like a ministering angel. Having no cares of her own, what a delightful life she may lead ; visiting the sick, praying with, and for, the sorrowful, spending her income in releasing the unfortunate debtor, assisting the honest, struggling family, removing the bar which poverty had placed between two loving hearts, and which so small a sum may do; or, if her means are very limited, by her gentle kindness to the young, her candid advice when needed, and a thousand little offices of benevolence, which cost nothing, but which possess a soothing power, beyond heaps of gold an "old maid" may not only be not miserable, but perfectly happy.

Miss Bently, whose own heart had been chastened by disappointment, and who was tenderly attached to her brother, saw with regret the violence of Jessy's feelings, and her total want of self-control.

Every one who has travelled from London to Oxford, must have gazed with longing admiration on that lovely view from the bridge

at H

The glorious river, the pretty, painted pleasure boats, the far woods, the old church, the green, fertile meadows picturesquely studded with cattle, and the romantically beautiful grounds belonging to Mr. M▬▬, with their soft undulations of hill and valley, and their rich groves of varied foliage, and the proud mansion peeping out from amongst embowering trees. We have a peculiar affection for this spot, it is so essentially English in all its features, so reposing, so harmonious. In contemplating its soft beauty, the turmoil of the world dies away from the memory, and all the better feelings of our nature arise freshly in the heart.

One day, Miss Bently led Jessy to a spot not far from H, and pointed out to her notice the remains, or rather skeleton, of a farm-house, beautifully situated on the side of a hill, and whose dreary appearance contrasted strongly with the surrounding loveliness. "All these scenes have undergone a great change," said Miss Bently, "in my recollection, for near

this spot I was born, and here I grew into womanhood, and I was not always the pale, spiritless creature you now see me, Jessy. It was amid these scenes that the treacherous, yet delightful dream of earthly affection, and constancy, and purity first spread its enchantment around me, and it was here that the charm was rudely broken; yet still do I love its gentle features, though the feelings which then warmed my bosom, and caused every thing around to shine with magical brightness, have long since turned to sorrow, and vexatious disappointment, and sickness at heart. Though my trusting faith has been scorned, and disregarded, and misinterpreted, and I have found, with bitter anguish, that I have wasted in vain the treasures of my love, and am now a forgotten, forsaken thing, unpitied by the being for whom I would have made any sacrifice consistent with virtue, or endured any contumely; yet, notwithstanding all this, I can still feel a throb of pleasure animating my breast when I gaze on these fair scenes. There is a sad tale attached to this

farm-house, Jessy, and if you feel disposed to listen to it, I will recount to you the particulars of it." Jessy expressed a desire to hear it, and Miss Bently told her the heads of the following narrative, which we shall take the liberty of clothing in our own language.

STORY OF HANNAH BARLOW.

Many years ago, there stood on the slope of a hill near H—— a large and comfortable farmHhouse, which was the admiration of every beholder from its neatness, its picturesque position, and habitable appearance. The interior of the house was perfection. On one side was the parlour, with its solid oak presses and tables, and its substantial furniture, which, although scrupulously in order, and polished so that one might see one's face reflected in them, yet shewed traces of being meant for use as well as for ornament. Sometimes a pretty, light workbasket, with delicate work reposing in it, and looking as though none but fairy-fingers had touched it, lay on a table, or a book some

what more elegantly bound, and of higher pretensions to polite literature than what is generally found beneath such a roof, and, moreover, without a single turned-down corner or black thumb-mark on its fair pages, would be left open on the same table, the place at which the reader had left off, marked by a fragrant flower or leaf. The kitchen, on the opposite side, was light, airy, and exquisitely clean, and every thing around breathed of order and prosperity. But now this once cheerful dwelling is a silent and deserted tenement, and altogether, the air of desolation which marks this spot, accords well with the melancholy fate of those who once lived, and loved, and died there.

Mr. Barlow was an opulent farmer, and a thoroughly good, kind-hearted man; he was perfectly adored by all his poor neighbours, as, whenever adversity visited their cottages, and heavy losses caused them to pine in discouragement, he was ever ready to soothe their sorrows or to lend them a helping hand, or even to