in course of time, the force of their teacher's arguments when she represents that it must be sparingly used, as is proved by the following conversation, which takes place at the dinner-table one day about two years after Effie's death.

'Oh, Miss Grant,' exclaims Rachel, 'I saw Mary Welsh playing in the gutter, and she was so dirty! I don't believe her hair has ever been washed, yet she had a worked petticoat on that might have done for one of the Queen's children. I thought it quite ugly on her.'

'I saw the sweep's little boy yesterday rolling about in the mud,' remarks Susan, and he had a torn pinafore, and great big holes in his stockings, but he had worked drawers on-quite broad the trimming was. It must have been dear.'

Very near all the fisher-girls has worked trimming on their Sabbath-day petticoats. They think it makes them ladies,' remarks Teenie; and I thought that myself before I came to the Orphanage.'

The children are dining off a magnificent piece of codfish, a favourite, and, in this fishing-town, by no means an expensive dinner, and although some care is required to avoid choking on the small bones, the girls are not disposed to concentrate their attention upon their plates, but are quite ready to discuss with animation the subject Rachel has introduced.

'I aye thought it was bonny dress made ladies, before I came to the Orphanage,' says Rosy, who, besides being a most graceful little creature and a great favourite with every one, is also very shrewd; 'and I'm sure the fisher-girls think that. They have never heard that it's politeness and gentleness makes ladies. I don't think there's many people knows it.'

My grandmother doesn't,' remarks Teenie. 'The word lady is not significant,' observes Miss Grant; 'gentleman, on the other hand, has a meaning which all can see. It is quite evident that good clothes cannot make a gentleman.'

An absolute advantage derived from this eleemosynary method of dressing the children is, that their clothes are not too easily obtained. The orphans have no opportunity of lamenting, as Effie had learned to do in her frugal home, that butcher's meat cannot be bought without bone, and that soap is dear. Food, lodging, education, and medical attendance are obtained without the slightest difficulty. They see no toil-weary father, no thrifty anxious mother, by whose joint exertions the children have food to eat, and clothes to wear, thus losing, it may be, some useful lessons. In this matter of raiment, however, there is no unfailing, unlimited supply. Kitty's everyday frock is shabby, and it is quite uncertain when she may get another; Rosy needs a jacket, and there is no money to buy one; for, though Miss Grant might make these wants known, she considers it better to teach the children that it is more honourable to be willing to suffer some privation, than to ask from one whose kindness has already been very great. Moved by this consideration, Rosy declares that she is quite willing to wear her old jacket for some time yet; and when, a few days after this expression of contentment, a parcel arrives containing some old clothes, among which there is a little girl's frock, which a trifling alteration will render suitable for Kitty, and a piece of drab cloth, new and of excellent quality, that will make a beautiful jacket for

Rosy, the joy experienced is in proportion to the previous sense of want.

When the frocks and jackets are cut out, and the seams arranged for the children, Miss Grant refreshes herself and her pupils by reading aloud while they sew. Happily, there is no difference of opinion between her and them respecting books. She is particularly fond of Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, and Puss in Boots, while the orphans are delighted with The Old Curiosity Shop, and Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome. Shakspeare, too, they consider charming, Susan being greatly pleased with the witches in Macbeth, whose words she is never tired of repeating; while all think the story of little Arthur in King John the most pathetic tale they have ever heard. For a time, the recitation of this piece is a favourite amusement. It is rehearsed in the scullery, while the children are brushing their boots-Rachel is heard repeating it as she washes the door-step; Polly is excellent as the little prince, and Susan makes a very good Hubert. There are little rhymes from Shakspeare, too, of which the 'bairns' are fond, such as:

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile a;
A merry heart goes all the way,
Your sad tires in a mile a-

a verse the repetition of which is found an unfailing help when, after some long ramble, Miss Grant and her family find themselves farther from home at nightfall than they could desire to be. A favourite poem in the Orphanage is Gerald Massey's Poor Little Willie, touching verses descriptive of the death of a workhouse child. Polly and Teenie are to be heard reciting this before they are out of bed in the morning, and Rachel expresses much interest in the author, and looks in every magazine which comes into the house for some other verses from the same pen. She is also delighted with Sir Walter Scott, and, of her own accord, commits to memory the introduction to the Lay of the Last Minstrel. It is an interesting fact to the orphans that Scott and Macaulay obtained their titles for success in literature.

'Indeed,' remarks Rachel, 'I think it a much wiser thing to make a man a lord for writing nice books than for fighting battles. I wish the Queen had made Dickens a baronet.'

'Do you know, Miss Grant,' says Rosy, 'I think it quite natural Macaulay was made a lord, his poems are so grand. He is grander than Dickens.' 'Oh, Rosy! Dickens is delightful!' observes Rachel.

'Rachel, I didn't say he wasn't delightful; I only said he wasn't so grand as Macaulay,' argues Rosy in a tone of injury.

'I wish the Queen had given Catherine Sinclair a title,' says Susan. 'I wonder if she has read Holiday House.'

The rain falls in torrents, and lessons being over for the day, the younger children play at hide-andseek indoors, while Miss Grant is busy at needlework in the parlour. Rachel and Susan are in the kitchen washing dishes, and cleaning knives and saucepans with unparalleled activity, for Oliver Twist is in the house, and Miss Grant has promised to read it aloud as soon as the kitchen is made tidy. Now the hearth is swept, the stove is brightly polished, and a chair is set for Miss Grant near the fire, for though it is summer, the day is cold.

and the orphans are all going to meet her. So they go into the school-room immediately after breakfast, and after spending two hours at lessons, they prepare for their walk, for the pier at which Jessie is expected to arrive is a mile distant. Polly is ready before any of the others, and she comes bounding into the kitchen where Miss Grant is, to ask if she may run down and say good-bye to her father, who intends to leave the town that day. This request is granted, and Polly leaves the house in great haste, for she is afraid that if she does not very quickly return, her companions will not wait for her.

It does not take the little girls long to put on their own jackets and hats, but it is some time before the dolls-some of whom are very fine ladies have their toilet completed. At length, all are ready, and have just gone into the kitchen to shew themselves to Miss Grant, when Polly enters the house, exclaiming, in a tone of disappointment: My father's away. He left last night, and he told me he wasn't going till to-day.'

'He has changed his promise, Polly,' suggests Teenie, daintily arranging her doll's hat and cloak. 'People may change their promise without telling a lie.

A pretty sight is Rosy and her baby-a threepenny doll, dressed by Miss Grant in a long white robe, a black velvet hood, and a blue square. It is supposed to be an infant of a few days' old, and on this little one, Rosy lavishes a world of maternal tenderness. Close beside her stands Rachel, laughing with delight, for she is devoted to Rosy, who is certainly a most engaging child, and watches her every movement with feelings of liveliest admiration.

'I have something curious to tell you, children,' remarks Miss Grant. 6 This little girl you are going to meet has lost a little brother only a few days ago. His name was Willie, and he died in the workhouse.'

'How strange!' exclaims Susan. 'Just like Gerald Massey's poem.'

'Would Jessie Scott's little brother have

Worlds of wisdom in his looks,

And quaint quiet smiles?'

asks Rosy, looking up in her teacher's face. Perhaps he had. I think, however, we must not repeat Poor Little Willie in Jessie's presence,' observes Miss Grant.

Meanwhile, the active, practical Rachel, concerned lest they should be too late of setting forth, cries out that the clock has stopped. This is no unfrequent occurrence, for the article is a present, and a cheap one.

Oh, please look your watch, Miss Grant,' begs Rachel. What will Jessie do, if we are not in time to meet her?'

The matron hastens to her bedroom; but her watch is not on her dressing-table-a piece of furniture, by the way, which stands in the window recess and, upon reflection, she remembers that she has not had it in her hand that day.

I can't find my watch, Rachel,' oberves Miss Grant on returning to the kitchen. You had it in your hands last night at half-past eight. What did you do with it?"

I left it on the dressing-table. I didn't lift it at all, indeed I only looked at it.'

'Then it has been stolen'- Miss Grant stops

abruptly, as if a sudden thought had flashed upon her. The children loudly lament the loss, declaring that the man at the window must have been the thief; but they are told they must go at once to meet the steamer; and as they are anxious to see the new girl, they run away as fast as is compatible with safety to their dolls, most of which are in a state of decrepitude, and unable to bear the shock of hasty movement. The children have no sooner left the house than Miss Grant goes down to the policeman, to inform him of her loss. The man makes a few inquiries, the effect of which is to confirm a painful suspicion which has indeed already presented itself to her mind.

'If you discover the thief, let me know before you do anything further,' says Miss Grant, and returns to the Orphanage, where she is busily employed in domestic duties till the return of the children. Polly and Rosy have run on before, and are the first to arrive.

'Miss Grant, she has come!' they exclaim as they bound into the house. And she is eight years' old, and not much bigger than Rosy,' continues Polly; and I don't think she is very sorry because her brother's dead, for she was laughing as we came along.'

And have you had a nice walk, Polly dear?' Miss Grant asks in a tone in which there is, perhaps, something of compassion as she takes off the little girl's hat, and gently smoothes back her hair.

'Jessie has crape on her hat,' remarks Rosy, and boots on, but no stockings; and she likes my doll the best, and so I gave it to her to carry?'

The children, as the reader may have observed, do not now express themselves in the broad Scotch dialect in which they spoke when they first came to the Orphanage a change of speech which gives great offence in the town, where any attempt to speak the English language is supposed to savour of pride. The other bairns' now arrive, leading the little stranger in a kind of triumphal procession. Jessie is a very pretty child, but certainly small for eight years.

'She has been telling us about the workhouse, Miss Grant,' exclaims Kitty, after Jessie has been kindly welcomed by the matron; and do you know she used to scrub floors? Isn't she a very little thing to be doing that?'

'Oh, but oor Maggie scrubbit, an' she's only six,' remarks Jessie cheerily. It appears upon inquiry that 'oor Maggie' is a sister who has been removed from the workhouse, and is boarded at a farmhouse. It must be admitted that, for a new orphan, Jessie is particularly clean, though her clothes are very shabby, being those, she explains, which she wore when she went to the workhouse, and which were changed for a uniform during her stay there. So Miss Grant hastens to look out some fitting attire for Jessie; Rachel lays the cloth for dinner; and the younger children take their new companion into the schoolroom, then up-stairs to shew her the dormitory, and finally conduct her into the garden. The bairns' have not been all this time without expressing concern about the loss of the watch; but Miss Grant has, with some firmness, forbidden all talk upon the subject.

The following day is Teenie's birthday, and there is a holiday in honour of the occasion, and a picnic at the braes'-grassy slopes facing the It is a glorious July day; light, feathery clouds float in the blue sky; a pleasant breeze

sea.

comes with invigorating influence, and all nature looks gay in the bright sunshine. In this part of the country the fields are without hedge or fence of any kind, so the children brush past the waving grain as they walk along the foot-path, and make nosegays of the poppies which grow among the corn. When they reach the braes,' the German Ocean lies stretched out before them, the Bass Rock rises grandly out of the sea, while to the

left lies the Isle of May, resting peacefully on the bosom of the deep. It is a fair scene, but the orphans are not yet old enough to appreciate it; dearer to them by far is a pool in the rocks, two feet square by three long, where they can dabble for crabs, sea anemones, and other treasures. So Miss Grant sits down on the grass beside the basket of provisions, to read a book she has brought with her, while the children play on the beach.

An hour has passed by, and amid the noise of the waves breaking on the rocks, Miss Grant has not perceived the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking up, she sees close beside her the pedler and the policeman.

'I have captured the thief, ma'am, with your watch upon him,' observes the latter. A wail of distress close beside her makes Miss Grant look round. It is the affectionate Polly, who, having seen her father approach, has run up to speak to him, and only reaches the spot in time to hear the policeman's words. The poor child's tears flow fast; and Miss Grant, forgetting everything at the moment but Polly's sorrow, takes 'the bairn' in her arms.

O dear, O dear! I never thought my father would have done it,' sobs Polly. Miss Grant kisses the unhappy little girl, whom she bids sit down on the grass; and then, taking the pedler aside, she tells him it is not her intention to prosecute him, partly on Polly's account, and partly on his own, remarking that it is her wish to spare the child the pain and disgrace of a father's imprisonment. She also tells him that with regard to himself she is unable to believe he could witness his daughter's distress unmoved, reminds him that as Polly grows older, her love of what is right, and hate of what is wrong, will, it is to be hoped, increase, and that if he (the father) would retain his child's affection, he must endeavour to deserve it. To all this Smith listens quietly, and with his eyes on the ground. I'm sure, ma'am, you are very merciful,' he says in the old whining tone, when she has done speaking; but Miss Grant, dreading any insincere protestation, leaves him, and returns to the weeping daughter. The policeman, who has lingered near, speaks a few words, of warning it may be, to the pedler, who then goes away in the opposite direction, and does not again visit the Orphanage. Miss Grant's heart is very sad, and Polly is not to be consoled; but a few minutes after, a little circumstance occurs which changes for the moment the character of their emotion. Up till this moment the other children have been playing behind some shelving rocks, and have happily escaped all knowledge of what has transpired. Now, however, Kitty, who is not a favourite with her companions, wanders away from them, and taking a seat on the grass, not far from Miss Grant and Polly, proceeds to sing a ditty which is at the time popular in the Orphanage. Presently Teenie comes up and asks the singer for the loan of her doll, when an amusing illustration is afforded

'And be always kind and true,'

sings Kitty.
'Kitty, will you lend me your doll?'
'You should always do to others,'
'Kitty, will you lend me your doll?'

'As you'd have them do to you.'
'Kitty, will you lend me your doll?'

Teenie, don't you hear I'm singing Children, you should love each other, you tiresome interrupting girl! No; I won't lend you my doll, and I'll take back the Bible I gave you for a birthday present,' says Kitty crossly. Miss Grant smiles, Polly looks amused, and immediately after, she helps her teacher with some alacrity to lay the cloth on the grass for dinner, to uncork the bottles, and pour the milk-such milk as London children || have no conception of, it is so rich and creamyinto the mugs.

It is time now to close this little sketch, which is, the writer is painfully aware, a most imperfect one. The children have not been done justice to, for a volume would scarcely suffice to tell their thoughtful sayings, and noble, unselfish affection. Let no one suppose that the children of depraved parents are necessarily deficient in mental power or moral feeling. With one exception, Kitty, the defects observable in the orphans are rather the result of early education than of any special depravity of disposition. On the contrary, did space permit, many instances might be given wherein these rescued waifs display more intelligence, good feeling, and even refinement, than is at all general among the children of educated people.

THE SONG SHE SANG. SHE sang it, sitting on a stile,

One evening of a summer's day; Beside her, at her feet, the while,

Half-hid in grass and flowers, I lay.
So calm and clear her soft voice rang,
In unison with one dear bird,
That near her, on a tree-top, sang,
At time 'twas doubtful which I heard.
And, lying there among the flowers,

I listened like to one who hears,
In murmurings of the passing hours,
The mightier music of the years.
I listened, and the swelling notes,
Borne far on dewy breezes bland,
Seemed taken up by seraph throats,

And chorused by a heavenly band. Now she is gone; yet that sweet strain,

Still gathering charms unknown before, Will make a music in the brain,

And haunt my heart for evermore.

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. Also sold by all Booksellers.