"And so we agreed that if you would come and live with us we lives in a fine house now —and be one of ourselves, and teach the children, we thought that we should take it very kind of you." "Yes," assented Lucy, mechanically, for she was not a whit the nearer waking. "And if you would think two hundred pounds a year, and a room of your own, enough, it is yours to-morrow; and that's all about it." The speaker, in the excitement of having accomplished his errand, clapped his hat on his head, and breathed freely. But he recollected himself, and took his hat off again. "You wish me to be governess to your children. Do I understand you aright?" said Lucy, only half conscious that the scene was real. "Yes, Miss, if you please; and if two hundred a year would satisfy you, why-why it's done, and that's just where it is." "I thank God!" cried Lucy, bursting into tears. She was wide awake, and understood all It was all true- that was the best of it. The man had really inherited a large fortune, left him by some relative, hitherto unheard of. And was not his early thought about the poor governess, who gave him a good word every morning, and inquired after Billy, who was scalded? Yes; for he had heard of her mother's death, and the proud consciousness of being able to confer a benefit on an orphan girl, elated his heart as much as the possession of a thousand pounds per annum. Lucy, of course, would not consent to receive the salary he had named. How it was finally settled, this chronicler knows not; but Lucy dwells with the quondam toll-keeper, and looks happy-very happy. A small white stone has been erected at her mother's grave. You may see it, if you will walk for the purpose, to Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke-Newington. 3 A VILLAGE SKETCH. BY MRS. BARTHOLOMEW. THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. THE heat of day is passed, and summer's eve * * * * * And now we stand upon the wooden bridge— As, pausing to take breath, we reached the gate Come, let us seek her pardon now, For sorrow should not stain the youthful cheek, But may give place where penitence is seen! There is the mistress, worn, and stern, and gray; How beautiful she was when we were young! Dost thou remember, when our work was o'er, How on that rustic seat, half hidden now By moss and ivy which we planted there, She sang us ancient ballads of our land, — Or told with gentle voice sweet fairy tales To wondering listeners, who in after years Look back upon those recreations pure – The one green spot amid the world's drear waste. And she, the empress of that magic realm, Is powerless now, her sunless stream of life Flows on with no bright flowers on its breast; From morn till night she bears the withering fate Of toiling for herself; know ye what 't is To aid a parent as she feebler grows? If so, ye can define her depth of woe When first she gazed upon the unpressed couch, The vacant chair, - the breakfast-table spread, And no beloved or cherished one to share The simple hard-earned meal. Peace to the dead! The mother sleeps beneath the churchyard turf, |