It was Christmas Eve: and a child was sitting by the bedside of her mother, and she knew that life was passing away, and that soon she would be alone. It was a sad watch for one so young. She gazed with her large blue eyes, sometimes clouded by tears, on the dear pale features, the one face which embodied all that she loved and reverenced on this earth. She knew her mother was dying, but she did not realize all which that word meant to her. She did not understand that the tie which nothing but death can break, the only love that nothing but death can quench, would soon be ruthlessly torn asunder and overpowered by that flood which ushers the soul into immortality.

"Ursula, my child," panted the poor heavily breathing sufferer, lifting one colourless hand with a great effort, and letting it fall again on the bed.

The girl sprang up to catch the faint words, and wiped the drops from the marble forehead.

"Dear mother, did you speak? What can I do for you? Oh, speak again."

There was a pause, for the struggle between death and life was becoming very sore. It was a young face,-young to be the mother of Ursula, that lay back there in the mortal agony. The features were delicate, and could one at such a moment have thought of earthly beauty, it would have been to reflect how much of what could not but be considered as such, was passing away there.

At some movement of her mother, Ursula crept on to the bed, and supported her head on her arm.

"Thank you, darling," breathed the weak voice again; "you have always been so loving, and kind, and precious to me. I am afraid this will be a sad Christmas to you—I shall keep it in heaven."

At this moment the clear frosty air of the winter's early morning, bore towards them the tender sound of church bells ringing in at the first hour the anniversary of the great Festival of our LORD's birth. The window, opened to admit air to the gasping sufferer, showed the moon sinking to rest, and the bright stars shining gladly in the sky, and brought in clear and soft the sounds, so sweet in the recollection, so sad and solemn in the hearing, so joyous in childhood and youth, so soothing in old age, the Christmas chimes from the old church tower : and with their last echo the gentle spirit passed away.

It was some days after her mother's death before Ursula Stanhope at all overcame the feeling of numbness which seemed to have seized every faculty. Her world, her life seemed to be so mixed up with what had been taken from her, that nothing, not even feeling, seemed to be left to her. She was only fourteen years old, and probably had she had any sympathy shown to her at that time, the floodgates of blessed tears might have been opened, and solace thus given to her sorrow. But since Mrs. Stanhope's widowhood, she had lived in a lovely but very retired nook in Devonshire. The mother and child had been all in all to each other, and they had neither of them sought much companionship from those around them.

During the illness which carried poor Mrs. Stanhope off so rapidly she had regretted that she had scarcely an intimate friend to whom she could commit the care of her child, if, as she foresaw would be the case, she should be removed from her. There were two distant relations in the north of England, whom she had visited in her early married life with her husband, -a pair of old maids, to whom she had given mortal offence, as had also her husband, by some expression of opinion far removed from theirs, in a matter of politics and social arrangement. The young husband and wife in their happiness together had never cared to propitiate these elderly relations, who however wielded the great weapon, gold, in their grasp.

When Captain Stanhope in the midst of his strength and manhood was cut down by typhoid fever, no word of sympathy or affection reached his widow from the two ladies of Helston Manor,-nor from

that day until the day of her death did she or her child receive any word of kindness or favour at their hands. They knew that nearly everything that Captain Stanhope possessed died with him, and that his wife, delicately nurtured as she had been, had but a pittance left her for the support of herself and child. Yet they could not forget. the offence of years past, but grimly clung to the satisfaction their pride gave them, and made no sign.

Those few dreadful days of darkness and misery between death and the grave were passed by poor little Ursula in almost despair. That bright Christmas Day on which she became motherless had passed and gone. Her eyes had not seen or rejoiced in the beauties of wreaths and flowers with which each had vied with the other in the choice decoration of GoD's Temple. No joyous chant or anthem had echoed in her ear and told her to rejoice and be glad in that her loved mother had gained her home in heaven, and was only now waiting for the Great Eastertide. The child in her bitter grief could but walk from room to room of their little cottage, tearless, hopeless, miserable. The old servant tried to make her eat,-to cheer her in her simple way, but it was no use. And only in the dusk of the early shortening day did she open the cottage door and steal noiselessly out to search among the long crisp grass for a few early snowdrops. Often had she brought these flowers to her mother as a first offering of love on the morning of the new year. Now, they were gathered for a different purpose indeed. With fingers well accustomed to such work, Ursula wove the fair drooping blossoms into the shape of a cross, binding them together with tresses of her own long silken hair, which had been her mother's pride, and then gently opening the door of the chamber of death, and entering in with hushed and faltering footsteps, she removed the covering from the loved face. Ah! it was not her mother. Sweet, calm and placid as the form lying there was, in its perfect stillness, the child knew that it was not all she had loved. She saw that the spirit which had animated the body, with its deep love, and its power, and its goodness, was gone, and she knew too then that it had found a home above and beyond the troubles and sorrows, and sins of this world. Reverently the girl placed the cross of early snowdrops on the breast of the dead, and a great sob broke the ice of despair, and flowed out in saving tears.

The morning after the occurrence just narrated, was the one before that appointed for the funeral. A letter was brought by the morning

post, and given to Ursula before she had arisen from her solitary bed, where she had wept herself to sleep, and awoke with eyes so swollen as hardly to be able to read the address, which was in a strange cramped handwriting. When she had opened it, she read as follows:

"The Misses Henrietta and Maria Stanhope of Helston Manor, having heard that Mrs. Walter Stanhope is dead, beg to inform the daughter, (if living,) that they are willing to forgive the past, and recognize her as their great-niece, which they believe the relationship to be. She can come and reside for the present at Helston Manor. As it is necessary that mourning should be provided, the Misses Henrietta and Maria Stanhope beg to say they will defray such expenses as shall be thought necessary, for an inmate of their house. And as it is a near relation, of course the mourning must be very deep. The expense of their great-niece's journey they also wish to defray, and as it is not suitable for a relation of the Misses Henrietta and Maria Stanhope to travel alone, they will despatch their own maid, a very trustworthy and respectable person, to attend Captain Walter Stanhope's daughter on her journey to Helston Manor. The maid, Mrs. Dorothy Princely, will arrive on Thursday, December 31st, and the journey is not to be delayed longer than January 1st.

"Helston Manor,

"December 29th, 18-."

It was well that Ursula's indignation was aroused by the receipt of this letter, it enabled her in some degree, to shake off the stupor of grief, and face the sorrow which had come upon her, instead of succumbing to it. Her first impulse was to reject indignantly the offer so coldly made by these unkind relations. But how to frame the words she hardly knew, so unaccustomed had she been to write or decide anything without appealing to her mother for assistance.

He

The only person to whom she could turn for advice was the kind medical friend who had attended her mother during her illness. had been to look in upon Ursula every morning since the death of the poor sufferer. Ursula knew that this day would be no exception. She determined therefore to consult her good friend Mr. Mc Leod, before answering the letter. There was in her own mind, no doubt as to what the reply should be, but the mode of expression should, she thought, be left to the advice of Mr. Mc Leod, whose cheery voice, and quick energetic step had often given her comfort during the last

sad weeks, even before she saw his face. She watched during the hours of the morning, with more than her usual anxiety, and ran to meet him with something of her old animation when she saw him coming up the path of the little garden.

"My dear child," he exclaimed, putting out both his hands, "I am so glad you are trying to look a little brighter to-day, do you feel better ?"

'Oh, I am all right, I have been wanting you so much, dear Mr. Mc Leod. I thought you would never appear, please come in here." Then observing the dim light occasioned by the dark blinds being down, "oh, it is so dark and dreadful everywhere now, I don't know

"Come in here, dear child," said the kind Doctor, leading her into a little back room full of flower pots and cuttings, stored for spring, where she had scarcely been for some weeks. He drew up the blind and let in a few red rays from the early sinking winter sun. They shone aslant the room, lighting up the brown ripples of the young girl's hair, and bringing clearly to view her poor tear-stained face and heavy eyes. Ÿet at this moment she was looking eager and anxious as well as sorrowful.

"Do please read this letter," said Ursula, giving her great-aunts' packet into the doctor's hand. "It is cruel, it is shameful to write to me like that, to think for a moment that I would go and stay with them, after all their unkindness to dear mother.”

Doctor Mc Leod read the letter and then turned it back and read it again.

Ursula looked at him with an impatient gesture, "Do tell me what I am to say to them, I must write now, or I shall not be in time to stop the horrid maid coming here. The idea of taking it for granted I should be ready to go the very instant after-!" the poor child could say no more for the sob that rose in her throat.

“No, Ursula,” said Mr. Mc Leod, "you shall not go away so hurriedly as this, but I am not sure if you ought to refuse this invitation entirely. These ladies are your nearest relations, and may be useful to you, dear, in your future life.”

Oh, Mr. Mc Leod, don't say I need ever go to them. I don't want anything they can give me, and I know I should be miserable there. Of course I must be miserable anywhere now, but to stay with those dreadful old maids, and all among strangers, would be worse than