was to be eternal, and gently suggested to her father to pursue their walk, But the farmer had no intention of parting with them so soon.

"I am sure Miss Graham would take pleasure in looking at my farm-yard," said he. "Do me the favour, Ma'am, to walk this way; I have got some beautiful pigs. I will venture to say you will be gratified with what I am a-going to shew you."

Alice was in for it; and under the necessity of following the loquacious farmer into the piggery.

"There, ma'am," said he, triumphantly pointing to a herd of little curly-tailed creatures trotting and cantering about their sty, and ever and anon giving a grunt of recognition as their master called and spoke to them. "There, ma'am, if that is not a fine litter, all I can say is, I don't know what is. There is their mother in the next place; but she'll never give us such another litter. She is inclinable for to be so very lusty that we can't keep her thin no ways, though what we gives her would starve another sow. There is another sow there, ma'am ; you can't see her at this moment, but she's a fine creature to look at. That ere eats her pigs. She is a fine creature! You shall get a sight of her, maʼam; I'll have her out for you to look at. Here, Ben! Ben! I say."

"Brother Ben is gone down to Shenstone House, father," said a little urchin, running out of the farmhouse, with a kitten under one arm and a puppy on the other.

"What's he gone there for?"

"Because Mr. Jones, the wally, told him his mistress was took dreadful ill, father; and he went down for to see whether he could be of any use, to carry messages or

"Mrs. Shenstone dreadfully ill" exclaimed Alice and Mr. Graham at the same moment, "what does this mean?"

The farmer had received no intelligence of the kind; and Mr. Graham and his daughter taking leave without further delay, hastened home, expecting to hear either a confirmation, or a refutation, of the report which had just reached them. Their expectations were well founded. On the hall table, a note directed in George's hand-writing, was the first object that presented itself. It contained the account of a sudden paralytic affection with which his mother had been seized, and an earnest entreaty to Alice to repair to Shenstone House, the poor invalid having no female friend but herself within reach, and her married daughters being at so great a distance that a considerable time must necessarily elapse previous to their arrival Alice lost no time in setting off to visit her friend; and in her anxiety for the safety of Mrs. Shenstone, forgot for the moment, that in all probability her explanation with George must take place.

Though considerably alarmed at the summons she had received, Alice was nevertheless unprepared for the case being one of extremity. Mrs. Shenstone was,

indeed, in the last stage of existence; and it was not expected she could survive the night. Her son was in the utmost affliction; and Alice had need of all her powers of consolation to restore him to comparative ease. Mrs. Shenstone appeared sensible, though speechless. She pressed Alice's hand in token of gråtitude and affection; and as George knelt on one side the bed and Alice on the other, she gently joined their hands, forgetful, perhaps, in the hour of death, of the obstacle to a marriage she had long ardently desired, and conscious only of the happiness such an event would confer on her beloved son. Alice felt George's hand tremble as it was placed in her own; and contemplating his pale and sorrowful countenance as he gazed on his expiring parent, she had not the heart to with-draw hers; but left it there, an earnest of friendship unimpaired by the recital she had heard from him. George understood her. One moment he averted his eyes from the varying features of his mother; and as they met Alice's glance, he there read a confirmation of the hope he entertained. Alice was still his friend; though aware of the iniquity of his early life, she had not cast him off. The tide of his mother's life was ebbing fast; but that mother would not leave him alone in the world, he had still a friend left, and one to whom he could speak unreservedly and without disguise. These thoughts for a while crossed the young man's mind; but they soon reverted to the scene before them. Mrs. Shenstone lingered still,

though without the prospect of amendment; and the following morning she breathed her last in the arms. of her son and of her friend.

CHAPTER X.

Farewell! forget me not, when others gaze
Enamoured on thee, with the looks of praise;
When weary leagues before my view are cast,
And each dull hour seems heavier than the last,
Forget me not. May joy thy steps attend,
And mayest thou find in every form a friend;
With care unsullied be thy every thought,

And in thy dreams of home, forget me not!

AFTER the last duties had been performed, Mr. Graham invited Shenstone to join their party at Graham Court, that a change of scene might mitigate the melancholy impression of what he had lately gone through. The invitation was gratefully accepted, and George became an inmate of the family. During the long period of his stay, Alice and himself had ample time and opportunity for conversation. The melan choly events which had followed his disclosure to her had brought them together on so sisterly a footing, that there existed much less embarrassment between them than she apprehended. They fully explained themselves, talked over their respective situations, and

thoroughly understood each other. To his inquiries as to the impression produced upon her by the recital of his adventures, she replied with candour; nor did she deny that the perusal was accompanied with considerable pain. She confessed that though prepared for grievous misdemeanours, her imagination had not pictured to itself so much guilt; but nevertheless, though sad was the story, his remorse and repentance had in her eyes completely washed out his guilt, as, she devoutly hoped, they had done in the sight of a higher authority than an earthly one.

"I never," said she, "can harbour aversion for the perpetrator of sins long since repented of, however heinous they may have been. Those, whatever may have been their former errors, who have been borne to the shrine of virtue, after passing through the ordeal of sincere contrition and repentance, are, in my opinion, far greater objects of respect, than those who, having perhaps been equally guilty, have subsequently become respectable in their behaviour, and faultless in the eyes of society, not because right and wrong now appear to them through the medium of duty in a religious or moral point of view, but merely because they have made the discovery, that in the long run, such conduct is found to answer best."

It may be said with some truth, that it is not the province of Society to interfere in the actions of individuals, which concern her not; that, provided her established forms and regulations are adhered to, every