It would be well if both young and old always remembered, that this life is at best but a state of probation, and that in all our actions we are but "on trial," watched over by the All-seeing G.o.d. And often, and often, indeed, when we least suspect it, our doings are marked by our fellow men, are weighed, even in an earthly balance, and so are permitted to influence our earthly happiness. A poet has said--

"A deed can never die."

If my young readers do not yet understand how the consequences of our actions follow us through life, and so do not perceive all the truth and meaning of that line, I would advise them, nevertheless, to remember it; some day they will understand it better.

We shall leave Harriet Mannering for awhile on her visit of pleasure and gaiety, and return to the humble dwelling of her father and sister. What with her household cares, and walking with and reading to her father, the time flew rapidly with Mary: she met, too, with an unexpected return for her attention and devotion.

At first, the books of history, divinity, and natural philosophy, which were those her father had desired her to read, had seemed heavy and abstruse, but gradually their meaning, like a dawning light, beamed upon her mind, which, opening to receive it, let in the new delight of intellectual pleasure! Then, in the long twilight of the summer evening, when it was too dark to read, would she sit on a stool at her father's feet, with one of his hands clasped in both of hers, and he would explain away the difficulties at which her young mind had halted.

What did it signify that they sat in an humble, low-roofed chamber, and that Mary's dress was one of cotton? They could discourse on the wonders of creation, and the goodness of G.o.d!

But, if the pleasures of an enlarging mind were opening on Mary, new cares were also stealing upon her. The many purchases Harriet had made, had drawn heavily on their little stock of money, in addition to which, Mr. Mannering had suffered so much pain in his eyes, that he had been obliged to have further medical advice. Mary felt that some means must be found of adding to their little income. At first, she thought of attending pupils, and imparting what she had learned in the days of prosperity. But, distrustful of herself, she sometimes doubted if she were competent to undertake the task of tuition.

She might have taught music, but, for want of an instrument, she was sadly out of practice, and feared that this, with her youth, and her want of experience, would be a hindrance to her success; and so she found it.

Yet something must be done; for Mary's humility of heart was not that inert apathy of idleness, that is sometimes by foolish, unthinking people mistaken for it; and I suppose, in the eyes of the vain and worldly, there was some degradation in Mary Mannering employing several hours of the day in needlework, for which, at the end of the week, she received a few shillings; but the gentle girl herself never fell that there could be disgrace in earning this trifle honestly, however humbly; although, in one of Harriet's letters, she professed to be quite "shocked" at the necessity of such a thing, while she made it a plea for her own prolonged absence, saying that there was one less to support while she was away. It would seem that it never occurred to her to contribute her share of industry by the labour either of head or hand.

Alas! her heart was indeed becoming hardened by her selfish pride.

Mary and her father had one evening been enjoying their usual walk, when one of those sudden storms, which often succeed sultry weather, came on.

They were not within a mile of any house where they could ask for shelter; but they chanced to be near a wide arch which had been constructed across the road for the convenience of a railway line. Above them, rolled the hissing engine and its long train, and glad enough were they of the protection the archway afforded. They had not, however, been there many minutes before they perceived an open carriage coming rapidly along the road, and as, just when it reached the point where Mr.

Mannering and his daughter had found shelter, the storm increased to its utmost violence, the elder of the two gentlemen, whom the carriage contained, desired the coachman to draw up under the archway until the pouring rain should have somewhat abated. The gentlemen were Dr. Vernon, a celebrated physician, and his son.

I should have told you before that Mary was not considered so handsome as her sister, and, as you know, she had not the advantage of gay and fashionable attire; but both the gentlemen have often said since that there was something inexpressively interesting in her appearance. I suspect hers must have been the loveliness of a kind, affectionate, and contented heart, which showed itself in her watchful attention to her blind father, and in her always unaffected manner.

Dr. Vernon was the first to address Mr. Mannering, when he not only perceived his affliction, but also discovered he was conversing with no ordinary individual; for it is astonishing, when two persons of great acquirements and high moral worth are thrown together, how speedily they understand each other. The storm continuing, prolonged the interview, until, in the course of conversation, it appeared that Dr. Vernon and Mr.

Mannering had known each other in their youth, though circ.u.mstances had separated them in later years. This, of course, was an additional source of interest, and, after a little while, Dr. Vernon insisted on Mary and her father getting into his carriage, and promised to set them down at their own door.

The acquaintance thus renewed, was not likely again to drop, and from paying them frequent visits, it very soon happened that either Dr. Vernon or his son was sure to call to see the invalid every day. Arthur Vernon was at this time about five and twenty, and was no less remarkable for his great talents than for his amiable disposition. He had inherited an independent fortune from a distant relative, but, from love of science, and a consciousness of the wide field of active benevolence that they might open to him, he had studied medicine and surgery with great perseverance. Latterly he had devoted himself more particularly to the consideration of the eye, and the truth was, he began to think that Mr.

Mannering's sight was not irrevocably gone, and that he had a knowledge of remedies which, by the blessing of G.o.d, would restore the sight of his father's old friend.

It was to Mary herself that Mr. Vernon first breathed his hopes of effecting a cure, and is there much wonder that henceforth she looked forward to his visits with interest and delight? And, as day by day hope seemed to promise recovered sight more and more surely, it was very natural that she should feel deep grat.i.tude to the young surgeon.

Sometimes when Mr. Vernon came, Mary was at needlework, sometimes attending to the necessary domestic arrangements, and sometimes reading to her father; and, if the last was the case, the conversation not unfrequently turned upon the book before them.

Mary had acquired one valuable piece of information. She knew enough to understand how very trifling was the sum of all her knowledge; it may be remarked that very ignorant persons are almost always the most conceited.

Such individuals have no more idea of knowledge than those born blind or deaf can have of sight or sound. But the gentle humble-minded Mary Mannering was a very opposite character. She was _not_ ignorant; she had, as it were, peeped, through books and conversations with her father, at the vast stores of knowledge and learning which human reason has been permitted to acc.u.mulate; and, though she knew how little, in the longest life, could really be mastered, in comparison with the mighty whole, she also knew that one of the purest pleasures that life affords proceeds from acquiring the sort of information which opens to our view the wonders of creation. Thus would she quietly listen to conversations on many improving subjects between her father and Mr. Vernon, seldom joining in them, it is true, unless she was addressed. But hers was that "eloquent silence" which is the opposite of indifference.

And thus several months pa.s.sed away; for the remedies Mr. Vernon recommended to his patient were slow in their operation. Winter came, and still he was a daily visitor. Oh! how sadly Mary would have missed him!

An event, however, was about to occur of some importance; nothing less than Harriet's return home from her protracted visit at Mrs. Somerton's.

Yes, Harriet returned to her lowly home, less inclined than ever to be content in her own station. She returned to it, however, because Mrs.

Somerton had not found her distinguished by the gentleness and humility she had hoped to recognise in her character. For the proud and vain are always selfish, and perhaps Harriet Mannering had been quite unconscious that, while eagerly bent on her own enjoyment and frivolous gratification, her conduct had been narrowly watched. And what had she to show as the harvest or even gleanings of the last few months?

Literally nothing, for her time had been utterly wasted--her fine clothes were worn out, and neither mind nor prospects improved.

It appeared that Mr. Vernon had sometimes visited at Mrs. Somerton's, but, though Harriet recollected him immediately, she had made so little impression on his mind that he did not at first remember her. And now it was no small mortification to the vain girl to discover that Mary, in her humble home and common dress, was treated both by Dr. Vernon and his son with a consideration _she_ had never found among any of the gay guests at Somerton Park. For the truth was they already loved and esteemed Mary.

This was, perhaps, the first happy awakening of Harriet to the faults of her own character; she began to perceive the sweetness of gentle, unselfish humility, which, prompting ever to a contented fulfilment of our duties, is sure to make its presence felt, even as we know, by its delicious perfume, that the violet is near, though hidden from sight beneath its green canopy of leaves.

Time pa.s.sed on. At last, one happy day of returning spring, light gleamed again on the darkened orbs of the afflicted father! The cure was working, and soon--very soon, he could recognise his dear children; and, throwing back their hair to gaze yet more fondly on their countenances, he would talk of the change of time, of their growth, and, above all, of his deep thankfulness to the Almighty for the blessing of sight. And now it was that Harriet fancied--was it fancy?--that he looked more fondly at Mary than herself. And then _they_ had so many subjects of interest to talk about, of which she knew nothing. But whose fault was it that she had not shared her gentle sister's cares and pleasures?

The happy time had come when Mr. Mannering no longer required the guiding hand of either daughter. He was walking in the little garden which belonged to their dwelling when Dr. Vernon and his son arrived. Contrary to his custom, the old gentleman, perceiving his friend, joined him out of doors, while Arthur, who well knew his way up stairs, tapped at the door of their one sitting room. He did not perceive any occupant but Mary as he entered, and indeed, I am not quite certain that even she was aware that Harriet was in the room, Mary herself having only just come in, and her sister being nearly hidden by a thick curtain which half covered the window.

It was then and there, with the haughty sister for a listener, that Arthur Vernon asked the gentle Mary to be his wife!--hinting at his hopes and wishes at first in answer to some expressions of grat.i.tude from her for the service he had rendered her father, and begging her thus to repay it by giving him herself.

Mary wept, but they were very happy tears she shed; for now she might own that grat.i.tude and admiration, for his n.o.ble qualities had made Arthur Vernon very dear to her. Yet she could not refrain from asking if his father were willing he should marry one poor and humble as herself.

"Think not, dear Mary," he replied, "that I would tempt you to disobedience by setting you the example. I am almost sure my father has spoken to Mr. Mannering this morning on the same subject, and here our parents come to complete our happiness by giving their sanction."

And so it was. Dr. Vernon kissed her affectionately as he said, "My son has chosen wisely and well. A dutiful daughter will make a good wife; and though now he is rich, he knows how mutable is all earthly fortune.

And so he has chosen a wife whose wealth cannot be taken from her, for it consists in good principles and a well-stored mind; and an humble, loving, and gentle nature, that will add to all the joys of prosperity as it would comfort him in the sorrows of adversity, prompting her, in either case, to 'do her duty in that state of life unto which it shall please G.o.d to call her.'"

And after awhile Harriet came forward with streaming eyes, but her tears did not now spring from envy or selfish regrets. "Father!" she exclaimed, "in this happy hour, forgive me my haughty selfish conduct.

Mary! teach, oh, teach me some of your virtues!"

"I forgive all, Harriet," replied Mr. Mannering, with much emotion, "for the acknowledgment of your error is half-way to repentance and atonement.

And this is a day of triple happiness, for I have just heard that, now my sight is restored, I have a fair chance of again entering into mercantile pursuits, and arriving at independence. But oh! my children, neither in prosperity nor adversity let us forget to pray for true humility of heart--the Christian spirit!"

VICTORINE DUROCHER; OR, THE BLESSINGS OF PEACE.

BY MRS. SHERWOOD, AND HER DAUGHTER, MRS. STREETEN.

VICTORINE DUROCHER.

It was towards the end of the pleasant month of May, that Dorsain D'Elsac reached Salency, in Picardy, and stopped at the door of his sister's cottage, a Madame Durocher, who dwelt in that village. Dorsain D'Elsac was one of three children. The elder, Pauline, however, was no more; she had married, but was never a mother, so that the children of Margoton Durocher, his remaining sister, were the nearest relatives he had left in the world. It is true D'Elsac had a wife, one, I must say, of the best tempered women in all Dauphiny,--she was a native of Gren.o.ble, in that province,--but she was now getting on in years, and was often very weary of her daily employment, and yet she had no one to whom she could occasionally entrust her duties.

It was one evening, when complaining of this to her husband, that Madame D'Elsac suddenly exclaimed, "What say you, Dorsain, of sending to Salency for one of your sister Margoton Durocher's grown up daughters; as Pauline has left no family, we may ask Margoton to let us have one of her three good-sized girls? Had we not better have one of your own nieces, Dorsain, than a stranger?"

Though Madame D'Elsac, having once thought of this plan, was ready and willing to put it into execution without a thought, not so her worthy husband. He must first weigh the affair steadily in his mind, and repeat over and over again to his wife, that if once they took a relative into their house, they could not part with her as a hired attendant if she did not suit them; "and then you know, Delphine," he added, "you and I are so happy and comfortable together, that I should not like to invite one to our home who might make that home disagreeable."

Madame D'Elsac's disposition was of that easy kind that she allowed her worthy partner almost to talk himself against the arrangement altogether, and the matter would probably have dropped without any consequences, had not Dorsain mentioned it to a neighbour, who had been at Salency two years before, and who had been highly delighted with the lovely daughters of Madame Durocher. So the affair was settled, that D'Elsac should invite a niece to wait upon his wife, and to reside with them on their pretty little farm, near Gren.o.ble, on the borders of Swisserland. The next point in question was, whether this selected niece should be Caliste, Victorine, or Lisette, for as to little Mimi, the fourth daughter of Madame Durocher, she was considered altogether too young for the office.

Monsieur D'Elsac had not seen his sister nor her children for many years, and it is probable, that this slow-minded gentleman would have pondered till his death, upon which he should favour of his nieces, if the quicker Delphine had not proposed that he should go over to Salency and see the young girls before he made his selection. So the affair now really appeared likely to come to some settlement after all, particularly as Monsieur D'Elsac did arrive safely in Salency, mounted on one of his own farm horses, from which he alighted at the door of Monique.

The cottage of his sister was small, containing only three apartments and an outer kitchen, and the furniture was of the simplest kind. As the family were numerous, the kitchen was used as a sleeping apartment, the head of the bed being made in a kind of cupboard, into which in the daytime the bedding was turned up, and the cupboard doors closed. A few chairs, a table, and a gla.s.s case, in which was a coa.r.s.e waxen figure, flauntingly dressed, representing the Virgin with her child in her arms, completed the rest of the moveables of the sitting room.

D'Elsac fastened his horse to a post, which opportunely stood near, and walked into the cottage. No sound reached his ear, though around him lay many articles, denoting that the family had not long been absent. He was in the kitchen, but his step aroused no one to see who was the intruder, and he again walked back to the door, but still there was no appearance of any one near.

He looked down the village street, to see if any one was approaching, but the village also appeared deserted, and he was beginning to get a little uneasy, when he was roused by the playful voice of a child as it were behind him. He turned in the direction of the voice, and saw that two young girls were standing in the very middle of the apartment, having come from some inner room.

They did not appear to notice D'Elsac, as he was without the cottage door, and, as he listened unnoticed by them, he was aware that they were too much interested with their own conversation to regard his presence.