For long it was a fact so hardly realised that for some time after her father's death there were mysterious whispers afloat concerning treasures buried in the garden belonging to the house he had lived in. Upon our first coming to H we resided there; and well I remember how many a dark night was made frightful by thinking of the servants' tales concerning the ghost of old Mr. Burbage, who was said to hover over his hidden wealth.

Elizabeth Burbage was left penniless, with an invalided maiden aunt looking alone to her for support; but, like the heroic Elizabeth of Siberia, her spirit was equal to the heavy demand. Friends opened for her that little shop, and indefatigably did she devote her time and energies to the task assigned her. It is easy to chronicle the few events of her life; but what pen can describe the harnessing of her spirit to those distasteful duties-the days of stern self-mastery, of tearful prayer, ere resignation was attained? Surely there is a lesson of eloquent import in the history of this quiet life-a history whose most touching pages We can never read,a gulf we may never but in imagination fathom, in the transformation of that high-spirited girl into the unlovely, sour-seeming old maid. This history is known only unto God, by whom her short-comings are mercifully regarded, and her noble triumphs recorded in that book which bears in unfading characters the mighty secrets of the heart.

And now the chiming of church-bells falls sweetly on my ear, and I gaze dreamily out of the window at the passers-by on their way to morning prayers. Amongst them I have often singled out two sisters, whose constancy in attendance, and meek, womanly deportment, have attracted my attention. They are of the same height, and always dressed alike. This fair summer's morning they wear white cambric muslin dresses, with a narrow insertion above the hem, which but just descends below the tops of their boots; brown lama

full white bonnet-caps (not breaking out into an incongruous flower-garden at the top), which one might easily imagine a nimbus, they are not unlike old paintings of the Virgin. They are placid-looking old maids; I do not know their history, but I remember once inquiring about them in the nursery, and being told that when they were young they were considered very pretty, and called "the doves."

I love the sight of those little blackvelvet bags in which each carries her prayer-book and hymn-book, and the morning glimpses of the placid faces beneath the simple bonnets; and I know that, however destitute of influence they may be in other ways, their quiet lives may have a soothing effect upon my own,

My third illustration is to be found in one of the close courts, which, in common with every other town, our own encloses within its precincts. I never see her except in my cottage visits. Poor Barbara is a sufferer from a distressing spinal disease that has confined her to her room for more years than my life can number. Always an invalid, her quiet life is a catalogue of unceasing pains.

I should like to send all the discontented people-all the Sybarite, would-be invalids, who complain of the crumpled rose-leaf upon their couches of down, and study their pampered appetites as though to satisfy them were the sole aim of their lives,-to that close little sick-room, there to learn a' lesson of cheerful patience and holy resignation which they would never surely forget. The fine needlework, that once was her chief support, has now to be put aside on account of failing sight, and for the few little luxuries, nay, many necessaries, her illness entails, she is dependent upon the charity of visitors. Yet never have I seen her cast down;-nay, she is more cheerful, more ready to laugh, than many who have not one tithe of her afflictions. It is that mystery of St. Paul of which the Christian life alone holds the key" As sorrowful, yet always rejoicing,"

the glorification in infirmity which is the crown of a Christian's life.

There is a spirit in these quiet lives the world knows not of. Sublime in their simple strength, like the runnels in the forest, that glide away under green leaves, they can only be traced by the verdure

grand gentleman like him calling of me his dear.' Why, he's almost as nice as-as John."

par

John was the rector's coachman. Mr. Joyce followed Kitty into the lour. Poor man! his nervousness was painful to witness.

"Good evening, Miss Martha. I-I -just called to see, you know," he began, unintelligibly.

"Ah! the flowers. You are very kind indeed," said the lady, smiling.

Mr. Joyce sat down and took a cup in his hand, without seeming to know what to do with it.

"I've had my garden altered, as you wished it, Miss White," he said at last.

"Indeed! I was not aware that I had expressed an opinion about it," said Miss White, in surprise.

Oh, yes! you did not like my ar rangement last year."

"Did I not? I forget"

The rector could neither get on with tea or conversation that evening: he had evidently something on his mind, and several times began, "Miss Martha, I-" and came to a full stop. At last, in desperation, the gentleman put down his cup, and drew his chair near his hostess, and observed confidentially

"How many marriages there are in prospect!"

"Are there ?" said Miss Martha, calmly. "Yes. I heard you telling Kitty not to encourage my man, John Stonehouse, unless she meant to marry him."

Miss Martha looked up in surprise. "I remember, I did tell her so, but-" Why, I was waiting to be let in, and you had left your window open, so I could not avoid hearing what passed. It was good advice, Miss Martha," explained the worthy rector.

"I meant it for such. I am glad you thought it was," said the lady, simply.

Mr. Joyce grew very red, and looked uncomfortably warm. He had evidently made up his mind. Before Miss Martha knew what he was thinking about the gentleman with some abruptness laid his hand and fortune at Miss White's disposal, and then waited with considerable embar rassment for her answer. It came after a short pause, with a rich blush like a

young girl's. The lady returned a gentle but firm refusal, much to the chagrin the old bachelor suitor.

"She would never marry!" she said. "Why not? I have had it in my mind to ask you this question for years, Miss Martha, and I really hoped your answer would have been different. I was lead to believe it would."

"You have done me a great honour, and were I not the silly romantic old maid that I am, I might, perhaps, have been proud to call so good and upright a man as yourself my husband; but I shall never marry now," said Miss Martha; "and if," she continued, "you will not think me very foolish, I will give you my reason, Mr. Joyce."

Mr. Joyce was silent, so Miss Martha went on "My father was, as you know, a rich gentleman-farmer. My youth was a very quiet time, for we did not live near enough to any town to be gay people; consequently I knew very few young persons of my own age; and when my sailor-brother-my father's beloved and only son-brought home a friend with him, it made the house so much more lively. This stranger was a young Swede, and he was to be a passenger in Harry's ship. Oscar Hermann and my brother were on intimate terms. I-Iwas considered rather pretty then; and though Oscar was some ten years my senior, he took a fancy to me-in short we loved each other and, against my father's wishes, became engaged, and then he and Harry went away

Miss Martha paused to conquer her agitation.

"He-he said he would come back to marry me three years afterwards; but I have never heard of him since. Dear Harry was drowned; perhaps Oscar met with the same fate."

Miss Martha's eyes were moist with tears, and Mr. Joyce rose to go, thinking to himself that women were all fools, and the lady who had refused him the greatest simpleton of all! But nevertheless he went away with a latent hope that she would change her mind, and prefer spending the remainder of her life in his cosy rectory, to going on dreaming of the past in single blessedness.

It was growing late, but Miss Martha did not seem to notice the gathering darkness of the summer sky. She sat with her hands clasped, a smile unusually sad on her lips. Once or twice she wiped away some quiet tears that fell on her cheek.

Miss Martha was in a reverie.

Kitty entered presently to remove the tray, and asked her mistress if she would give her permission to run over to a neighbour's house for half-an-hour-she would not stay longer.

"Yes, you may go," said Miss Martha, absently.

Kitty put away her tea-things, and departed. Miss Martha's reverie became deeper.

There was a ring at the bell, the knocker handled with some impatience several times.

With a start Miss White awoke from her dream, and remembered Kitty was out, and that it was most unusual to see visitors at that hour. After a moment's hesitation, she went to open the door. A man wrapped in a cloak stood in the porch.

"Can you tell me where does one Miss Marta White live?" he asked, with a foreign accent.

A sudden thrill ran through the lady's veins. Had she heard that voice before? She could not remember. Receiving no reply, the questioner con

tinued

"I have a message for Miss Marta White."

"I am Miss White; will you come in, Sir?"

Miss Martha ushered her guest into the parlour, and lighted a candle.

The stranger surveyed the room with some curiosity, and then asked, turning away his head

"Will Miss White be long before she come!"

"I am Miss White," she said again; "but there must be some mistake!" "You Miss White! No, impossible!" cried the stranger.

Miss Martha said, with some little dignity

"White is a common name, Sir.

I

dare say you will find the lady you are in search of at C

"I want a Miss Marta White!" explained the visitor apologetically. "That is my name."

"Your name is Marta!" echoed the gentleman, turning round and scanning her face intently. Suddenly his eye fell upon a gold locket that was half concealed by a lace lappet round Miss White's slender throat; he uttered a loud exclamation, and fell into a chair trembling. "Miss White-Miss Marta," he said, "I ask you if you ever knew one Oscar Hermann ?"

"I did," faltered the amazed lady.

"Then I am right! You are my Marta, my dear, long lost Marta!" And before she could say a word Miss White was caught in the arms of the traveller, and her lips and forehead frantically

kissed.

Marta, my Marta; do you not know your Oscar? Has time changed me so? You wear my locket still."

Miss Marta did then and there, for the first time in her life, go into a fit of hysterics, and when Kitty returned, her astonishment was not to be equalled when she found her mistress laughing and crying in the same breath, and permitting the caresses of a stranger.

A few words made the matter known to the sympathising abigail, and then came Oscar's long explanation of his silence. He had been detained in Sweden to watch over an insane father; his letters had all been returned to him, and he had imagined himself forgotten by his English love, from whom his affections had never wandered. His father died, and then Oscar Hermann became a traveller over the world, visited India and America, Germany and Italy, and at last determined upon returning to England.

"And this is the result, my Marta," he said in conclusion, looking at Miss White with all the rapture of a young lover.

He had taken off her cap, and her hair fell in curly masses on her shoulders; she had such a colour, too, and her eyes were so bright that he exclaimed with great admiration

"Your old self, my Marta! but you did not know your grey-headed Oscar?"