ministered. Need it be added, that compliance was accorded, and the home which in life she had been forbidden to approach, was in death no longer denied. Urban Dormstein, poor fellow, might now bring home his beautiful bride! But the floods were out, the bridge was under repair, and not likely to be opened as a highway for many months to come; the swollen river rushed past with frightful violence, threatening even to swamp the ferry-boat sometimes, when heavily laden. But the river must be crossed, ere the funeral cortege could reach St Kenelms; and it was finally settled that the precious remains were to be conveyed in the squire's own commodious boat, as the easiest and safest mode of transportation, while the last dismal receptacle awaited its burden on the opposite point of landing, thence to be followed by the mourning company to St Kenelms.

Jealously the silent father watched and guarded the removal of the coffin, and took his place in the boat beside it, accompanied only by Urban and two boatmen. A group of anxious and whispering spectators assembled on either bank to witness the solemn embarkation; the river hereabouts was comparatively still, and, if the current nigh the bridge could be avoided, there was small risk in crossing. Perhaps they had not sufficiently counted on the nature of the unwieldy freight they carried, the light build of the shallop, or the pre-occupation of the attendants; perhaps the will of Providence was to be manifested despite all human precautions; but, be it as it might, the boat became unmanageable, the load fell heavily on one side, and in the scuffle that ensued to right it, they were rapidly borne towards the bridge, dashed with terrific violence against the piles, some of which were broken, and the coffin thrown forward with a shock which lodged it on a portion of some scaffolding the workmen had abandoned in alarm, when the waters raged so furiously. By the same means, the squire of Fairhill and Urban Dormstein were also saved from a watery grave, together with one of the boatmen ; the fourth sinking to rise no more. By dint of great exertion, the coffin and its precious contents were recovered, and the mourners rescued from their perilous position, clinging with desperate energy to the chance of saving dear life-life doubly dear to drowning men, be they ever so miserable in their lot!

With horror it was found that the coffin was so much injured by the shock with which it had been dashed forward, that it was absolutely necessary to remove the lid, in order to make the requisite arrangements and reparation. But who may paint the terror of some, the bewilderment of others, when, on the pale flower beneath being once more exposed to the garish light of day, a faint sigh was distinctly audible, a faint blush distinctly perceptible on the lovely cheek, lovely even in the cerements of the grave. Yes, it was no fancy! She sighed again, and a movement was distinguished in one of the straitened arms. Many fled in mad terror, but the lover's gaze was rivetted on his betrothed, as if the eyes were about to start from their sockets: suspense, hope, joy, and gratitude by turns almost depriving him of consciousness. Fortunately, the squire was not present during this singular scene, for he had received injuries which prostrated him helplessly on a bed of languishing. Fortunately indeed! for his transports (unbounded by moderation, as his sorrow had been unchecked by religion) might probably have led to results directly inimical to his wishes, the medical man hinting that extreme caution was necessary with one in Gertrude's dismal position, surprise being dangerous, resuscitated as she was from the jaws of death. Indeed, many days elapsed ere it was deemed prudent to unfold to the father the overwhelming tidings of his daughter's restoration.

Then what a scene ensued! Many days more elapsed ere he was permitted to embrace her, for Gertrude's recovery was long doubtful, though youth triumphed, and she was saved. The rude awakening she had sustained from her fearful trance saved her from the completion of a fate almost too dreadful for sober contemplation; it was an awakening to life and hope from the darkness of inexpressible horror. Her first intelligible words were, 'Where

am I? Take me home to St Kenelms.' Prophetic words! Within six months from that day, Urban Dormstein did bring her home to St Kenelms as his beautiful living bride; and, above all, the squire blessed their union, and emerged from his sick chamber an altered man, with a shattered frame but a sound mind; for the strong heart melted, and the hard rebellious heart humbled itself in deep abasement and gratitude before the merciful Giver of all good. Tradition adds, that his dying words were similar to Gertrude's on her resuscitation, Take me home to St Kenelms;' and, though the monument to his memory is extant in Fairhill Church, there is reason to conclude that the mortal remains of the crusty squire' mingle with the dust of old St Kenelms, where for more than half a century flourished the fair resuscitated Flower of Fairhill. C. A. M. W.

SCIENCE AND RELIGION.

To the ignorant gaze of former ages, science and religion appeared like two mighty men in the distant horizon, at the head of hostile armaments, nodding defiance to each other from opposite crags, on either side an impassable gulf; but, as the alarmed spectator approaches, his eye observes the banners and the waving plumes of a friendly power and associate, while his ear catches the sound of interchanging congratulations, as their separate ranks move onward to a general union and co-operation. That which seemed like a gulf, is but the shadow of a passing cloud. The giant figures that seemed to frown and menace, are smiling in the joy of mutual welcome, and hailing the prospect of glorious victories. Yes, science and religion are at one. They are not antagonists, but confederates, religion being the great commander in-chief, while science is every hour mustering mighty forces, armed with telescopes, microscopes, chemical and mineralogical tests, geological hammers, and rods of measurement instead of swords, and is bending in reverend humility, and with dignified concurrence of thought and action, to the dictates of superior moral conquest of the earth will be proclaimed in the enwisdom and authority. And the time hastens when the thronement of religion, amidst the gathered treasures of science, and the plaudits of brighter worlds.-Dr Cox.

THE SEA-SWALLOW.

As we were passing the Carmiata Islands, off the western coast of Borneo, we were visited by the tern or sea-swallow, which I had seen in my former passage up the China Sea, not many hundred miles from the same spot, as this species has a certain range among the islands that strew the sea between Borneo and Sumatra. The bill and feet are deep black; the throat and under parts of a snowy white. All the upper parts are of a brownish black, which reflects a peculiar redness when the sun falls directly upon them. The feathers upon the head, nap, and back, are edged with white; hence the smaller the feathers on any part, the greater is the quantity of white. There is a white line also over the eyes. The purity of the white is admirable, which appears the more striking because it is contrasted with the black. The tail is forked and long, as are also the wings. But, notwithstanding the advantages for flight, the bird is soon tired, owing to the rapid and incessant motion of the wings. When tired, it cannot rest upon the wave, as the petrels and other sea birds do, but is obliged to seek for some object whereon to alight. When it comes on board ship, it is generally very fatigued, and glad to repose under any circumstances. Hence they are thought to be very foolish birds, and have obtained the whimsical name of noddies, in allusion to their want of headpiece. The one I am describing had a black and lively eye, and rested with great composure in the cabin while I took a sketch of it; but, as the wings were dropped or raised to rest the different muscles, the outline and attitude were so often changed, that it turned out to be a very stiff and unfaithful likeness.-Long's Voyage of the Iimmaleh.

PRUDENCE.

Prudence is a presumption of the future, contracted from the experience of times past.

PHILIP THE FOUNDLING.

BY MRS CROWE. CHAP. I.

Her

MARY MASON was the wife of a miller at Weston. husband was not rich, neither was he poor; in short, they were comfortably off in regard to their circumstances, and they lived in a pretty cottage, situated in a beautiful green meadow, at the foot of which there ran a clear, sparkling stream of water. If the sun happened to shine on washing days, Mary used to carry her muslin caps, and handkerchiefs, and her husband's best shirts, to this stream, and, after dipping them into the water, spread them on the turf to dry; and it chanced one day, as she went on this errand, that she observed a little ragged boy lying under the hedge, where he was amusing himself with plucking snowdrops. Surprised to see a strange infant there alone, for she knew he belonged to none of her neighbours, she asked him whose child he was; but, instead of answering the question, he looked innocently in her face, as if he did not understand it. So Mary went forward, and kneeling down on the bank, began dipping her muslins in the water; but presently, whilst she was wondering whence the child had come, she saw that he had crept along after her, and was now seated at her side, watching her work; so she spoke to him again, and asked him what his

name was.

Philip,' answered he.

'Philip who?' asked Mary.

'Who!' said the child.

on the banks of the stream, with no one even to warn him of the danger of falling into it. You are not half clothed,' said she, I am sure you are very cold.'

'I don't know,' said Philip, who, having never been otherwise since the winter set in, had forgotten what it was to be warm. Mary observed, too, that his hand was hot, although he was shivering, and his pretty face was very pale.

'You are feverish, child,' said she. "Am I?' said he. I don't know.'

'Poor babe!' said Mary; and, taking off her warm worsted shawl, she wrapt it round him, and bade him go home; but, instead of obeying her, he crept still closer to her than he was before, and sat alternately watching her work and looking into her face, which was, indeed, a very pleasant face to look at; for Mary was not only young and handsome, but so good and charitable, that her goodness and charity shone out of her countenance, and made it almost as bright as an angel's.

By this time, Mary having finished her little washing, and gathered together the muslin, that had quickly dried in the sun, she took up her basket, and bidding the child go home, she set off across the meadow to her own house; but just as she reached the door, she heard a pair of little feet pattering behind her, and, looking about, she saw Philip running with her shawl in his hand.

This is yours,' said he.

'You are not so stupid, and you are honest, I see,' said she. Come in and warm yourself.' So Philip followed her into a neat, clean kitchen, where there was a good fire

'I don't know,' answered he.

'Don't you know the name of your father?'

'I have none,' he replied.

He is dead, perhaps?' said Mary.

'I don't know,' said he.

And where is your mother?' Mary asked.

'She is there,' said the child, pointing to a miserable cottage not far off, belonging to John Mason, which was so out of repair, that for a long time nobody would inhabit it, but he had at last found a tenant.

Oh, it is the woman that came in yesterday, I suppose,' said Mary.

'Yes,' answered Philip.

And where did you live before you came here?' 'I don't know,' said he.

Well, my poor child, you don't seem to know much

can you tell me your mother's name?'

'Mammy Letty,' answered the boy.

'Letty what? Don't you know her other name?' 'No,' said he, shaking his head. 'Poor neglected baby!' said Mary, in a tone of compassion, as she proceeded with her work.

What do you say?' asked the child, drawing nearer, and peeping into her face under her bonnet with his two beautiful black eyes.

What a sweet innocent countenance he has!' said she. 'It's a pity he's so stupid! How old are you, Philip? Perhaps you don't know that either?'

Now, the truth was, that poor Philip did not know how old he was; but, beginning to be ashamed of his ignorance, he thought he would make a better figure this time, so he answered briskly, I'm two years old.'

Nonsense, child!' said Mary, beginning to gather up her linens, and place them in her basket; 'you're a perfect goose. Why, you must be nearer six than two, I'm sure! But you might be six months for all you know.'

Might 1?' said Philip; and then, as if ashamed of his stupidity, he seemed to rouse himself, and said, 'Do you want to know my name? I'm called Philip the Foundling.'

Ah! I understand,' said Mary, who now comprehended why this poor child was left in his dirt and his ignorance to take care of himself; and she thought of her own little Gil at home in his cradle, warm, and clean, and comfortable, whilst this half-naked, parentless boy was shivering

ting, beside whom there lay a chubby, rosy infant in a cradle. This was John's aunt, Winifred Mason.

'Look, aunt!' said Mary; 'see if this child hasn't a fever. Perhaps you could give him something to cure it.' 'No,' answered the old woman, looking at Philip over her spectacles. I can't cure that-it's the fever of want. Good food would cure it; nothing else. Where did you pick up such a bundle of rags?'

He says he's called Philip the Foundling,' answered Mary, and that he lives in my husband's cottage.'

'Oh ay,' said the aunt; John let it yesterday to a woman from Dean, that calls herself Letty Larkins. She said she had got a foundling from the parish to bring up; but she seems next door to a beggar, and I doubt she'll never pay her rent.'

Mary Mason sighed, but made no answer. She knew that her husband and his aunt loved money better than the poor; so she lifted her baby from the cradle, and, leading Philip by the other hand, she set off to pay a visit to Letty Larkins.

What Winifred had said was true enough: Letty was little better off than a beggar; for all she possessed in the world was a chair, a table, a very poor mattress, two small saucepans, and a few fowls. It was by the eggs she sold, and the small pittance she received from the parish for the maintenance of Philip, that she subsisted. She had been ejected from the hovel she inhabited at Dean because she could not pay her rent. The landlord might have seized all her poor furniture, but it was not worth the taking, and, as the fowls had been taught to follow Philip wherever he led them, he contrived to keep them out of sight till the danger was over; for, however stupid a child he might appear, he knew his own small duties perfectly well, and always punctually performed them. It was not easy for so poor a tenant to find a landlord with a heart soft enough to take her in; but, though John Mason's heart was not soft, his cottage, or rather hovel, was in such a miserable state of repair, that nobody else would have anything to do with it; so he let it to Letty Larkins for the chance of getting something out of her, even though it were only the old grey hen.

Mary told Letty who she was, and the poor woman was at first terrified, fearing she was come to demand the rent beforehand; but Mary soon relieved her mind on that point; and then they entered into conversation, and Letty told her the history of her poverty and her misfortunes; re

lating also how 'Philip had been found, when an infant, by the roadside, tied up in a handkerchief, and been carried to the workhouse, where they kept him till he was able to run about and take care of himself, and then they offered a small stipend to anybody that would board him, and teach him to be useful; and, as I agreed to take him for less money than anybody else, they let me have him, and being very young when he came to me, he thinks I'm his mother.'

'Poor child!' said Mary, may God help him!' 'Oh,' said Letty, who had been so used to suffer herself, and see the child suffer, that she had lost the idea of any better state of existence, 'he's not to be pitied, for I never ill-treat him, as many women do their foundlings. He sleeps with me, and shares what I have.'

'There's a great deal of truth in what you say,' answered Letty. Children know when they are well used. Would you believe it, that, when I had the fever last year, he nursed me all through it like a grown-up person, though he was but five years old then! Ah! he's not so stupid as he looks, I can tell you!'

See how he is shaking with the cold!' said Mary. 'Look here! I'll give you this worsted shawl of mine, and you can make it up into a little dress, which will clothe him completely.'

Letty took the shawl, casting such a longing eye upon it, that it appeared plainly she wanted to keep it for herself. But Mary said, 'That wont do; what I give to you, you will keep; but what I give to the child he must have, or I will not try to assist you any more. And now, there is another thing you must do; you must send him to me every morning and evening, and I will give him a share of the food I prepare for my own child; you will then have the more left for yourself, and both will be better fed.'

'I see it is lucky for me that I took this miserable hovel, after all,' said Letty, which I was near not doing because it's so dear, and I heard that your husband is a hard landlord; but you are good, and will help me to keep the child; and perhaps your wholesome food may prevent this fever killing him. It needs only that to complete my misfortunes. It is true that the parish allows me next to nothing for his board, and I've no profit on it; but I'm fond of the creature, and I know if he lives he'll help me when he is able to work.'

With the aid of Mary Mason, Philip soon regained his health, and by the end of a month or five weeks, a finer child of his years was not to be found in the whole parish of Weston; and many a fond father and mother would have been glad to see their cherished darlings as handsome and vigorous as this poor parentless boy; and in this way he continued to prosper and improve till he was eight years old, by which time he was one of the most active, courageous, serviceable boys that ever lived; but so quiet and silent withal, that many who did not know him well still thought him stupid.

Meanwhile Letty Larkins, with the assistance of Mary, had been gradually improving her situation, and collecting a few humble comforts about her. Not only was her flock of poultry augmented, but she had bought a pig; whilst both herself and her foundling were far better clad than they used to be. It is true that Winifred Mason often made remarks about the quantity of food that was consumed, and threw out hints to Mary that somebody in the house must have an uncommon large appetite; or that she should like to know where all the bread went, for there was certainly a hole in the bread-basket,' and so forth;

but, as John did not take any notice of these hints for some time, Mary continued her charities to Letty and Philip, whilst she became from day to day more attached to the boy.

Now, the reason that John Mason, though he was a hard-hearted, selfish man, did not interfere with Mary's charities was, that in his own way he had once been fond of her; and, in some degree, was so still; and, indeed, well he might be, for she was one of the best of wives and most amiable of women. But it was not so much for her virtues and good qualities that he liked her, as because the winning of her had flattered his self-love, for she was very handsome; and when she was only sixteen, and had a great many suitors for her hand, he had been so fortunate as to carry off the prize. He was very proud of this; but poor Mary soon had reason to fear that she had made a bad choice of a husband; and she saw that it was not likely that one who showed so little sympathy for the distresses of others would long be kind to her. Added to this, Winifred, who had brought John up, and had more influence over him than anybody, was a cross-grained, envious, avaricious old woman, and as she was jealous of Mary, and could not bear that she should take precedence of her in her nephew's affections, she did everything she could to sow dissension between the young couple. But Mary, who was patience itself, never complained; she only tried, by keeping her own good humour and doing her duty, to disarm the malice of her enemy; but, as time advanced, and the novelty of being the husband of this pretty wife wore off, it was plain to see that Mary's influence over her husband was daily diminishing, whilst that of his aunt was increasing as fast; and at length an accidental conversation with a man as foolish as himself brought things to a crisis.

This man was called Johnson-William Johnson-and as he had been one of Mary's unsuccessful suitors, and had much such another proud, selfish disposition as John, he had never been able to forgive them the mortification his disappointment had occasioned him. Not that he was grieving about Mary now; on the contrary, he had got a young wife of his own, quite as handsome, though not so good, as Mary herself. Still this nasty, sour temper he had, made him like to say a spiteful thing when an opportunity offered; and one day, as he was riding home from market with John, he began after the following fashion :

So I understand the river has been overflowing down your way, and done a good deal of damage at your mill. You'll lose a bit of money by it, they say.' 'Who says so?' said John. "Your wife's brother.'

'I wish my wife's brother would mind his own business said John.

He complains that his sister's looking very ill, too, and says that she frets because you make her unhappy.' 'Does she say so?' inquired John, fiercely.

'I don't know,' returned Johnson; but she's certainly very much altered. I remember when she was really a pretty woman, almost as pretty as my Kitty. But I hope Kitty wont lose her good looks as fast as Mary has done. It's no better than a cheat for a woman to turn old and ugly upon a man's hands as soon as you've got her!'

Now, it was quite true that Mary was a good deal changed since John had made her his wife, for Winifred worried her; and, although her husband did not ill-treat her at first, he did not make her home a happy one; and, besides that, she had had a great deal of anxiety about her child's health, so that the roses in her cheeks had turned to lilies, and the joyous, laughing blue eyes had grown graver, and perhaps sad; but only those who were blinded by dulness or prejudice could have failed to see that she was still pretty-perhaps prettier than she had ever been, because, in exchange for the roses that had paled and the eye that had dimmed, the gentleness, patience, and charity that the sorrows of her married life had developed in her character had become legibly inscribed in her features, and spoke to the hearts of those who looked at her with an open heart. But John's heart was too hard and close to

see these things; and when, after this conversation with Johnson, he came in and observed Mary, and saw that she really did look wan and thin, instead of feeling sorry, he only felt angry; asking her if she were ill in such harsh tones, that she became paler than before, and could scarcely raise her voice to answer him. So he sat down to dinner in a bad temper, and with every inclination to quarrel with her, if he could find an opportunity; and, as people so disposed generally contrive to find what they want, it was not long before the occasion offered, from the lad who attended to the grinding of the corn happening to come in, saying that the mill-wheel would not turn; adding, however, that it did not much signify, as there was scarcely any corn waiting to be ground.

That comes of the bad season, and the dearness of grain,' said Winifred; and people do without bread, and eat what they can get, except in this house, where there is bread enough used for half the parish. For my part, I should like to know what becomes of it all.'

Upon this, John began to accuse his wife of waste and extravagance.

'God forbid, John,' said Mary, 'that I should waste a crumb of bread, when there are so many poor in want.'

I don't know what you call waste,' said Winifred; but, if it's not waste, it's shameful extravagance to give your husband's bread away as you do. It was only this mornning I saw that brat, Philip, leaving the house with a great hunch in his hand. You thought I did not see it, but I did though; and I know he comes here every day to be fed, taking the bread out of the mouth of your own child.'

There's plenty for both,' said Mary, weeping. But John flew into a passion, told her she would bring him to the workhouse with her extravagance, and forbade her giving any more food to poor Philip, or anybody else. From this time forth, John became more harsh to Mary than he had been before, and scarcely ever did he say a kind word to her; whilst Winifred, instead of endeavouring to make matters better, encouraged her nephew in his errors, and said she was glad to see him assert his rights to be the master of his own house again. But, do what they would, Mary made no complaints, not even to her brother, who was very much inclined to pick a quarrel with John for ill-treating his sister. She asked for no pity from man; but she trusted in God, and prayed to him nightly on her knees to help and sustain her through her trials. She endeavoured, too, not to grieve too much at her unhappy lot, but to bear it cheerfully, and preserve her own health and life as long as she could, for the sake of her little Gil, who, she well knew, had nobody but her to depend on for all the care and instruction his tender age required.

Now it was a great aggravation to poor Mary's troubles that she dare no longer help to feed the foundling, for there was something about the boy, who was by this time nearly ten years old, that made her take a deep interest in his fate. He had little to say, seldom spoke, except to answer a question; but gratitude and affection shone out of his large eyes, as he looked in her face, and when she bade him do anything for her, he flew, as if his love for her lent wings to his feet. Like herself, too, he was patient and long-suffering, and he not only bore much from Letty without a murmur, but also from Gil, who was a little bit mischievous, and, when his mother was not by, would sometimes tease and worry Philip out of fun.

For shame, Gil!' said his mother to him one day. Why do you pull poor Philip's hair? I am sure you are hurting him. And you, Philip, you should not let him do it. If you allow everybody to ill-treat you that likes, people will take advantage of your good-nature, and not know where to stop.'

I would rather let them hurt me than hurt them,' said Philip. Now, when Mary heard these words, she felt seized with respect for this poor orphan, and began to reproach herself for having sometimes jeered him on his simplicity. She had not done it ill naturedly, it is true, but only with the hope of sharpening his wits; and she understood now that

he had deeper thoughts than she had imagined, and she feared she might have often given him pain when she never intended it.

However, as for a time she had no alternative but to obey her husband's commands, she called on Letty, and informed her of what had happened. Now, this was sad news for Letty, who knew how difficult it would be for her to satisfy the appetite of a big boy like Philip and her own too, and as, although she liked Philip, she was not disposed to suffer any privations for his sake, she straightway set herself to think how she could appease the displeasure of John and his aunt. For,' thought she, John Mason is master in his own house, after all, and if I had him and old Winifred on my side, they would be of much more use to me than Mary is, who durst not fling a crumb to a dog. Besides, if I don't look sharp, John will be turning me out of doors some day, and I shall find myself in the road, without a roof over my head.' Terrified by this prospect, Letty resolved on a bold stroke, namely, to go to Winifred herself, and beg her pardon for having accepted assistance from Mary. This submission, she thought, might pacify the old woman, and even win her good offices; and she was not far wrong in her calculations, for Winifred was pleased to be treated as if she were the head of the house, instead of the young wife, of whom she was so jealous; and she was also glad that Mary should have the pain of learning Letty's ingratitude. It was this enmity to Mary, also, that made her dislike Philip: to injure the poor foundling was to grieve Mary; and therefore, with this view, when Letty spoke of the inadequate allowance she received, and the difficulty she had in supporting him, Winifred strongly advised her to shake him off.

'Send him back to the workhouse,' said she. The brat has the appetite of an ogre, and you'll always be wretched as long as you keep him. Perhaps, if you'd only yourself to keep and to feed, I might try to help you; but it's no use helping people that wont help themselves.'

To do Letty justice, it must be confessed that she was at first shocked at this advice, and that she went home weeping; but, unfortunately, the period for paying her rent was drawing nigh, and, as she had not been lucky lately with her poultry and pigs, she had not money enough to discharge her debt to John. As this difficulty pressed upon her, she began to think of what the wicked old woman had said to her; and as when people allow themselves to think of evil it is seldom long before they commit it, so Letty, after weighing the thing in her mind for some time, resolved to follow the advice Winifred had given her, and, in order to insure the old woman's favour, she set off to the farm directly, and promised her that she would send away the foundling the next day. But the words were no sooner out of her mouth than she repented, and when she got home, and saw the poor child calmly asleep on his mattress, her heart reproached her bitterly for the cruel promise she had given. For her own part, she could not sleep a wink all night, and, after tossing and turning on her bed with an anxious mind, she resolved, at all events, to do nothing in the business till she had consulted Mary. But the morning had not long dawned, when who should enter her cottage but Winifred.

'Come, Letty,' said she, 'get up, and set about what you have promised. Depend on it, it is the best thing you can do for yourself, and for Mary, too; for she will only get into trouble with her husband about the boy, whom John will not allow to come near the mill, lest he should steal something. Come, come, get up, and take the boy as far as the high road, where the coach passes, and here's money to pay his fare and your own as far as the workhouse at Dean.'

Letty awoke the child, who was sleeping soundly by her side, and, with a sad heart, having tied up the few things that belonged to him in a bundle, she took him by the hand and set off; but, as she walked on, her trouble grew greater and greater, till at last, as they drew near the road, and she heard the sound of the wheels approaching, she sank down on the ground, and began to weep.

Now, all this time poor Philip had taken no alarm, for

he had not heard a word of what Winifred said; but when he saw Letty's violent grief, and at the same time heard the sound of the guard's horn, he fancied some dreadful danger was impending, and, rushing to her arms, threw himself on her bosom; whereupon Letty, supposing he was aware of her intentions, began to persuade him to go forward with her to meet the coach; but no sooner did he understand that she was going to send him away from her, than, overcome with terror, he took to his heels, and ran as fast as he could towards home again. Meantime, the coach drove by, and Letty, who could not overtake him, set off back also, quite troubled and perplexed to think what she should do next; but, before she reached the cottage, she came up to poor Philip, who was lying on the ground, crying, ready to break his heart; so she sat down beside him, and tried to persuade him that what she was going to do was all for his good, and that he would be better fed and clothed, and be altogether happier, at the workhouse than with her. But Philip was not to be cajoled. He was very young when he left the workhouse, but he had a good memory, and he knew that he would much rather live with Letty, poor as she was, than return there. Besides, he was strongly attached to her; she was the only mother he had ever known, and the thoughts of parting with her, to be sent amongst strangers, made his poor heart swell till it was ready to break. But, when Letty saw that persuasion had no effect upon him, she began to get angry, and, as there was another coach to pass soon, she tried to make him follow her again to the road; but the child clung fast to a tree, calling on her for pity all the while, and, pull as she would, she could not get him away from it. How this struggle would have ended there is no telling; but, by good fortune, Mary, who had been to the village about some business of her own, happened to pass by on the other side of the hedge, and, hearing the voice of the child, she looked over to see what was the matter; and no sooner did Philip catch sight of her, than, forcing himself through the briars, with his poor hands and feet bleeding from the thorns, he threw himself on his knees before her, and entreated her to save him.

'Save you from what, my child?' asked Mary, placing herself between him and Letty; for the despair and terror of the boy, who was far from a coward, led her to think that the woman had been cruelly beating him; but, as Letty was really much more sorry than angry, it only needed a few words from her to explain the whole affair; and it so happened that these few words let Philip into a secret that he had never known before, namely, that Letty was not his mother, and that he had none; for, although the poor child knew that he was called Philip the Foundling, it now appeared that he had never known what the word 'foundling' meant. The anguish betrayed by the poor boy on this occasion was so great, that Mary said to Letty, 'You see the poor child is really attached to you, and it would be the height of cruelty to send him away. Promise me, before you go, that you will keep him.'

Very well,' answered Letty, pulling Philip roughly by the arm; if I must keep him I must; but I shall be turned out of doors, sooner or later, on his account, and I wish I'd never had anything to do with him.'

'Stay, Letty,' said Mary. I see that it will be better for Philip to leave you. Look here! Here are ten shillings -take them. They will enable you to pay your rent, and, in return, let me have Philip-I buy him of you.'

'But,' said Letty, holding out her hand for the money; 'all that's very well; but what will your husband say if he knows I have taken this money?'

'He can say nothing,' returned Mary, for the money is not his. My brother sent it me to buy something for his little nephew Gil, but I think I am making a better use of it, and one that I am sure he would approve, in giving it to you. As for the boy, you are not worthy to have him, for you do not know his value. I'll keep him myself, cost me what it may. Come, Philip,' she said, 'you are mine now. Dry your tears; and remember you are no longer a foundling, but my child!' And so saying, she led him away, leaving Letty standing there both amazed and ashamed.

But Philip could not leave her who had, on the whole, been kind to him, however cruel her late behaviour was, without bidding her farewell; so, breaking away from Mary, he ran back, and throwing his arms about Letty, he cried, 'Dear mammy Letty, I'll not leave you quite! I'll come and see you every day, and I'll be your child still, as well as Mrs Mason's.'

'Oh, Philip!' said Letty, bursting into tears. 'Come home with me; and I'll promise you I'll never be persuaded by anybody to do such a thing again. It is no use Mrs Mason's taking you with her, we shall only bring her into trouble, who has been such a friend to us. The ten shillings will enable me to pay my rent; and, perhaps, when I tell Winifred that I can't part with you, she may leave us alone.'

On hearing this, and feeling satisfied that Letty spoke from her heart, Mary gave her back the boy, promising to do all she could to diminish their hardships and difficulties, and giving Philip a kiss, whilst she assured him that she would never forget her promise to be a mother to him if he wanted one, she bade them good-by, and returned to the mill, whilst Letty and Philip proceeded to their own home.

DURING his 'Western Campaign,' Jefferies discovered a gross abuse which had prevailed for some time at Bristol, but to which he put a very speedy termination. The affair is thus related by Roger North-There is one branch of that chief's expedition in the west, which is his visitation of the city of Bristol, that hath some singularities of a nature so strange that I think them worth my time to relate. There had been an usage among the aldermen and justices of the city (where all persons, even common shopkeepers, more or less, trade to the American plantations) to carry over criminals, who were pardoned with condition of transportation, and to sell them for money. This was found to be a good trade; but, not being content to take such felons as were convicted at their assizes and sessions, which produced but a few, they found out a shorter way, which yielded a greater plenty of the commodity. And that was this: the mayor and justices, or some of them, usually met at their Tolzey (a court-house by their Exchequer) about noon, which was the meeting of the merchants, as at the Exchange at London; and there they sat, and did justice-business that was brought before them. When small rogues and pilferers were taken and brought there, and, upon examination, put under the terror of being hanged, in order to which mittimuses were making, some of the diligent officers attending instructed them to pray for transportation, as the only way to save them; and for the most part they did so. Then, no more was done; but the next alderman in course took one and another, as their turns came; sometimes quarrelling whose the last was, and sent them over and sold them. This trade had been driven for many years, and no notice taken of it. Some of the wealthier aldermen, although they sat in the court and connived, as Sir Robert Cam, for instance, never sold a man; but yet they were all involved in the guilt when the charge came over them. It appears not how this outrageous practice came to the knowledge of the Lord Chief Justice; but when he had hold of the end he made the rough-stitch work with them; for he delighted in such fair opportunities to rant. He came to the city, and told some he had brought a broom to sweep them. The city of Bristol is a proud body, and their head, the mayor, in the assize commission, is put before the judge of assize; though perhaps it was not so in this extraordinary commission of oyer and terminer. But for certain, when his lordship came upon the bench and examined this matter, he found all the aldermen and justices concerned in this kidnapping trade, more or less, and the mayor himself as bad as any. He therefore turned to the mayor, accoutred with his scarlet and furs, and gave him all the ill names that scolding eloquence could supply; and so with rating and staring,