your peace with God and man, I am the last person to be angry with you. I think I need go no further to understand the mystery of "a trespass-offering for the sin of ignorance." Margaret's deep blush confirmed his words, but her heart was too full to speak. He turned to his desk, and opening Baxter's Saints' Rest, wrote with a somewhat trembling hand, the following words:

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Margaret Armadale, from her sincere friend, William Leyden, who humbly prays that through the blood of their Redeemer, their names may be written in the Lamb's book of life—their souls evermore enjoy the Rest that remaineth for the people of God."

He had scarcely done so, when a ring at the bell announced a messenger from Mary, requesting her father to come to Bernard's cottage directly, as poor Arnold was in a deplorable state.

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May I go with you, sir?" asked Margaret, eagerly: "I have particular reasons for wishing to see that man.”

The Vicar's curiosity was excited, and as they walked on together, he asked an explanation. She gave it fully; telling him besides, what our readers have already heard, that Dr. Dunn had seen both Arnold and Robert Grey working as seamen on board the "Furious," and at her request, was endeavoring to gain from the former a clue to his companion's fate; but hitherto without success. "Mr. Conroy, too, has set an inquiry on foot," added Margaret, "but there has been no time yet for any good result: only if we could make this man clear Robert's innocence, it will be every thing.

"Alas! poor nurse," said the Vicar, "I have often noticed her quiet melancholy, and tried to gain her confidence, but she shrunk from all my hints. She is a worthy, excellent woman, and invaluable in her present position. And now, if it is a fair question, my dear, after all your experiments on the Crawford family, what opinion have you arrived at ?"

Margaret colored and hesitated; but screwing up her courage, replied, "Mr. and Mrs. Crawford are good-natured."

"Well, so they are," said the Vicar, who always preferred praise to censure" so they are, my dear."

"Good-natured," continued Miss Armadale, "and affecto those who are rich..."

tionate

The Vicar coughed.

"Ferdinand is a mean, paltry, hypocritical fortune-hun

ter."

"Gently, my love," said Mr. Leyden.

My dear sir, you asked my opinion, and I must and will give it. Mr. John has been good-humoredly patronizing to me, so I respect him accordingly: Miss Judith seldom noticed me at all, so I have nothing to lay to her charge: Miss Crawford I do not like to think about: she wronged and insulted me in every way she could devise; and when, after all, I offered to shake hands, last night, refused: so do not ask me about her."

'Forgive as ye would be forgiven," suggested the Vicar, mildly.

"Well, dear sir, I do; but we must not come in contact, that is all. Nelson," continued Miss Armadale, warmly, "is a fine, generous young man, for whom I have a great regard, and much respect."

"Oh, indeed!" said the Vicar, dryly.

"Yes, sir," persisted Margaret, "and what is more, I think he is calculated by his talents to adorn society."

"Domestic society, my love?" said good Mr. Leyden, who, in the innocence of his heart, thought he was remarkably acute just then.

"Yes, domestic or public," said Margaret.

"And well adapted to make a young lady happy," suggested the Vicar, looking straight forward.

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Very well adapted," said the unflinching heiress, provided the young lady wished it.

The Vicar paused, and looked in her face: her eye was bright and sparkling; but her cheek wore no tell-tale glow, and his penetration was at fault.

"Well, my dear, we have not gone through the whole of the family, now. What do you think of Alfred ?" Margaret was silent.

"I have puzzled you now, Miss Armadale," said her companion, "and no wonder, considering there are no two people of his acquaintance who understand him at all.”

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"I am sure I do not," said Margaret, as indifferently as

she could; "so I leave that for you who do understand him."

"I think I do," said the Vicar, "I think I do; but it is difficult to be certain about so eccentric an individual. Of this I am certain: he has a pious and gentle heart, overflowing with love both to God and man: he loves every thing that is excellent, whether in religion, intellect, or beauty he is designed for the highest purposes, and his timidity and nervousness render him comparatively useless. With a spirit that would bear martyrdom unflinchingly, he has not courage sufficient to be at his ease in a drawing-room: this timidity tends to enervate him; he grows careless and indolent, and will not try to excel. What he requires, is some energetic influence constantly at his elbow, to rouse and sustain_him: with this, he may become a brilliant and useful characterwithout it, he will remain what you see him now. His disposition is inestimable in the highest degree: no one but himself knows the good he has done; and no one can tell the good he might do, could his gallant nature once be set free from its yoke. For my part, so much do I love and respect him, that could I but see him exert himself to do what he might, I should think him worthy of my Mary herself."

"That is praise, indeed," said Miss Armadale, suppressing a sigh; and the conversation was here interrupted by Katy, who, standing full in their path, dropped curtsey after curtsey.

"Long life and happiness to your Riverince then, and the best of the year, day and night, to ye! Sure it does the heart in one's body good to see you walking so hearty and well, with such a sweet lady on your arm!"

"This is rather pleasanter, Katy, than the outside of the coach you proposed last night," said Miss Armadale, looking full at her, "and it is well for me my arm was not broken among you."

"Broken! och, my lady, Miss Armadale, sure it's a pleasure to get such a sweet name on one's tongue-it was nothing in life but the 'citement; and sure, when I felt your white arm in my big fingers, it was so soft and velvet-like, I couldn't but squeeze it for pleasure. Wasn't it myself that told you, you had the rale lady in your face, and were never made to go to prison? and won't it be Katy that will cover the buckle with the best of them, when the gay mar

riage bells ring you and Master Alfred to church? Och now, my lady, don't blush so: it's wasting beauty you are, and the snow melting with your eyes already!"

The Vicar could not but look in his companion's face, to see what all this meant, and the crimson glow of her temples made his blood tingle with curiosity. "Come, come, Katy," said he, "no blarneying; we are rather in a hurry this morning.

"Barneying, your Rivirince! is it an Englishman you take me for? And here have I, ever since the peep o' light this blessed morning, been tellin the grate news all over the parish; and how Misther Alfred rode off last night, and broke his neck, and his heart, and his horse's knees entirely, barrin' the neck: and how the docther was sent for, and all! and there's old Tom, the under-keeper at Rockstone, been tellin' how Miss Armadale (curtseying to Margaret,) saved Mr. Alfred's life in the ould tower, and says he,-"

"Well, well, good morning," said Margaret, moving on; but Katy detained her by the cloak.

"Oh then, my lady, don't lave me without the smile and the kind word! Sure there's no ill-will in such a face as yours, and you'll no bear malice against me, because I couldn't see the sun when the cloud was upon it, and it's myself that can tell you such stories of Misther..."

Margaret drew away her cloak somewhat impatiently, but the Irishwoman's wheedling voice was irresistible, and she slipped a New-Year's gift into her hard hand, that won Katy's heart immediately. The Vicar walked on with a suppressed glee in the corners of his mouth, that was only saved from explosion by their arrival at Bernard's door. Margaret was so confused that she did not observe as he did, that several people turned to stare at her, and that a buzz ran from door to door, that brought gazers in "You direction. every had better take a turn in the Dame's garden, my dear," said Mr. Leyden, "and I will send Mary to you: I will call you in if I think you can do any good, or if any thing transpires for you to hear."

Margaret obeyed, and wandered thoughtfully among melancholy looking gooseberry bushes, and broken flower-pots, till Mary appeared, with a flushed cheek, and tremulous manner, that showed she had already heard the news. Miss Ar

madale held out both her hands, which Mary received with perfect frankness.

"No reproofs, no reproaches, dear Mary! the Vicar has forgiven me I have made my peace at the Grange; I have forsworn all such practices for ever, so you must seal the amnesty, and promise not to love me less!"

"I can readily do that," said Mary, "but you, Miss Armadale, you will soon forget to love me as I had begun to hope you would. I had formed so many plans for making you happy, and now I find I can do nothing!"

"You can do much," said Margaret, drawing her arm in hers, “first, you can call me by my Christian name, and secondly," here she drew Mary's ear closer to her lips, and whispered a word that brought all the blood into her face, and seemed to paralyze both voice and power.

"Do not you remember," said Miss Armadale, “the evening of the storm, when you received me, a wet and weary stranger, and gave me a sister's welcome, and put me to bed in a room, next to another, in which you talked with Nelson Crawford while the door was ajar ?"

Mary hid her face.

"And do you not remember coming into my room, and bending over my pillow; and how I drew you down to me and kissed you-and how as we sat at work in your parlor, we entered into a covenant, that whichever of us was an heiress first, should be allowed to provide for the other? you cannot have forgotten this, Mary?"

"Oh no!-but I did not think-Oh Miss Armadale! oh Margaret !"

"On that evening," continued Margaret, "when I heard your noble resolve to sacrifice your own happiness to your father's comfort, and when I pressed my lips to your cheek, still wet with the tears that sacrifice had wrung, I made a vow in my heart that if time and opportunity were given me, I would wipe all those tears away. The time and opportunity are given-your promise is engaged not to oppose me; your father ratified that promise-and your locket, which has never left my neck, binds you to its fulfilment. Do not turn away, Mary; you know what I say is true: you cannot escape me, and you may think yourself very fortunate that I did not break the whole to Mr. Leyden as we were walking here. We talked of Nelson, and I praised him as