"Don't fret, ma'am, don't fret, I pray : there's no harm done yet anyhow. You will pay me I've no doubt, you have behaved like a lady all along, so pray don't worret yourself about it at present. I can wait very well for a little time."

And she curtseyed herself out of the

room.

But this was but a temporary reprieve. Another month elapsed, another term of payment became due and overpast, and again they had to appeal to their landlady. Poor Emily! the personal deprivations to which she was subjected she cared little for in that she had said truly: but every lofty and independent feeling of her mind revolted from the humiliation of asking time, forbearance, from those to whom they had become inevitably in debt. She had not been accustomed to extravagance, but she had been habituated to pay promptly for all things her father never allowed her to have a bill. "I can forget a little accidental extravagance, my dear," so would

he say" but I desire, that you will never, on any account, or for any consideration, run into debt."

And this had been the rule of her father's house, and had become as it were nature to her. She never remembered to have known an instance, from her childhood, of a tradesman having to ask a second time for his bill.

And now!

Her landlady was considerate and kind, very much so; yet was there, after forbearance had been a second time entreated -yet was there an increase of familiarity --not glaringly-but rather insinuated, as by a coarse mind it would be, which made Mrs. Meredith's cheeks glow. But she only sunk her head more deeply over her work.

Another circumstance too which made her heart thrill with thankfulness and hope, yet added a sting to her unaccustomed poverty. But under the influence of this hope and of the feelings which it awakened,

she wrote an appeal to her father which she thought it impossible that he could resist. Alas!

Nor could he have resisted it-nor would he. He loved his daughter passionately. The very depth and warmth of his fondness for her added to the vehemence of his anger at her fault, made her ingratitude assume a deeper dye, cast a yet darker blot on her dereliction from duty. But he would have forgiven her-the father's heart would have softened towards his child, even had the desolateness and dulness of the home she had deserted, not begun to press daily more heavily on his spirits.

Yes, he would have forgiven her-in time; but mark the retributive justice of the All Merciful. As time As time progressed-as the wound on Mr. Dalton's pride cicatrized, as the edge of his anger became blunted, as his wrathful feelings subsided-as all these things must, and do become, calmed and tranquillized by time, then his natu

ral affections would have resumed their sway, and he would have recalled his daughter to his heart and his home. But this would have been in the natural course of things without effort on his part. No moral conflict-no exercise of principle over passion-no mercy to the fallen-no forgiveness to the penitent-no sacrifice of selfish pride at the shrine of fatherly pity -no benign compassion for the frailty and weakness of an erring child tempering the severity of the justly indignant fatherno, Mr. Dalton gave himself up entirely, and without break or limit to the indulgence of his own inflamed passions, the contemplation of his own insulted dignity -nay, not the contemplation only-for he acted-acted strongly and irrevocably under the influence of untempered rage, and unrepressed and vindictive passion.

As time ameliorated these influences, and his natural affection for his daughter resumed its sway in his breast, he felt disposed to forgive and recall her, and merely

waited for an opening to fulfil his purpose. Then his late will, after being duly expounded to her shocked ears and repentant heart, should be magnanimously torn in her presence.

And while this pompous scene of mock mercy was being planned, his child, his erring, but his only child, was bowed to the earth in a mean lodging, uncertain of obtaining a daily meal, and but for the charity of a stranger, had been houseless and homeless also.

Not one secret fatherly enquiry had he made after her condition-not one thought had he given to her possible destitution-not one natural, reasonable excuse had he made for the frailty and impetuosity of youth, and the violence of temptation-not one angry feeling, how justifiably soever excited, had he attempted to subdue by reason, or soften down by charity and mercy as a Christian duty; his forgiveness was, in fact, merely another offering to the shrine of his own selfishness.