that she thought at length of her neighbour, Mrs. Winning of Sunbury, and recollected that she had lately returned from a continental tour, bringing with her to England a treasure of a young French femme-de-chambre, who was already celebrated in the neighbourhood, both for her cleverness and her beauty. Mrs. Medlicott jumped out of bed in the morning long before the Vicar had given any signs of life, and wrote a long note to her friend, detailing the misfortune that had befallen Reuben, and begging a loan of her maid for a few hours to help her out of the difficulty, for Mademoiselle was of course an expert coiffeuse. This note was entrusted to an out-door servant, who was ordered to take the Vicar's mare to convey it, and to furnish the animal with a side-saddle for the accommodation of the French maid, the distance being something too much for a walk. The clock of Underwood Church, (the tower of which was just visible above the line of the old yews,) had just gone seven, when the servant with the mare and side-saddle set out on his odd commission.

There was great excitement that morning at the Vicarage, and it commenced at an early hour, many of Reuben's old friends coming to bid him adieu, and present him with little tokens of affection, to keep themselves green in his memory when he was far away.

First to arrive were the simple Quaker school-mistress and her cosy daughter, no longer daunted-poor timid hares-by the overbearing Dean, with his thundering voice, and church-militant manners. As they came early and stayed long, we have time to observe them better than when we met them last. One was never seen without the other; they were inseparable even in thought, like chicken and tongue. Two bees were never more industrious. Their business was teaching, their relaxation needlework. If they had a passion, it was for flowers, grasses, and peacock's feathers. If Mary had a fault, it was that she was too merry for her sect, and too plump for her stature. If Hannah had her imperfections, they leaned to the side of literature, like Mrs. Medlicott's. Mary was plain in her attire only; the mother was plain in every sense, including plain-speaking and plaindealing. Her school, in the management of which Mary now bore her part, was her principal means of subsistence; it yielded them but a scanty income, for they were extremely modest in their terms, and taught the children of people who were as poor as themselves, for almost nothing at all.

What she taught would not be important enough to mention, if she had not been one of Reuben Medlicott's early teachers.

Her course included reading, writing, and arithmetic as far as long division; she never puzzled her pupils with the rule of three, or maddened them with fractions. Her system of geogra phy was much shorter and simpler than Humboldt's. In history she taught how Alfred burned the cake, how Clarence was drowned in the malmsey, and who founded the state of Pennsylvania. In short, she taught many things superficially, and stocking-knitting profoundly. But she was perhaps more in repute as a moralist, than for merely enlightening the mind. In ethics she taught that honesty is the best policy, that wilful waste makes woful want, that idleness is the mother of mischief, and that there is a time for all things under the sun. There is reason

to think she considered this last maximn the corner-stone of the edifice of virtue, she repeated and insisted on it so very frequently. Neither of the Quakeresses came empty-handed. Mary brought a silken purse, of her own manufacture, in which she had curiously interwoven Reuben's name, and very tenderly, as well as a little nervously, did she present him with it, whispering, while she placed it in his hands, that she trusted he would be happy where he was going, which appeared to be very far away. nah had her gift also, a large segment of a certain economical species of plum-cake, made with her own hands from a receipt handed down in her family for generations. It was called the "cut-and-come-again cake," and was particularly in demand for the quarterly and yearly meetings.

Han

There now appeared another visitor, one, however, who came to take rather than to give, as the world is divided between people of the two propensities. The new comer was a tall, awkward, heavy animal of a boy, somewhat senior to Reuben, the son of Mr. Pigwidgeon, the family apothecary, who, not being able to come himself, sent his son Theodore with a present of a box of stomachic pills, and a commission to say what was proper on his part, which perhaps the lad would have tried to do, had not the sight of the cake driven all other thoughts out of his mind. His arrival was evidently a bore to Reuben, who had to request him to keep his intrusive hands out of his trunk, which was packed, but still open, while he willingly accepted Mary Hopkins's offer to put the things in order again which had been deranged by such unmannerly meddling. Master Pigwidgeon then kept hovering, like a great fly, about the "cut-and-come-again," and at last ventured to pick at the enamelled sugar with which it was overlaid. In all probability he would soon have taken much

greater freedom with it, if old Hannah had not suddenly laid hands on him, and, drawing herself up to her full height, addressed him with a severity which not more appalled the object of it, than it vastly entertained the Vicar.

"Go thy ways," she cried, shaking her head, and shaking the delinquent at the same time, "the cake is not for thee; hadst thou been a scholar of mine, I would have taught thee betimes to keep thy hands from that which is not thine."

The tall lubberly youth slunk away from the table where the cake lay, and looked so abashed and frightened that Mrs. Medlicott pitied him, and gave Reuben a hint to offer him a piece of the cake, which the generous boy did in the promptest and most good-natured manner. Nor was Master Theodore Pigwidgeon too proud to be appeased in this way, though he preferred enjoying his share of the cake in private, and stole away home, scarcely bidding his benefactor a good-bye, and utterly forgetting the pills, for which Reuben perhaps had no reason to be seriously offended with him.

pre

Among the hours and half-hours that are most irksome to pass in this world (such as the half-hour before dinner, or before the rising of the curtain at the play), must certainly be enumerated the interval that elapses between the completion of the liminaries of a journey and the moment of the last embraces and adieus. It is an interval which cannot be too much abridged for the comfort of all parties; for the tenderest leave-takings do not admit of being protracted for more than a few minutes; sighs cannot be drawn out beyond a limited length, and the tenderest eyes will not secrete tears at discretion. The visits of even common acquaintances therefore, have their value on these occasions, provided they do not come to pry into our boxes and eat up our plum-cakes. Mrs. Medlicott nevertheless was not sorry when the considerate quakeresses gave Reuben the last proofs of their affection-Hannah with kisses which he would gladly have dispensed with, and a parting speech containing the cream of her proverbial philosophy-and went their way in sympathy and silence. In fact Mrs. Medlicott had for some time been extremely fidgetty, looking out for the arrival of the French maid, and not wishing her to come until the Hopkinses had departed. It happened exactly as she wished. The quakeresses were not gone five minutes when Mademoiselle arrived, not on the Vicar's mare (for she shuddered at the notion of riding), but in a little phaeton of Mrs. Winning's. Louise (so she was called), was very young, ex

tremely pretty, exceedingly well-dressed, thoroughly Parisian, and the most lively, ardent, and obliging creature in the world. In a neat basket, which hung from her arm, she carried her scissors and her tongs, her oils, marrows, and pomatums, in short all the instruments and appliances of that luxurious and ornamental art in which her compatriots of both sexes leave the rest of the world immeasurably behind them. The exquisite arrangement of her own hair was enough of itself to prove her capacity for the delicate mission she came to execute. In a word, she seemed a very sylph of the toilet, an actual Crispissa, as she alighted from the carriage and tripped into the Vicar's parlour. What a contrast, except in being obliging and good-natured, she presented to poor Mary Hopkins!

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Ah, mon Dieu; ah, mon Dieu;" Mademoiselle exclaimed, when the state of poor Reuben's tresses was shown her, " que les prêtres Anglais sont des ignorans !" as if she had expected to find the ecclesiastics of England particularly expert at hair-cutting.

Mrs. Medlicott talked French reasonably well for an English woman who had never been abroad; but Reuben had not yet reached that degree of proficiency, so that Mademoiselle, who spoke English prettily, employed that tongue chiefly during her visit. She had a nice operation to perform, but she executed it with such dexterity that, although she could not replace the lost curls, she soon left little or no trace of the Dean's clumsy hands behind her. Mrs. Medlicott stood by delighted and thankful, rewarding every clever touch with a profusion of acknowledg ments and a mint of smiles. Reuben himself had no words to express what he felt; gratitude was the least of it. Though but a boy of thirteen, he was far from insensible to the prodigious difference between the small tapering rosy fingers of the pretty sparkling young French woman, and those of his last hair-dresser. She touched him so delicately, so playfully, made such a number of artless flattering little speeches, had such bright eyes, and such a musical voice, seemed so happy to please his mother, and every now and then came out with such pretty little exclamations, and adjurations (which were always in her own language), that the boy was utterly confused and bewildered, and experienced emotions which poor Mary Hopkins had never inspired. In fact it was fortunate he had so many other occupations for his thoughts at the moment, for otherwise he might have actually fallen in love.

When Mademoiselle heard that he was on the point of start

ing for shcool, she cried out that he was too young, too fragile, and began to implore his parents to change their purpose. She even offered to come over herself twice a week from Sunbury, and teach him French. His clever father and mother could teach him every thing else; "voilà mon projet d'instruction pour Monsieur Reuben."

Mrs. Medlicott could not but laugh, while in the most courteous terms she thanked Mademoiselle Louise for her project and all her civilities.

"C'est mon projet," she repeated curtseying, while she sheathed her scissors, and prepared to take leave, which she was not permitted to do without luncheon. While that was preparing, she tripped over to a piano, which happened to be open, and without sitting down, played and sang one little lively air after another, with such grace and sweetness that the Vicar himself was greatly taken with her.

"I will come encore, and pay you a visit, when you come back for de holidays, Monsieur Reuben," she said, when luncheon was over, "and remember, if your méchant grandpapa cut your beautiful hair again, you always send for Mademoiselle Louise."

Before she went, she gave him several admirable precepts for the care of his hair and the improvement of his person generally, and presented him with a flask of Eau-de-Cologne by way of an impromptu souvenir; so that Reuben carried with him to school substantial pledges of regard from a great many friends and acquaintances.

At length the parents were alone with their son, and now many a maternal caress was repeated, many a paternal counsel reinforced; many a time Mrs. Medlicott was sure she had left something unsaid of the utmost consequence, and, with her hands clasped over her eyes, laboured in vain to recollect herself, for in fact she had said everything important and unimportant ten times over. The Vicar had all along confined his instructions to but a few points, but to these he had returned frequently, and even now at the eleventh hour, he inculcated once more the few short moral lessons into which he tersely divided what he called the whole duty of a schoolboy.

The final tendernesses may be left to the reader's imagination-who has not either experienced or witnessed them? "Tears have streamed through every age" for this commonest of causes, but fortunately though such tears are natural, we "wipe them soon," as our first parents did, after a scene of more bitter leave