble husband and a noble father on the little hassock before the blazing fire, the happiest of young wives and children. "And now, papa," asked Dora, hiding her blushing face within her loving husband's hand, " do you think, if you had been at home, you would have consented to what Walter asked?" "I hardly know; but so that you are happy; so that you are Walter's wife, I ought to be rejoiced." "I am, I am most happy," said Dora; "and I would "But if she thinks to have her clothes, she is mis-hide my ring a hundred times, rather than not be Walter's taken," threatened Sophy, "I'll take care of that." "Or any plate, or linen, or jewellery," added Jane. Keep it all, keep it all," spoke Anne, "I shall be rich enough in having a worthy husband." These words were too much to bear, and the exasperated spinsters would possibly have proceeded to extremities with Anne, had not Riddle, using the extraordinary self command so much his characteristic, peremptorily closed the conversation, by ushering the squire and his daughters to the door; and here, relieved by Podd, closed it upon them; for all three, in utter hate, and spite, and malignity, were too contemptible for manly argument. wife." As I write, the fiddle sounds merrily from the distant my tale was done. And round this Christmas fire, hall, for it is Christmas night, and full eight years since heaped up with glowing logs on this the widest hearth in Broadland Hall, sit the curate and Walter's mother, and Horner, and Anne, and Lucy Gray and her husband, a neighbouring gentleman, and Dora and her husband, The squire might have been more restive, or his daughters have attempted a vicious assault upon Anne, had and they talk of old times and things; that is, as much not Mr. Podd said gently, "You recollect, squire Field-as the fiddle and the children's voices, and Absalom worth, when you so wantonly, and so maliciously insulted the dear curate's child yesterday, that I left a little matter to settle with you, which shall be settled now upon this very spot, if you do not go through this gate quietly and quickly." The squire glanced up into the resolute face of the lusty yeoman, and seeing there an expression not pleasant to his cowardly feelings, he muttered something about a warrant next morning," and his daughters some such words as "wretch," and "vagabond," and then walked off at a quick pace. And now the door was closed upon them, happiness began. Dame Northwood got the tea-table ready, and brought out the world of dainties contributed by Podd; and whilst Anne made tea, and the curate and Horner chatted, and the old lady listened, Dora found, and filled, and lighted Mr. Churchwarden, and sat by her husband's side. By-and-by, all the dear and loving neighbours came in, one by one; old Northwood, and Mrs. Podd, and twenty others, to see the "dear curate," and congratulate Miss Dora on her marriage, for the news had spread. Tea over, the curate adjourned to the garden, and there walking up and down, related his journey to his parishioners. As he did so, and no one stood in the kitchen but Podd and Mrs. Northwood, some one knocked at the porch-door, and honest Absalom opening it, beheld Miss Cadwallader, true to her appointment. "Ay, quite punctual I see," he said, as he came out into the porch, and closed the door mysteriously behind him. "Now, this is the bill I have to talk to you about," so saying, Absalom produced his ponderous pocket-book, which undoing, he brought forth the letter which had been tampered with, "for I have two witnesses who were watching you whilst you opened it; and so, if you do not now depart, and not only give the curate a reasonable time to pay what he owes you, as well as deliver other folks' letters, besides those of the squire's, and try to keep a peaceful and truthful tongue, as true as I was christened Absalom Podd, I'll report you, and the matter Podd's merriment will let them, for a grand game is proceeding in the hall, as Dora has a troop of little children, and Podd is their merriest friend. Anne has been asking a question, and Dora answers :— Why, Miss Cadwallader married the squire's coachman, as you know, and in less than a year he had run through her entire savings; he then deserted her, and she is now in a neighbouring workhouse. Now let me ask you where Jane and Sophy are?" 'Why since papa's death, and brother Tom has come to the Hall, they have been living at Bath, and there, it is said, Sophy takes something stronger than mineral waters; whilst Jane goes much to church, and flirts when not so occupied. But we hold no intercourse; they have never forgiven my taking a husband, or loving Walter and you." At this moment little feet patter into the room, and little voices exclaim, "Papa, mamma, dear old Podd has been telling us such a beautiful story, at which old Northwood has been crying. It is about your wedding ring, and about how much papa loved you, and how beautiful you looked the day you married." and they think her more beautiful than all the world beside, they cling around her, and kiss her for this sweet story's sake. And as she is so still, TO CHEERFULNESS. Nymph of the laughing eye, and sportive mien, JOHN EVANS. HOME DY THE HEARTII. WINTER has already compelled us to seek the cheering light and genial warmth of the fire. How it flares, and flames, and frolics about the bars of our grate, as if from very excess of glee at finding itself there again; and "Hark! the wind moans dull and drear, Throb against the window-pane. What, though now we can no more On the skies of summer gaze, Let the poker's aid restore June's bright substitute-a blaze ! And with uplifted hands and outstretched palms we welcome it affectionately and reverentially, as the flame that illumines that hallowed altar, -the hearth of home. What a mystic commingling of lights and shadows it throws about the room, and how involuntarily it lulls us into a train of quiet thought and pleasing recollections, giving us a substantial and convincing feeling of home, as the only place where we can be entirely protected from the care and turmoil of busy bustling life. It is here-and here only-that we can sit down quietly, and either indulge in a delightful dream of bygone reminiscences, or devise projects of happiness for the future. It is here alone that we form sound and serious judgments, devote ourselves to studies that improve our knowledge and understanding, and better still, counteract the mischievous influence of worldly rubs and buffetings, by giving full scope to our sympathies and affections. You are speaking now of married life," mutters some unhappy bachelor. Just so; and we advise you to get out of your bachelorhood as quickly as possible, and until you do " You will get all the happiness you can out of doors, eh?" as if you thought, with many of the fraternity, that a bachelor has "no home;" the real fact being, however, that in most instances, he has not the moral courage or sufficient mental resource to make one. He must go roaming about, at taverns, among people of doubtful character, or squandering money, night after night, at places of amusement; injuring himself in health and purse, and keeping his mind and body in a constant state of feverish excitement, a species of mental intoxication as opposite to real happiness, as the flush on the check of one smitten by consumption is to the ruddy hue of a person in high health. Young men who have any self-respect or regard for their own welfare, will do well to make for themselves a home by the hearth, where it will soon be discovered that they may indulge in as much sociality as they can find elsewhere, and of a far less objectionable quality, inasmuch as they will not dare to lead over the threshold of "home," however humble it may be, mere out-door acquaintances whom they really know nothing about. The hackneyed complaint of "long winter evenings" may be raised by some to cut short all remonstrance against nights misspent, and ruinous habits contracted; but the answer, thus attempted to be set up, is opposed to the very evil it would appear to uphold. What might not be done, how much real and substantial happiness might not be gained, at home by the hearth, during those long winter evenings, which, like long bills, are too frequently regarded as things to be got rid of without being gone through? The amount of profit to be realized is incalculable; fame, fortune, honour, wisdom, and immediate happiness in the pursuit of all; all are attainable by spending only some of the winter evenings at home in any useful and agreeable study or pursuit. The mere fact of having a fireside that you can call your own, be the apartment itself ever so humble, will inculcate a feeling of independence that is of the very highest value, and a man must be either devoid of mind or very depraved indeed who cannot find some occupation. To a young man who would fain help acknowledging that he is in this lamentable state, we say, domesticate yourself, if possible, with some friend or relation, or if not, in the family of a stranger. You are not fit to become a seeker of amusement out of doors at all, and it behoves such as you especially to remember that the domestic circle is your only place of safety. Even if you idle the evenings away in any manner, however frivolous, let "home by the hearth" ever be the welcome beacon that shall guide your footsteps. THE TEACHING OF NATURE. Go to the silent woods, and commune there, H. Thou that wouldst gain true wisdom; thenceforth learn The rose-bud, dripping with the early dew, Through the green shade the wanton sunbeam springs, List! 'tis the voice of Nature's jubilee; The lark is singing in the topmost air, The linnet carols by the blushing thorn, The wind just freshening whispers to the trees The busy insects in the light rejoice, The dewdrop glitters on the deep green sod, Oh! beauty, joy, and unreproaching love, Lessons for Little Ones. THE NEW DOLL. OH! Carry, Carry, are you not delighted? Papa is coming home to-night!" exclaimed Minna Grey, as she went skipping and dancing into the garden where her sister was sitting under a tree learning her lessons. The latter languidly raised her head, and gazed at the bright countenance that was now bending over her. "You don't look glad, Carry. What is the matter?' Nothing, Minna. I shall be very glad to see Papa. Just hear my lesson." Minna took the book, and listened patiently to the two or three columns that were very correctly repeated by Caroline. Then, throwing down the book upon the bench, she passed her arm round her grave sister, and drew her away into a shady walk. Carry, dear," said she, "I wish you would tell me what is the matter with you. You are so quiet and sad. You mope about by yourself, and seem to take pleasure in nothing. Has any one vexed you? "No, Minna. I wish you would not always be noticing my looks. No one has done anything to me." دو "Are you displeased with me then? you are so different to me, Carry; you never love and pet me now.' And the affectionate little Minna looked up into her sister's face, with a tear in her bright blue eye. "I wish you would not tease me, Minna. There is no getting rid of you. Go to Mamma; she will love and pet you enough." Minna saw that there was nothing to be done with Caroline in her present humour; so, with a cloud over her sweet face, and a weight upon her happy spirits, she turned to leave the garden. Caroline watched her reluctant departure; her heart smote her, and she made a movement as if to detain her. But the opportunity was past; Mrs. Grey's voice was heard calling "Minna! Minna!" and the little one, hastening to obey the summons, disappeared through the garden gate. Who shall analyze the dark thoughts that passed through the mind of the unhappy Caroline as she continued to pace up and down the shaded path? The birds were singing in the branches, the sunshine flickered through the leaves that cast their varying shadows at her feet, and a light breeze waved the tops of the tall chestnut trees, and wafted around her the scent of the roses and sweet briar that flourished on the other side of the privet hedge. But she cared for none of these things, the rich gifts of a beneficent Creator to his sentient children. Caroline's heart was full of envy and jealousy towards her little sister; envy of Minna's personal attractions, jealousy of the love that she gathered around her, as a bee gathers honey, wherever her light step and cheerful voice made music to the hearts of the listeners. Caroline was, naturally, by no means a disagreeablelooking girl. With the light of kindness beaming from her dark eyes, and the glow of affection brightening her regular features, she would have won friends as surely as did the golden-haired Minna; but what wonder that people turned from the countenance darkened by envy, and distorted by the workings of an untold misery, to chat with and caress the little sister who had a pleasant word and a gentle smile for every one? Caroline's parents were not to blame for this sad state of things. Many were the times that her affectionate mother had questioned her as to the cause of her continual despondency, but without success. The child was too sensible not to be ashamed of her wicked feelings, and she carefully confined them within her own bosom, rarely allowing them to break out into unkind word or deed towards their object. Mr. Grey, too, had tried by every means in his power to fathom the secret discontent of his unhappy little girl, but equally in vain. All that they could do was to treat with equal affection the two children, waiting in faith and hope until they could acquire the confidence and touch the heart of their eldest daughter. Evening arrived in due time, and Minna placed her father's chair, and warmed his slippers, for though it was the month of June, the nights were cold. Mrs. Grey sat waiting at the tea-table, and Caroline bent over her books. The latter was not, however, so totally absorbed in them as she appeared to be; for she was intently listening for the sound of wheels in the court-yard. At length there was a distant roll; the noise came nearer and nearer; Mrs. Grey and Minna ran to the door, and Caroline slowly followed. She arrived in the passage just in time to perceive Minna in the embrace of her father, who was stroking his darling's hair, and telling her how well she looked, and how she was grown. Caroline's countenance darkened as she gazed, and she was turning sullenly away, when her father saw her, and called her to him. "My own Carry," he said, "have you no word for me? Are you not as glad to see your father as he is to see you?" Caroline clasped her arms round his neck, and the suppressed tears almost sprang forth. Just at that moment Mrs. Grey called them to tea, and Mr. Grey gently unclasping his little daughter's arms, hastened to obey the summons, for he was cold and weary, while Caroline slowly followed, the cloud again gathering over her brow. As soon as tea was over, and the servant had cleared the table, Mr. Grey sent Minna for a small leathern trunk, which he told her she would find on the top of his luggage in the passage. Out of this box he produced some very pretty presents for Mrs. Grey and Caroline; and then, turning to Minna, asked her to guess what he had brought for her. "I don't know, dear Papa. I can't guess. Oh! do let me see." And the child pressed close to her father, while he bent down to kiss her little rosy cheek. The present, when unfolded from its numerous wrappings, proved to be a beautiful doll, with a chest of drawers, a cradle, and clothes complete. Minna danced round the table for joy. "Oh! Papa, what large blue eyes! And such pretty little curls! And look! Mamma, it is dressed exactly like a baby." Papa intends it to be your baby, my dear, and I hope you will take care of it, and keep it clean and nice." "Oh! Mamma, how I wish I could wash it every morning and evening, as you used to wash poor little Fred. But I suppose that would spoil it, Papa." "Yes, my darling, she is not like your old wooden Polly, who can stand nearly anything. You must also keep her carefully from the fire, for heat would make her pretty face melt and run down. But look here, Minna." And putting his hand under the doll's white robe, Mr. Grey pulled a wire, and the little beauty immediately closed her eyes. Minna shrieked with delight, while Caroline, who had all this time been standing quite still, forgetting for a moment that envy was gnawing at her heart, pressed forward to behold the wonder. "Oh! Papa, I shall always do that when I put it in its cradle, and then it will look really asleep. Perhaps it is really asleep, Papa." Mr. Grey laughed at Minna's supposition, and showed her where the wire was placed, and how it acted. Then, giving the doll into her possession, he left the room, and being shortly followed by Mrs. Grey, the two little girls were left alone. Minna forthwith began to undress her doll, noticing how everything was put on; and then, taking out a night-gown and night-cap from one of the drawers in the little chest, she made her all comfortable for the night, and pulling the wire, hushed her to sleep in the cradle. Caroline had withdrawn to the far corner of the room, and affected to be again absorbed in her books. But all the time she was watching her sister out of the corner of her eye, while her thoughts were occupied something in this manner: "How unkind of Papa! He knows my doll is very old, much older than Minna's Polly; and yet he never thought of bringing me one, but puts me off with a tiresome book, that I don't care to read, and a workbox, when both he and Mamma know that I hate sewing. But Minna's tastes are always studied, while they never care whether I am pleased or not. I won't bear it. She thinks her doll very pretty now, and so it is, but it shan't keep its red and white face long. I heard what Papa said. I know how to spoil it." How unjust was all this! Caroline was four years older than Minna, and her papa thought her rather too big to play with dolls, and therefore he had bought her a book and a workbox, believing that they would be acceptable presents to a young lady of thirteen. The book was an interesting one, and beautifully bound, and the workbox was very pretty and well furnished; yet Caroline, as we have seen, had got so completely possessed with the idea that her parents favoured Minna and neglected her, that instead of being filled with love and gratitude towards her papa for his intended kindness, she hated Minna for the supposed preference shown her, and was determined to put an end to her innocent pleasure. Where envy, hatred, and malice exist in the heart, how is all the honey of life turned into gall! Minna never parted with her doll night or day, always dressing it in suitable clothing, and taking it with her wherever she went, so that it was long before Caroline could find an opportunity of gratifying her hidden malice. Meanwhile her envy was kept alive by the admiration bestowed by all their little friends upon the lovely Cherry, for so Minna had named her favourite. The evil purpose was still nurtured, and at length the desired opportunity arrived. One fine autumnal morning, a few months after the advent of Cherry, the sisters were in the school-room with their mamma, busied at their lessons, while the doll remained seated upright in a chair, at a safe distance from the fire. She looked very pretty, for her face was as yet perfectly uninjured, and Minna had that morning arrayed her in her best lace cap and white robe, in expectation of some little friends who were coming to play with her. Twelve o'clock struck, and the children were just finishing their tasks, when the sound of an organ was heard in the garden, and a monkey appeared outside the window, clambering up the ivy, and chattering and grinning as he looked in at the two little girls. "Oh! look, mamma, look at the funny monkey!" cried Minna. "Do let us open the window and let him in, and give him some nuts to crack." Mrs. Grey consented, and went to the store-room where the filberts were kept, while the little girls ran to the window. As Caroline passed the doll, she looked round, and seeing that her mamma had left the room, and that Minna's attention was completely absorbed by the monkey, she contrived to give the chair in which poor Cherry was seated a gentle push, which brought her directly in front of the fire, now glowing with intense heat, for the morning was frosty, and the coals burnt briskly. Mrs. Grey was longer in bringing the filberts than the children expected, and at length Minna ran out of the room to ask her for them; never thinking of looking for her doll, down whose rosy cheeks the tears were already trickling, as the heat melted the wax out of her composition. A lady was waiting in the drawing-room, and Mrs. Grey gave her little daughter the nuts, telling her, when she had let Jacko in, to shut down the window upon his chain, lest she and Caroline should take cold, The children played with the monkey for about half an hour, and then Minna, for the first time, thought of her doll. "Poor darling!" said she; "she is sitting so quietly in the chair yonder. I will fetch her to the window, and see how Jacko will like her." Alas, for the little girl! When she got near her beloved Cherry, she perceived for the first time the position of the chair, and its proximity to the fire. She ran to take up her doll in a great fright, and oh! what a sight met her view! The blue eyes and the flaxen curls were still there, but the pretty nose, the red lips, the rosy and white complexion, the pencilled eyebrows, were no longer distinguishable, being blended into one mass of indistinct and faded colours. Minna uttered a shriek, and burst into a passion of tears. Caroline, who had ceased to play with Jacko, and was silently watching the success of her scheme, opened the window and delivered over the monkey to his master, who was now resting himself on the steps outside. When Mrs. Grey returned, Minna was still in an agony of tears, and Caroline was trying to console her; for her heart was not yet wholly hardened, and she could not behold such excessive grief without a touch of remorseful contrition. Minna held up her doll to her mamma. "Oh, mamma! my poor, poor Cherry!" was all that she could say. "My darling, who has done this? Surely, you cannot have been so careless, after the warning your papa gave you, about the consequences of exposing her face to the heat. Why, it is almost all melted away, and will never be fit to be seen again. I am afraid your papa will be very much displeased." "Indeed, indeed, mamma, I did not do it. You saw where I placed her all the time we were saying our lessons. She could not feel the fire there. And I never moved the chair, mamma, I did not, indeed." "How did she get so near the fire, then?" "I can't tell, manma; it is very strange. I was just going to take her to let the monkey look at her, and I found the chair moved quite to the front of the fire. No one, besides myself, had been in the room, except you and Caroline, and I am sure you would not do it." Mrs. Grey glanced at Caroline. There was a singular expression upon her countenance which her mamma did not like. However, for the time she said nothing, but occupied herself in consoling poor Minna, whose tears burst forth afresh each time she looked at her doll. The guilty Caroline was already beginning to experience the consequences of her sin. She trembled to meet her mamma's eye; for there was something in it which told her that Mrs. Grey had more than a suspicion of the truth. She would have given all she had in the world to avoid the hour of bedtime, that being the season appointed by this good mother for enquiring into any wrong that she saw, or suspected, in her children, and Caroline feared the examination to which she knew she should then be subjected. But there was no help for it, the inevitable hour came, and Caroline found herself alone with her mamma. And now ensued a scene of searching enquiry and affectionate remonstrance on the one side, of dogged obstinacy and equivocation on the other; for Caroline was not yet sufficiently penitent to confess her sin, though it gnawed at her heart like a viper. Mrs. Grey, at length, quitted her, and retired to her own chamber in tears. Matters continued much in the same state for many days, during which Minna gradually forgot her grief, and Caroline became more and more unhappy. One mild November morning, the sisters played in the garden until they were tired, and then, fetching their books, they retired with them into the summer-house. After sitting quietly for about half an hour, Caroline threw down her book, and walked out. Minua continued reading until nearly dinner-time, and then for the first time, began to wonder what had become of Caroline. Going into the garden, she called her on all sides, but echo alone answered. After searching for some time, she found her in a little plantation of evergreens, sitting on the ground, with her face buried in her hands. The poor girl looked up, at the sound of footsteps, and seeing Minna, she hastily rose to her feet, and was walking away, when Minna threw her arms round her, and begged her to stay and tell her what was making her so unhappy. At length, moved by her caresses, Caroline turned and embraced ner little sister more heartily than she had done for months. "Of all people, I dare not tell you what I am crying about," she whispered. "And why, dear Carry? You know I love you.” |