Edwin appeared before him with downcast looks and faltering steps, for he did not like the office which was imposed upon him. "The dear kind gentleman," he thought, "will consider it so ungrateful in us, to refuse what he offered so kindly-so generously! And Evelyn thinks so too, but Herbert must be right."

"Sir," he said, at once beginning the subject of his errand, "Evelyn is very much obliged to you, but here is your money. You must take it back, if you please. Herbert does not approve of its being accepted, but we are very, very grateful notwithstanding." Here the

little fellow stopped in his speech, which had been studied on his way, and looked up for the first time into the stranger's face. Seeing that it expressed mortification, he threw his arms round him and wept bitterly, saying "Don't be angry, dear sir-pray don't be angry.'

"I am not angry, my dear boy," the stranger replied, returning his caresses: "I am only very sorry. I went home yesterday hoping that I had contributed to your comfort; and at this moment, Heaven knows, I would give a great deal to be of use to you and your family. In the world in which I live, I seldom meet with those whose conduct excites in me the feeling which you have called forth."

He

The stranger mused pensively for a minute or two, and during that short period, a grave smile, and a faint color passed over his usually pale countenance. then added, "Tell Herbert, as you call him, that I can fathom his motives, and therefore I honor him for what he has done. I wish I knew him, and then I think I could convince him, that my sympathy for his family is purely disinterested; and that I am still most truely desirous of being of service to you all."

"I

"Oh! thank you for speaking so kindly, dear sir,” Edwin replied, reassured by the stranger's words. am already so very unhappy, that I could not bear to lose your kindness also. How often I wish I was older,

that I too might be of some use to them; but I am such a little boy that I am now only an additional trouble." "Would you like to go to school?" inquired his friend anxiously.

Certainly, but that is out of the question now; indeed, perhaps I might be unhappy, to leave them all now they are so wretched; but it would be a good thing if there was one less at home to trouble them. Even now that we have lost that sweet darling Rose, Rachael says that it is better for her; and oh! sir, though poor Rachael cries while she says so, she tells us we must feel that it is better for others."

Such was the nursery philosophy that the poor child had gathered in affliction, which may be truly said to purify and enlighten every age and every station. Even in this young boy its sanctifying and patience-teaching influence, was plainly visible.

The gentleman was much affected by these evidences of affection and resignation.

"Edwin," he said, "I have it in my power to send you to an excellent school, where you would be educated free of every expense to any one; but I must know your name. It is far from my intention to wring your secret from you merely for the sake of indulging an idle curiosity, but my wish is to serve you effectually."

"If

"I am sure," said Edwin with boyish openness, it only depended upon me, I would tell you this instant. I do not know why they wish it concealed, particularly when I have often heard my father say he loved his name and every thing connected with it. But I will ask Herbert, and tell him what you have said."

"Well, my boy, ask him; and let me hear to-mørrow," said the stranger, kindly patting the soft rosy cheek, which even sorrow had not robbed of its bright coloring.

"Not to-morrow," said Edwin shaking his head

mournfully. "To-morrow, at one o'clock, poor Rose is to be buried."

They then parted. Edwin had not an opportunity of speaking to Herbert upon the subject of the foregoing conversation that day; for he was almost in constant attendance on his mother, who was suffering more than usually from languor and extreme depression of spirits; and when he felt able to leave her under the charge of Evelyn, or the anxious Rachael, his attention was employed upon business of a harrassing and absorbing

nature.

CHAPTER XII.

"A boy! yet in his eye you trace
The watchfulness of riper years,
And tales are in that serious face

Of feelings early steep'd in tears."

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee !"

THE next morning a deepened gloom seemed to prevail throughout the lowly dwelling-place of the Cecils ; it was the day appointed for the funeral of the little girl. What was to be done with Evelyn, whose sorrow this day burst forth with fresh violence? As long as the little coffin still remained, and she could gaze on the sweet placid form which it contained, Evelyn felt that something still remained to her of her dearly loved nursling; but when she was led from the room, in order that the undertaker might perform his office of closing for ever from her sight the precious remains, she felt as if until then the babe had scarcely died. Herbert was aware that his only expedient was to take her into her mother's room. There he knew that she must control her feelings.

His suffering parent was particularly feeble that day, from having passed a wretched night. Herbert said to her, "Dear mother, it is very unfortunate that both Rachael and I are obliged to go out upon business, for Evelyn has a dreadful headache; but she can lie quietly upon the sofa at the foot of your bed, and as you appear inclined to sleep, she can watch silently by you; we shall not be away long."

Herbert's excellent judgment in this case strongly

evinced itself; for once near her mother, Evelyn felt that her sorrow was selfish, was wicked, when compared to that endured so patiently by her suffering and beloved parent.

Mrs. Cecil in the tenderest manner expressed her regret at her indisposition.

"Kiss me, dearest," she said; "I fear you exert yourself too much for my sake. You have certainly not been well lately, your hands and lips are burning. Repose yourself, my darling, and let us both endeavor to sleep; do not think of me, for I will call you if I wish for anything."

The room was darkened, therefore the sad appearance of poor Evelyn was not perceptible to her mother, and she did not trust her voice to speak. Herbert placed her upon the sofa, after having made her swallow a composing draught, and there she lay with her head buried in the cushions struggling with her feelings. At length soothed by the opiate which had been administered, she fell into a deep and refreshing sleep, whilst the sick mother in her turn, watched with anxiety over her slumbers.

Herbert in the mean time, accompanied by Rachael and Edwin, proceeded with a sorrowful and an aching heart, on the sad duty he had to perform. When in the churchyard, where the earthly remains of the poor baby were to be deposited, he and his companions were too deeply absorbed in the melancholy ceremony in which they were engaged, to be aware of the presence of more than the few children who generally loiter to witness a funeral; and as they stood over the little grave which the sexton was rapidly closing over the unostentatious coffin, they little imagined of what deep interest and scrutiny they were the objects.

A spectator was there, who with anxious attention examined the countenance of Herbert.

The stranger, who had been deeply moved by his last conversation with Edwin, could not divest himself of