was suspended till Mary was in some degree recovered; and soon after, his insolvency was publicly declared, his lease and farm-stocking being sold by public auction. The principal bills and securities granted by George to his friend had passed into the hands of an avaricious stranger, in whose heart the milk of human kindness had no place; and the family were stripped of every thing, as far as the utmost rigour of law would permit; what was essentially necessary for them being purchased at the sale by the brother-in-law, to whom George now became a servant, occupying a cottage on the farm, and Anne, who saw no more of her intended bridegroom, took up her abode with them, as a companion and assistant to Mary, who was now the counsellor and comforter of her dejected husband. Instead of reproaching him for rashness and imprudence, she said, "My dear George, why should you grieve so deeply at what is irremediable? If it will be any consolation to you, I am willing to grant, that you have not been perfect in prudence and worldly wisdom; but your failings have leaned to Virtue's side;' and although we may regret the consequences, they have made you more dear to my heart. We are both young; Heaven has blessed us with good health, and Providence will prosper our united efforts, if we do not prove ourselves unworthy, by murmuring at its dispensations. Reflect, also, that despondency, by enfeebling the mind. and relaxing the nerves, will render us less capable of enduring the privations to which we must submit, and will also disqualify us for that labour necessary for our comfortable subsistence; like Adam and Eve, when expelled from Eden, we can still make a paradise of love around our cottage fire-side."

The conduct of Mary was conformable to her counsels; she was never heard to heave a sigh, nor seen to wear a dejected look; instead of reproachful glances, upon the man whose unthinking temerity had plunged them in adversity, the light of love beamed in her eye, and the glow of cheerfulness mantled on her cheek. Anne, although at first deeply stung by the sordid and perfidious

conduct of her lover, soon recovered her spirits, congratulating herself on her escape from being united to a selfish wretch, dead to honour, shame, and every manly feeling.

George continued in the service of his brother-in-law, who, encumbered with a large family and bad farm, could not assist him to rise in the world; but did all in his power to make him and the family comfortable, by lightening the pressure of servitude, alleviating some, and banishing other privations, attendant on their lot. Their cottage was put in the best condition, and Mary, whose spirits had never deserted her, kept it always neat and clean; their little garden was still in excellent order; for George, seeing that Mary found pleasure there, devoted the evenings after his labours to its cultivation; he dug, sowed, planted, and hoed, with all the solicitude of love, and might have said, with the poet, Not a shrub that I heard her admire, But I hasted and planted it there.

Subsequently, their children relieved him of part of these labours, and their industry was rewarded by the approving smile of their parents, and the success of their labours; their cabbages were the largest, and their pease the most prolific, of any in the parish; the currants hung in rich and glowing clusters; the gooseberry bushes bent beneath their load; the apple blushed upon the wall, ripening in the western sun; while the woodbine and the rose entwined around the window, breathing fragrance on the breeze: there was found a rich variety of what "was good for food, and pleasant_to_the eye." In summer, the children would leave their mother on the seat, sewing or knitting, and run to welcome their father, presenting him with such produce of the garden as was most in season; in winter, they would lead him to the snug, little, comfortable ben-house, where the cheerful fire, clean hearth, snowwhite cloth on the table, covered with the homely, but skilfullycooked and savoury meal, and the smiles of his Mary, made every care be forgotten. Thus year after year stole softly by; perhaps more smoothly, and with a nearer approach to

perfect happiness, than those of the voluptuary, who rolls in wealth, and glides along the stream of pleasure; their sons and daughters were growing up around them, and their united labours were adequate to the wants of the family.

Eighteen summers had shone upon the happy tenants of the cottage, and George was still in the vigour of manhood; the blush of beauty seemed to linger with delight on the cheek of Mary; the glance of love had not left her eye, nor had the cheerful smile of happiness forgotten to play on her lip. John, their eldest son, had finished his apprentice ship as a sailor; his sister, a year younger, and two brothers, were at service in the neighbourhood, and a boy and girl, still younger, were at home with their parents.

Every New-year's-day, since their union, had been celebrated as the anniversary of that event, which neither had ever for a moment regretted; it was also the birth-day of Mary and her eldest son, and was always hailed by George with heartfelt delight. This happy day was again near, and they wanted only the presence of John to consummate the felicity of their fire-side; but that there was little hope of obtain ing. The Minerva, in which John sailed, had left St. Petersburgh late in the season, was overtaken in the Baltic by a dreadful storm; the crew had almost despaired of keeping her above water, and with difficulty had reached a Swedish port, where they were obliged to unload and repair. John, by the fall of a yard, had his right arm broke, which made him employ an amanuensis, in writing to his parents, and from this, they imagined that the worst had not been told.

Their cottage had a commanding view of the German Ocean, and many a long and wistful look had the family cast on the wide expanse, hoping to see the Minerva; still she came not; and Mary, who had smiled in poverty, watched in sickness, whose cheek, nor care nor fatigue had ever blanched, now sunk in despondency, under apprehensions for her darling son. He was ill-perhaps dead-or the ship had been again wrecked, and all had perished;

such were the fears of parental fondness; and she who had with fortitude braved the bitter blasts of adversity, now pined the victim of maternal affection.

It was the last night of the departing year; a deep snow had fallen, the wind from the south-east was loud, the snow began to drive furiously, and the gale increased to a violent tempest. The parents and their two young children were seated around the fire, the younglings rejoicing that to-morrow they would see their brother and sisters, as the family had always met at their father's fire-side on New-year's-day. "But we want John!" said his mother, with a deep sigh. "And will John not be here to kiss me as usual?" said little Susan. "We will drink to his good health and safe return," cried Tom; "I hope his arm is now whole, and that he will be able to swing me round his head, after he has shaken hands with father and mother." George observed that this artless prattle had brought tears in Mary's eyes: " My dear love," cried he, 66 you have been my counsellor and comforter for many years; you have taught me to trust in Providence, and I have never been disappointed-taught me, that to doubt the kindness of our Heavenly Father was to render ourselves unworthy of his mercies! Your counsels and kind love have, by the blessing of Heaven, been to me a never-failing consolation; they have not only sweetened the cup of adversity, but have changed it into a delicious potion. Why then so dejected now? I know it is anxiety for John; but recollect, they were safe in a Swedish harbour, and would not leave it till fit for sea; and you know, my dear Mary, what you have impressed upon my mind, never to be forgotten, that the Lord's tender mercies are over all his works."

"And the Psalm that you gave me to read last night," said Susan, "about them that go down to the sea in ships, how God brings them home safe, when they pray to him--and I am sure my brother will never forget that." "And the Hymn that you made me learn from the Spectator, How are thy servants blest, O Lord!' Have you forgot that, mother?" cried Tommy. I know I

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am wrong," replied Mary," and have vainly struggled to shake off my alarms; but I am now afraid that my foolish wishes will prove my punishinent, for if the Minerva is on the coast, in this tempest, they must all perish!" "Mary," said George, it is now within a few hours of the departure of a year which to us has brought only happiness; let us trust in Heaven, and humbly hope that to-morrow's sun will shine as the harbinger of new blessings, bearing in mind, always, that our time is passing away." He then took the Bible, and with much fervour sung the 1st, 2d, 4th, 9th, and 12th verses of the 90th Psalm; after which, reading the 91st, worship was closed with humble confession of their unworthiness, thanks for all temporal and spiritual bless ings, devoutly supplicating forgiveness, and a continuance of that protection they had hitherto experienced. Their orisons closed, they retired to rest; but the bellowings of the storm banished sleep from Mary; sympathy kept George awake, and it was long before their "senses were steeped in forgetfulness." In the morning, the tempest was abated, but the sky was dark and lowering, and the snow-wreaths were drifted in front of the cottage, so that George had to cut his way out with a spade. They sat down to breakfast, cheered by the hope of seeing their olive plants around them at dinner, which Mary set about preparing, while George went to the village, for a refreshing draught of home brewed. He returned much agitated, which his endeavours to conceal only rendered more conspicuous and alarming. "What is the matter?" cried Mary; "something unusual has happened!" "No, nothing, my dear, except that I must go out for some hours, on business of my brother's, which cannot be delayed; and I am vexed at not being at home, to meet our children." "What business?-where? You must not leave us to-day, George—if the business is so urgent, let him go himself." "Indeed I must go, Mary, and he goes with me. "Where are you going?" "Not far, we shall be back soon." Mary observed his lip quiver, and taking his hand, felt it tremble.

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"My dear George, there is some mystery-you wish to deceive meit is, it must be of the Minervawhat of her?-tell me the truth!" "Well, she is in the bay, and I hope to meet John by the time he comes on shore." George had been told in the village, that the Minerva was wrecked on the black-rocks, and only two of the crew saved; "but," continued he, "do not be alarmed should rumour send abroad idle stories; you know the vulgar always magnify-Anne, you do not leave home to-day?" "Ono ; but we shall be impatient for your return." Well, I'll come as soon as possible-be of good cheer!" He embraced Mary-a tear fell upon her cheek, and he rushed out: Mary and Anne left alone, mutually alarmed each other; recollecting George's advice about what they might hear, they became convinced he had not told them the truth. The bay was about four miles distant, and the blackrocks about three, in an opposite direction. Mary, notwithstanding the weather, was for setting off for the bay instantly, but Anne prevailed with her to stay and receive her children, as the snow was driving thick. By noon the children had arrived, but soon departed for the bay, to meet their father and brother: in passing through the village, they met one of those croakers, who delight in being the messengers of bad tidings, “Oh, bairns! this is awfu' news!" said she; "a dowie new-year for your mither, honest woman! I was just gawn yont o'er to see her- wherefore ha'e ye left her?-but ye'll be gawn to look for his corpse." This gossiping woman assured them that the Minerva had been wrecked on the black-rocks, and every soul on board had perished. Although sadly alarmed, they requested her not to go near their mother till their return, and hastened forward. Upon reaching the scene of the reported catastrophe, they saw no signs of a wreck, although they traced the shore for nearly two miles on each side; changing their course, they soon hastened to the bay, with their hearts somewhat lightened. Meanwhile, Mary was doomed to suffer much agony, for some officious intruder, under pretence of condolence, told

her the dreadful rumour, and an hour or two had passed before it was contradicted by a kind visitor. Her heart racked with the most painful anxiety, she knew not what to hope or fear, and sat plunged in deep melancholy. The New-year's dinner stood untouched, while the family gazed on each other, and listened to the sound of the warring elements, while darkness closed around them.

The night waned apace, and the terrors of Mary were now increased, in alarms for her husband and children. The storm blew with renewed violence; the roof of the cottage creaked and the door shook, while the driving snow had closed up the windows; the wind bellowed frightfully in the tops of the broad sycamores around the garden, while their massy trunks seemed to groan beneath its fury. In the intervals between its fitful blasts, was heard the barkings of the farmer's dog, and every ear was eager to catch the glad sound of the returning family; they looked out and listened, but could neither hear nor see ought but the howling blast and sweeping

snow.

At last a smart knock was heard at the door-all started. "That is not your father," said Mary, in a desponding tone; and before any one had courage or spirit to rise, a stranger entered, and, with majestic step, stalked along the floor. Ile was tall and robust; his breast and hair filled with frozen snow; he was muffled in a great coat of outlandish make, with a silk handkerchief tied over the lower part of his face. In a deep, sonorous, but not unpleasing voice, he said, "I am a stranger, and bave lost my way; will you allow me the shelter of your roof, from the pelting of the pitiless storin?" Mary and Anne looked at the stranger, and at each other for a moment, and the former replied, "We are not in a good situation for receiving strangers; however, this is not a night in which I could turn my enemy's dog from the door-you are welcome to what our homely cottage can afford; be seated." Disencumbered of his great-coat, the stranger appeared a handsome man, rather past the meridian of life, and his address indicated superior station. “ I am afraid I intrude; but this

storm must plead my apology, and I shall endeavour not to be troublesome," said he. "Make yourself easy, Sir," said Mary, "and excuse my apparent reserve; my husband and others of the family are out, and I am not a little disturbed about their safety; this, I hope, will prove a satisfactory apology for my imperfect discharge of the rites of hospitality: meantime, will you accept of any refreshment?" "I thank you, maʼam, but I prefer waiting the return of your husband, when, if permitted, I shall with pleasure partake of your New-year's-day's supper, which, I am told, is a cheerful one, in this part of the country." "It used to be so with us-whether it shall be so to-night, is yet a mystery which a little time must now unfold."

By gentle and insinuating courtesy, he succeeded on drawing from Mary the tale of which her heart was full. "I sincerely sympathise with you, ma'am," said he, "and regret that I am a stranger in the country, otherwise I would go in quest of your husband, who I hope will soon arrive." He looked on the family, and all around him, with a penetrating eye, and artfully leading to the subject, said, "I both see and hear much, ma'am, which seems incompatible with the station in which I find you. Surely misfortune has not been cruel enough to place you here?" "When we reached this asylum, his malice was exhausted, and we have experienced such happiness in this cottage, that we forget former disappointments." "Iyesterday heard of a family near this, who, in the outset of life, had been ruined by the credulous husband becoming security for a villain. I presume I am now beneath their roof?" "No, Sir; my husband was indeed ruined

but not by a villain--it was by a friend." "He gave a strange demonstration of his friendship." "Such things often happen in the world, Sir, but, in a word, both wanted experience, and might perhaps be termed fools, but neither were knaves." "And what became of that friend?" "He left the country, and we have never heard of him since." Well, he must have been an ungrateful fellow, never to write you!” Perhaps not, Sir; many things may have

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