erness, in meagre circumstances, is one whole tragedy.

Lucy Hinchliff closed the garden gate, and passed from her mother's sight. It was a fine morning, and she was early. She had, therefore, no occasion to hurry, as she was sometimes obliged to do. She felt very glad that the morning was fine, for to tell a homely truth, her shoes - well nigh worn out-were far from being water-proof. She had sat all day with wet feet once before, from the same cause, and much need she had to be careful of her health for her mother's sake. She had few acquaintances on the road she traversed—though she was familiar as their own children's faces to all the small tradesmen- they saw her pass so regularly morning and evening. The green-grocer would frequently tell his wife that it was time to get the breakfast, for the young lady with the musicpaper was abroad. The toll-gate keeper was Lucy's only speaking acquaintance of the male sex. He had always a kind word for her. Nor did Lucy fail to ask him after the child that was scalded -a frightful accident that or whether his eldest girl was at service yet, and other little queries. "There she goes," the man would say, when she had turned from him. "Her's is a hard life, poor thing!"

"Not hard at all, Mister Marten," retorted

Dame Wringlinen on one occasion. "Hard, indeed! I think she's got a very easy berth o't. Put her over a washing tub, and give her three or four counterpanes for a morning's work, and see what she'd make o't."

Ah, you don't know all!" said the tollkeeper, significantly. And he was right.

The lady at whose house Lucy commenced the instructions of the day, was a very nervous lady indeed; and like your nervous people, she was extremely irascible. Lucy's knock offended her. She hated single knocks. Why had they a bell, if it was not to exempt the house from the vulgarity of single knocks? Once, in a fit of forgetfulness, the governess gave a palpitating double knock, and then Mrs. Robert Smith was astonished at her presumption. "Miss - Miss -I forget your name Mrs. Robert Smith

often contrived to forget a name which was the property of a humble dependant, and was so much better than her own.

"Hinchliff, ma'am," prompted Lucy on the occasion referred to.

"Ah, Hinchliff. Well, Miss Hinchliff, if, for the future, you would remember not to give a double knock, you would oblige me. I really thought it was visitors, and, as I am in my deshabille, it set me all in a flutter — you should consider my nerves, Miss Hinchliff.”

Poor Lucy! If she could have afforded to be so much in fashion as to own to the possession of nerves, the lady's nervousness would have infected her.

"Now, Miss Hinchliff," said Mrs. Robert Smith, when the governess had taken off her bonnet and shawl on the morning we make her acquaintance; are you up in those new quadrilles yet?"

"I am very sorry, ma'am, but I have been so much engaged I only took them home the day before yesterday, and so little of my time is my own."

Well, Miss Hinchliff, of course, if you have too many engagements, and my dear children are to be neglected on that account, it will be Mr. Robert Smith's duty to seek another responsible person, whose engagements are not so numerous; you cannot object to that, I am sure.”

"Oh, ma'am," was Lucy's faltering reply; "I am too happy to be employed by you. I will be sure to get the quadrilles ready by to-morrow."

God pity her. She spoke the truth. She was too happy to be employed by Mrs. Robert Smith.

"I will excuse you this time, Miss Hinchliff,' said the lady, conciliated by Lucy's answer, "but I shall certainly expect the quadrilles to-morrow. I think you said when we first engaged you, that you taught Italian? Priscilla is to learn it."

"I shall be most happy, ma'am," replied Lucy, brightening up.

"Mr. Robert Smith says that he has readhe is a great reader, as you know

that there are some very pretty poems in Italian, though he called one by a very shocking name

playhouse thing."

a kind of

"Which was that, ma'am?" inquired Lucy, mentally reverting to Goldoni and Metastasio. "You ought to tell me," replied the lady. "You know, of course the pretty Italian with the playhouse name."

poem

"It is considered a very fine poem, ma'am." "Yes, pretty or fine that's what Mr. Robert Smith called it; though I think, if 'tis a comedy, it shouldn't be called Divine."

Lucy assured the lady that the Divina Commedia was not a play in five acts, with stage directions, but rather a religious poem.

"I understand your meaning," said her employer; "something like Milton, I suppose. I have heard Mr. Robert Smith remark - his remarks are so to the purpose that Milton was a tragedy, quite. You will understand that you are to teach Priscilla Italian. And about the

terms, Mr. Robert Smith says you are not to increase them, as he really can't afford it.” "Ma'am," said Lucy, astonished.

"If you object, of course, we must find another responsible person, who will include Italian for the amount of your present salary.”

Lucy's mother was in failing health. Need we say that she was "too happy" to teach Italian without remuneration, under the circumstances. On the same morning Mrs. Robert Smith dismissed her cook, who blundered at a pate de foie gras, and hired another at greatly enlarged wages.

The widow Hinchliff was not only in failing health, but she was nearer death than Lucy had any idea of. When the poor girl returned home that evening-she went to six houses first, and walked a distance of seventeen miles- -she found that her parent had been obliged to retire to bed. The servant, alarmed by her mistress' condition, had called in a neighbor, who only waited for Lucy's return to urge the propriety of sending for a doctor. Lucy not only assented, but ran herself to fetch one. "I can give you no hope," he said; and she felt that a blight had indeed passed over her young life. When one that we dearly love is stricken down to die, we look out upon the world as if we had no longer hope, or part, or any lot therein.