very thing!" exclaimed Miss Armadale, pulling it out, and preparing to thrust a parcel of fragments into the grate, when her eye was caught by the writing-she paused: read the passage, looked for the continuation, and was soon convinced she had lighted on a literary treasure. Heedless at once of cold and fatigue, she took a heap of these papers to the table, and perused them with intense interest. A world of new thought was laid before her: every line bore the stamp of originality and genius: essays, half finished, displaying both elegance of diction and acuteness of argument; lyrics of deep pathos, scraps of epic poetry, full of chivalrous fire, and romantic incident; mathematical problems-these Margaret turned over with most disrespectful impatience; and part of a series of papers on theological subjects; a very chaos of compositions, mixed and jumbled together in hopeless confusion, but evidently well worth any body's while to sort and arrange.

Ah! little thought poor Alfred, as he gazed on her window from his own, that he might catch, "o'er the lattice cast," her shadow, and wondered why she sat up so late, what interesting occupation made her at that time forgetful of weariness, and unmindful of cold! It is fortunate he did not know, as, in his agony of enthusiasm, he would have infallibly flung up his window, and established an audible communication with hers, in defiance of all rules of propriety, whether ancient, modern, or middle-aged.

Christmas-day came, bright, gleaming, frosty Christmas, the very pattern of days: the ground as hard as an anvil, the air as keen as a razor: just the morning to make all the young blood in one's veins boil with impatience to give utterance to its healthful gladness. All the House of Crawford seemed to feel its influence: smiles were on every face, and good-humored greetings on every tongue: even Miss Theodosia looked pleased, for Shipton had confided to her the anecdote of the fire, and it had served as an agreeable stimulus. Margaret was in bounding spirits, ready to defy her, Shipton, and all the grates and coal-scuttles in the world. Miss Martin was grave and silent: Christmas was to her a day of retrospect: memory recalled pleasant hours gone by, in which no one near could sympathize; and placid and content as she usually was, she found it difficult to be

cheerful now. Oh! how this feeling deepens as anniversaries come round! how does it make the stricken heart yearn for that one glorious meeting, when the past will kindle no regret, and the future raise up no fears!

But over our fair heroine, in this her first English Christmas, associations had as yet no power. Every thing was new; every thing was strange, every thing was cheerful. Rejoice! was the chorus of the winds. Rejoice! was the burden of the children's carol: the church garnished with evergreens and holly; the bells ringing out their glad and welcoming peal; the deep-toned organ swelling the annual hymn-"Hark! the herald angels sing;"-all echoed the glorious bidding, "Rejoice in the Lord alway: and again I say, Rejoice!"

Alas! that the angelic song that filled the ears of the midnight watchers, should sweep over the earth unheeded! Alas! that heaven should send her holy ones, and nature lift up her thousand voices, and man alone, of created harmonies, should mar the immortal hymn! Yet so it is: we can rejoice in every thing else: in the family meeting, the cheerful fireside, the merry jest, and the plentiful board: give us these for our annual enjoyment, and our hearts will respond to the call but tell us to be glad because salvation is come, to root out every evil habit and renew us to holiness of life; bid us be thankful that the world is overcome, and that sin shall no more have dominion over us, and where is our Christmas rejoicing then?

And now the service is over, and the congregation are dispersing, and the Vicar is lingering at his vestry door, to wish a merry Christmas to those who pass: and has a special word for Margaret, leaning on Alfred's arm and Mary wishes Nelson "the compliments of the season," but her lip quivers as he presses her hand, and she hurries blushingly

on.

And the crowd of poor, in their best clothes, have a sunny look upon their faces that makes Margaret's beam with pleasure and so the Crawford party go home, to be exceedingly busy. For company are expected; not the Toddleton and Marples company, but relations and connections of every shade and degree; and the children are to dine at table, and are in an intense state of excitement, while thinking of that good hour; and make so much noise that

Mrs. Crawford entreats her elder girls to amuse and keep them quiet who, not liking the employment, shift it upon Miss Armadale. And whilst Miss Armadale, with the best intentions in the world, tells stories to Lily and Rose, Rory absconds to play on the stairs, and tumbles down them, and roars tremendously, which brings his papa and mamma to the spot, full of alarm and wrath, and finding no one else to vent it upon, vent it upon Margaret, who begins to think Christmas-day is not quite so pleasant as it might be. How. ever relief comes in the shape of Alfred, who stays with her all the afternoon, and a great deal of agreeable conversation they have in the twilight, over the fire, while every body is too busy to notice them: and they discuss his MSS., and Miss Armadale praises and quotes his poetry with such genuine enthusiasm, that the tears glisten in her eyes, which Alfred thinks make them more dazzling than ever, and they so intoxicate his brain he hardly knows what he is saying. But Margaret knows and understands too: his soft voice glides like music into her ear: and she stands listening with downcast head, and her long curls sweeping the chimney. piece, and wondering now and then whether Ronald, the minstrel, had half so melodious a tongue.

Hark! there is a carriage driving up! one-no, there are two or three: and there goes the door-bell with an unmistakable family peal: is it possible they are come already? Margaret did not wait to see; to Alfred's great annoyance, she escaped to the upper regions, leaving him to receive a troop of affectionate relations, among whom were a satirical uncle, an awfully irascible great aunt, perpetually taking offence, and altering her will in favor of whichever nephew pleased her most; and a couple of schoolgirls, expecting to be talked to, and joked with, and otherwise amused. Consigning the poet to his fate, as many a poet has been consigned before, Margaret went to the nursery to offer her good wishes to her friend, nurse Wilton.

On opening the door of this domestic sanctuary, she was startled by the sound of sobs: not those of a child, that would not have surprised her, especially to-day, when she was inclined to think ill of the whole infantine race-the sobs she heard were those of a woman, and no less a woman than the placid, smiling Nurse Wilton herself: seated alone

by the fire, her arms resting on the table, and her head on them.

"Why nurse-good nurse!" said Miss Armadale, touching her.

Wilton started, and looked up, her face wet with tears. "I came to wish you a merry Christmas, Nurse, as I did not see you this morning."

"Thank ye kindly, Miss Esther; and may your good wishes return to you tenfold. You're young, and may look for many a merry Christmas, I hope ;-but not for me, Miss, -I've buried mine many a long year ago!"

There was something so deeply touching in her voice and manner, usually so serene, that Miss Armadale's heart, never difficult to move, was filled with sympathy and interest. To give the poor woman time to recover, she stirred up the fire, lighted a candle, drew a chair opposite hers; and then talked to her in soothing words, till poor Wilton's face grew brighter. "Well, then, 'tis yourself, Miss Esther, that has the gift of comforting. I've felt better ever since you came in."

"Perhaps I could comfort you still more," said Margaret, kindly, "if I knew the cause of your sorrow."

Nurse Wilton shook her head, with a melancholy smile: but her heart was so full of her troubles, that Margaret had no difficulty in leading her to talk of them, till by degrees she told her whole history.

"It's a long time ago, as I was saying, Miss Esther, since I knew what a merry Christmas was; and it's little my old remembrances can interest you. My story is not much to tell, it's but of every-day matters,—not at all like the stories I have heard Mr. Alfred tell, which he reads in big square books, and then turns into such fine verses. My parents were but plain, homely people; my father had a small farm, and my mother was an active, industrious body; and they lived very quietly, but had always a welcome for a friend, and a bit for the poor, and 'specially at Christmas time and it's then I've seen the merry-making, when my sister Lucy and I, (they'd no other children,) used to have our game of play in the large kitchen with a troop of youngsters like ourselves, and the elders now and then coming in for their share. Ah! those were happy days!

"My sister Lucy, poor child, went to live with my grandmother and aunts, many miles from us, when she was twelve; and for six years we never saw her; for travelling was a great matter in those days: but we still had our Christmas feasting; and blithe times they were. I was happy enough then, for William Grey was always with us, and I wanted nothing more. You'll smile, mayhap, Miss Esther, at my talking of love, with my white hairs-a poor nurse like me; but the heart's the heart all the world over, and there never was a nobler than his, nor a truer one than mine !

"He was a fine lad, was William Grey, and all the parish knew it; and it was the joy of my heart to hear every one speak well of him. It was no secret why he came to our house so often; we were always talked of together: and it was all settled, that as soon as he could take the farm next ours, we were to be married. Yes, he was a gallant lad ;just the sort, in his station of life, that Mr. Nelson is hereso brave, so true, so kind to all weaker than himself; with a laugh that would make the rafters ring, yet so sweet and clear, from the heart-springs, it never seemed a note too loud. Ah! Mr. Nelson's a happy fellow, and a real gentleman: and, please God, it's many the Christmas rejoicing he may both see and make: but the holly berries may glow, and the misletoe may hang, and the logs may crackle in the midst of the family ring,-they will never hear your laugh again, my poor lost Willie !

"I told you, Miss Esther, my sister had left us: but, my grandmother being dead, my father said she had better come home, to get her hand in at the dairy, before I married: so, after much disputing with my aunts, who doted upon her, it was settled she was to come to us at Christmas. I remember as well as if it were yesterday, our standing discussing it over the fire, and consulting how she should be fetched, for the coach would set her down seven miles off, and our horses were all employed: and I can see William coming in, as he did, all fresh from the cold wind, to offer to fetch Lucy in his new spring-cart. Father would not let him at first,—I think somehow he boded evil,—but Willie was so earnest.--' And,' said he, I should like to use the new cart in Ellen's service, as she won't let me drive her in it.' And at last it was settled: