"Mother, ma'am! Mother wanted to keep it, but I took it this mornin' whin she was asleep, an' hid it to bring it to you."

And the child looked up into the lady's face, and the latter saw truth stamped in the mournful blue eyes that looked into her's; and a tear quivered on her own eye-lash as she turned towards the house, and called her children.

"Come here, Charles and Jane. You see this little girl. She was here the day before yesterday, as you both know, and received a great deal from me. As she was coming to the house on that day, she was tempted to do very wrong-she broke one of God's commands, and stole this cap. She might have kept it without even being suspected of the theft, for we thought that it was the beggarman stole it. Well, this little girl was moved with gratitude towards me, and, of her own accord, brought back the cap to-day. I do not know if she is aware of the great sin of which she has been guilty; but what I wish to call your attention to is, the remembrance of a kindness, and her modesty in confessing her fault. Go, my little girl," she continued, addressing Grace, "go to the kitchen, and I will send you something to eat."

The lady returned to the house with her children, and ringing for the servant, desired him to tell the cook to give the little girl some food, and to let her know when she had finished.

Presently the man entered, saying that the girl wanted to go.

"Why, she had not time to eat anything," observed his mistress.

"She hasn't eaten anything, ma'am; she says she wants to take it home." "Come, children, let us go and speak to her."

They found her in the kitchen, tying up some bones and potatoes in an old handkerchief.

Why won't you eat anything, my poor girl?" asked the mistress of the house.

And the remembrance of her little brother stole across her mind, and she burst into tears.

"Don't cry, don't cry," said the lady, kindly. "What's the matter?. come, now, tell me."

And the voice of kindness went to her heart-how little she knew itand she sobbed more bitterly.

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Come, dear, tell me," said the lady, more kindly.

Poor Grace!-the good lady called her "dear"-her, the poor beggar-girl. And the corresponding chord in her own heart, till then unstrung, answered the tender word! She screamed, as she threw herself at the lady's feet-"Ned, poor Ned, was drowned yesterday, an' an' berried the day.' She was

choked with sobs. She knelt there-the servants stood round her. There was hardly a dry eye-the children wept bitterly-the good old cook raised her

up.

"There, mavourneen, don't take on So. And your brother was drowned, acushla machree? Is there any more of ye ?"

"Two little wans," sobbed the girl. "And, my poor child, you came over here to return my cap on the day your brother was buried," said the lady, actually crying herself.

"Yis, ma'am," answered Grace, not exactly understanding why she should not have come on that account. The poor seldom allow the death of friends to interfere with their occupations.

"Where do you live, and what is your name?"

"Grace Kennedy, ma'am; and I live about four miles from this, beyant Escar, near Mr. Worrell's."

"Margaret," said the lady, addressing her cook, "give her some broken meat and potatoes, and let her go

home."

So Grace hurried home, and found her father there, who had just arrived before her. And the children had been left all day by themselves, for their mother had not been home at all; and their fire had gone out; and there they cried all day, cold and hungry.

How their eyes glistened when Grace produced her store. She had not touched a bit herself-she waited to eat with them; so she set to work, and heated some, and the four had a happy, comfortable meal. Mick and his mother arrived late-the latter

again drunk. Some brawling and

abuse took place, until she was at last persuaded to go to bed. And Grace lay down beside her little brother and sister, and slept more happily than she had done for some time.

To return to the family who had been so kind to her.

The lady whose cap she had returned was wife to a Mr. Saunders, agent to a considerable property in the neighbourhood.

Little Grace had excited a warm interest in Mrs. Saunders's heart. The children had become quite fond of her, and eager to learn how her little brother was drowned.

As the family sat round the fire after dinner, she mentioned the circumstance to her husband.

"I do not think," she continued, "that it was an honest principle which induced her to return the cap, so much as a fine feeling of gratitude, which would not allow her to injure one who had been kind to her; but it is a fine noble nature on which to graft good principles. Do, dear John, let me try an experiment with that little beggar-girl. Let me take her from her poverty, and bring her up as a servant, say, and see what that fine disposition will be with education. The expense will not be great, as she is quite old enough to be useful in many ways in the house.'

"Oh, do, papa," cried Jane, "and I will hear her lessons."

Beyond Escar," she said, "near a Mr. Worrell's."

"Oh, I know Worrell very well; he is a most respectable man, and will, I dare say, be able to give us every information. I have some business in Hollywood to-morrow; I will drive you round by Escar, if you wish, and you can ask Worrell all about her."

"That will do exactly, John," said the lady, as she left the dining-room.

The next day was wet, greatly to the disappointment of the children; but the day after the sun shone out beautifully, and the whole party set out on the car. Mr. Saunders did his business in Hollywood, and then turned to go home by the Escar road. They Tearned from Mr. and Mrs. Worrell a

full and true account of little Ned's death, and also the cause of it, as appeared on the inquest. Mrs. Worrell was loud in her praise of Grace's disposition, saying what a pity it was that she had such a bad example before her.

"The father's good enough," said her husband, "if he had work, but the mother's a terrible bad woman. It was only the other night-the very night the little boy was buried-that I saw her dead drunk above at the shop."

"Shall we venture to rescue this child from such depravity?" asked Mrs. Saunders of her husband.

"It will be hazardous," he replied. "We can see them, however. Where is their house, Mr. Worrell?"

"Why, sir, it hardly deserves the name of a house. They live in a little hovel about an hundred yards off the road, in on the bog, about a quarter of a mile on the road to Escar. I will go with you and show it."

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Oh, pray do not think of it," said both lady and gentleman; "send a boy with us; it will do quite as well."

"Well, ma'am, if you'll allow me I'll go myself; the boys are all at work, and I've nothing particular to do; and to tell you the truth, I am rejoiced that you are going to do something for our little favourite, Grace, for she has really ideas above the rest.'

So they set out towards Kennedy's abode, accompanied by the good-hearted farmer. As he walked by the side of the car, Mrs. Saunders told him how Grace had attracted her notice.

"That is just what I and my wife have observed in her," said Worrell"a warm affection, and great thankfulness for whatever little kindness is done to her."

They approached the hovel; it was a desolate looking place: the straight road on for a long way, and on each side bog and heather; nothing to break the eye but the black turf-clamps here and there.

"There's the house," said Mr. Worrell, pointing in to the right off the road.

"That!" said Mrs. Saunders, as they looked towards what appeared at the distance only a raised bank. "Is it possible that human beings live there?"

Yet so it was. Half stuck against a turf bank, a little raised above it, were the walls forming the hovel in which the Kennedys dwelt; a hole in the top for a chimney, and the door not above

Mr.

"But I have strong boots on. Worrell, could I venture to go to that house?"

"Why, ma'am, it's very wet; but if you were as far as that big stone, there's a sort of a path from that up to the door."

"Come John, let us try," said the lady, jumping from the car. And she did try, and reached the low door with her husband, and stooping, went in. Grace was sitting at the fire mending something; the children were crouching over it; their mother was sleeping on the bed. Grace coloured as she recognised the lady, and stood up, giving her mother a push. Mrs. Saunders looked round in astonishment. The bed of straw, without bed-clothes-the half-dressed woman on it-the naked child beside the fire, and the other hardly better off!-the smoky atmosphere, and the damp floor and walls! Mr. and Mrs. Saunders looked at each other with looks of pitying commiseration.

"A nice place you come to choose a servant," said the former, smiling. "Oh, John, John! is it not horrible?"

Mrs. Kennedy had by this time roused herself, and stood up.

"Oh, me lady, an' I haven't a chair or a sate to offer ye."

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"My good woman," said Mrs. Saunders, are you the mother of this little girl?" pointing to Grace.

"Yes, yer ladyship."

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Will you allow her to come to my house for a month; and if I like her, and she proves honest, and obedient, and truthful, I may teach her to be a servant?"

"Oh, I'll go bail for her bein' honest, yer honor."

"It is because she honestly brought me back a cap which she was tempted to steal, that I am induced to take her on trial. Will you allow her to come?"

Her mother darted a look at Grace. "Ye'll be givin' no hire, ma'am?” asked Mrs. Kennedy, thinking perhaps of the generally successful foraging of Grace.

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'Oh, come, Ellen," said Mr. Saunders, going to the door.

"Oh, mother dear!-oh, ma'am!" cried Grace, springing forward with her hands clasped-"I don't want hire; I'll go with ye, ma'am dear; I love ye. Nevir mind mother."

"I can't take you, though, without your mother's consent; and as I will not undertake to give you any wages, she does not appear to wish you to

come."

"Oh, in God's name take her, ma'am," said her mother. "I didn't mean anything whin I spoke of hire. Take her wid ye."

"I am not going to take her now," said Mrs. Saunders, smiling. "I will send for her to-morrow, and my messenger will bring some clothes for her, and then she can give those on her to the poor little children there."

Thus it was arranged. And Grace felt her father's check wet with tears as she kissed him, and told him, that night, when he came home from work. And he hugged his little daughter, and tried to think of some prayer he had been taught in the bright days of childhood, long ago. And he saw a gleam of happiness to cheer him through the dark mist of misery. The next day Grace went to her new home.

VOL. XXXVI.-NO. CCXII.

2 A

THE French are great writers, whether we measure them by the quantity or quality of their productions. Their merit, however, is most considerable in the aggregate. Individual instances of the highest original genius are certainly rare among them. In the crowded pages of their literary history, we cannot put our finger on the names of a Bacon, Shakspere, Dante, or Milton. Nor is Bossuet equal to Jeremy Taylor. Pascal is undoubtedly their greatest mind, and a world-wide light he might have diffused, had not his frame been worn down by mortifications, and the bright blaze of his genius crushed out on the cold walls and pavement of a dim damp cloister. We owe the French a vast meed of gratitude and praise for the persevering exercise and improvement of their national talent as historians. On this field no difficulty has daunted them. Hospitable and inhospitable savage and civilised, regions and races have found industrious annalists in the French; and with an ingenuity peculiarly their own, they have collect ed and arranged the scattered materials. In the middle of the eighteenth century the best history of England was to be found in the volumes of Rapin; and whether we now possess a better is a question which we leave for more experienced critics to decide. Let it be remarked, that among the subscribers to the edition of the original, printed at the Hague in 1724, very few English names are to be found, making all due allowance for the corruptions of French orthography, when proper and surnames are concerned.

The bibliography of natural history and science teems with the names of Frenchmen; they have been most laborious and disinterested expositors and explorers of the secrets and wonders of our earth. It demanded almost the zeal of an apostle to carry the wealthy, well-born, luxurious Buffon through his colossal undertaking. The "Recherches sur les Ossemens Fos

siles" of Cuvier heralded the mighty discoveries of modern geology, and lured us to seek in her deeps and strata the unwritten chronicles of the world. Almost unknown in England is the enterprise which led Le Vaillant to publish his magnificent, and of course unprofitable, works on the ornithology of Africa. It is to Audubon, the son of a vice-admiral of France, that Europe owes the birds of America. He sought them among the magnolias of Louisiana, and the stunted pine. trees of Labrador. He has placed them before our eyes in their dazzling plumage amid the long waving grasses of the prairies, or the glowing berries of their native tracts of woodland. The same number of important and laborious works have been written in no

other modern language, though most of the great critics and scholars of France have enshrined the fruits of their researches in the unchanging i liom of a dead tongue. Possessing a large share of very beautiful and spirited prose, it is notorious that little poetry of a high order is to be found in French. We know not where the cause of failure lies, whether in the language or the mental characteristics of the race; but certain it is that the radical superiority and defects of English and French poetry commence, and are evident, in the very cradle. Compared with the natural beauty and vigorous tone of those fine old ballads which have floated down to us, often by nameless authors, the graces and prettinesses of the poets of the langue d'oc and the langue d'oui seem as the chirping of the chaflinch, to the clear, strong tones of the thrush-untutored and harsh sometimes, but seldom feeble. One babe seems to have been a pale, weedy, sprawling infant, whom its mother decked with " "pompons" and laces, sometimes, perhaps, bestowing on its cheeks a daub of rouge; the other was a handsome, uncouth, vigorous man-child, swathed in its hempen swaddling-clothes, kicking lustily amid the fogs and frosty mornings of a