declining health and intellect of her father, a paralytic stroke having for some time previously to his death greatly affected both. Alone with him, Miss Trevelyan had continued during the last fifteen years to inhabit the home of her more cheerful days, having ever before her eyes the deserted apartments and vacant places of those whose presence had once seemed a part of the home itself.

In such a dismal, monotonous life, there was certainly nothing calculated to dissipate the gloom which the frequent scenes of sickness and death in her family had thrown over her spirits, undermining the spring of youth. But there was another circumstance, which, perhaps, more than all these losses and deprivations, helped to colour her mind and disenchant her existence. She had in childhood met with an accident, to prevent the evil consequences of which every care had been taken, bu. in; and as she grew up, these consequences were but too parent, not only in her figure, but in a delicacy of he, he inevitable result of a deformed person. And her char had possibly been even more affected by this accident than her appearance, for, losing her mother just at that age when the mind most needs direction and assistance, and having no one to support hers under the severe trial which such a misfortune imposes, it had preyed even on her good sense (albeit naturally of a superior order), until, magnifying to herself its importance, and encouraged in this gloomy error by the many depressing circumstances of her youth, she had grown to consider herself as one, not only cut out from all general society, but even from the charities of life, one likely to inspire contempt and ridicule, rather than commiseration and interest. Hence, therefore, an abstracted melancholy of disposition, which reconciled her without murmuring to the dismal seclusion of her life so long as her father lived, but which, on his death, made her look with dismay on a world to which she was as yet a total stranger, and from which she felt herself to be an outcast. Youth had by this time slipped by her, she hardly knew how, but certainly unembellished even by any of those passing pleasures which usually dress up that period of existence; all expectation, all elasticity of mind

had fled with it, and she would gladly have remained concealed and unknown in her former home (although now to her become a mausoleum), rather than make the exertion of seeking another, and facing that world from which she expected nothing but contempt.

This, however, was impossible, for with General Trevelyan's life had ended all his appointments, and, according to his will, every thing of personal property was to be disposed of in order to make up a small heritage for his surviving children. Miss Trevelyan felt that "the world was all before her where to choose," -a melancholy liberty, more painful, perhaps, than the most arbitrary compulsion, as it seems to cast upon ourselves all responsibility for the comfort or discomfort of our future lives. Various plans and homes were suggested to her by the confidential lawyer, who had had the charge of her father's affairs: but, shrinking from every change either in her residence or way of life, she rejected them all in turn, until actually forced to come to a decision by being driven from her former home to make way for its new possessor, when chance rather than choice fixed her finally at Richmond.

No one certainly could be less fitted to prove an acquisition to the gossiping, card-playing sisterhood of the place; and, had its members been aware of all that the reader is now in possession of, many a surmise with regard to the social qualities of the new inhabitant, and many a plan for cultivating her acquaintance, might have been spared.

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"I have

It so happened that there was an evening-party next door that very day on which Miss Trevelyan's carriage had been seen unlading at her new residence, and all the "And company came in open-mouthed on the subject. so No. 1. is at last taken," said one. "Dear me, were you not aware of that?" exclaimed another. known it for above a month." "Oh, then, perhaps you can tell us who our new neighbour is?" all eagerly cried out. "To be sure, said the well-informed lady; "it is a Miss Trevelyan; but whether she is likely to settle here, or has only taken the house for the season, I do not yet know."-"Miss Trevelyan!" repeated the first, "I once had some acquaintances of that name; they were

Cornish people -a very good family," added she, looking vastly important. "Good family!" rejoined Mrs. Hopkins (the lady of the house). Why, bless you, Trevelyan is Lord Launceston's family name." "I should not wonder if she were a near relation of his ; perhaps even a sister or daughter." At this suggestion the Pecrage was instantly seized, and all who could see without spectacles eagerly looked over the lucky individual who had first got possession of the interesting volume. It was there found that the Honourable Edward Trevelyan, second brother to the Earl of Launceston, born in 1730, had married Miss Stanley, and had had several children, most of whom however died young.

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I Why the whole family appear to be defunct," exclaimed Miss Brown, "" so we need not look for our new neighbour among them.

"I beg your pardon," rejoined Mrs. Hopkins with much importance of manner. "You will observe that the eldest daughter, Louisa, is still alive, and as I happened to step into Piggot's to-day, I chanced to glance my eye on a letter which was lying on the counter with regard to this very house, and it was signed Louisa Trevelyan." This piece of intelligence gave rise to a general feeling of security, and when upon inquiry of Mrs. Hopkins it was ascertained that Miss Trevelyan came in a very good carriage, attended by a very respectable-looking servant in the Launceston livery, the satisfaction expressed was unbounded, and it was unanimously agreed that, at all events, she might safely be called upon. These advances of civility were accordingly made; and during the first week after her arrival at Richmond, her fat footman had each day to travel at least ten times to the door, to receive proffers of friendship from all her neighbours through the medium of their cards. But there the matter ended, No visits were personally returned; no cards even were sent in acknowledgment of them; and in proportion to the flattering expectations which the arrival of the new inhabitant of No. 1. had awakened was the disappointment arising from this, their death-blow, and the consequent indignation excited by such repulsive conduct.

Finery, as has been already said, was, of course, the first motive assigned—that charge which (without any a tempt to ascertain either its justice, or upon what pretensions the individual accused can even affect to deserve it,) is indiscriminately brought forward against every one who objects to general society. Miss Trevelyan, was, accordingly, right or wrong, voted fine, and severe were the sarcasms levelled against this her supposed impertinence. "Really, for Miss Trevelyan to give herself such airs as to turn up her nose at the society of Richmond, because, forsooth, she happens to be the daughter of Lord Launceston's younger brother, is too ridiculous; for, after all, what is that?" Many of us would, notwithstanding, have gone out of the room before her," said the Honourable Mrs. Hopkins, with emphasis; and, perhaps, indeed, that is the very reason why she does not choose to visit in the neighbourhood."

Before long, however, her eccentricity was otherwise accounted for: she was observed to go twice to church on every Sunday, consequently she was pronounced to be serious and methodistical; every body blessed their sta s they had nothing to do with her, and confessed they really could not see what business she had to come and set herself up as better than her neighbours, and to dictate as to right and wrong among them.

This last charge of seriousness was nearer the truth than that of finery, if by seriousness was meant religion, for religious Miss Trevelyan certainly was—a most humbleminded, conscientious Christian; but her religion, tinged by her peculiar misfortune, had taught her the emptiness and vanity of all earthly enjoyments, rather than to bear the unavoidable ills of life with cheerfulness, and to enjoy with gratitude those passing gleams of sunshine sent in merciful compensation.

So many years of her life had been passed in solitary abstraction, and she had so long dwelt on the disadvantages of her lot, that she had taught herself to consider the distaste she felt for the intercourse of society as not only unavoidable, but in a great degree meritorious; and although, in moments of peculiarly melancholy irritation,

she had been tempted to think it hard that an existence apparently so full of interest to others should be to her thus blighted, yet, the habitual conviction of her mind was, that the gay and happy must be frivolous, heartless, and irreligious. But these opinions, arising chiefly from the now almost constitutional depression of her spirits, did not render her either morose or censorious; charity was enthroned in her heart, and there was not a being in any station of life for whose advantage she would have hesitated to sacrifice her own. To visit in her solitary walks the habitations of poverty, and by her bounty to cause the widow's heart to sing for joy, were the only interests of which she was now susceptible; and at such times a momentary ray of cheerfulness would reflect itself back, from the hearts she had gladdened, upon her own depressed mind: but it always vanished in the silence and gloom which awaited her return to her own solitary fireside; and, instead of tracing this evil to its true source — instead of considering how greatly the seclusion in which she lived circumscribed her power of being useful to others, and thereby lessened her only enjoyment she encouraged herself to believe that this tedium of life, of which she was so painfully sensible, was but the natural consequence of that misfortune with which it had pleased Heaven to afflict her, and that her feelings must be shared by all who, from having none of those endearing ties which prolong the vista of existence into that of others, see a dead-wall gradually rise at the end of their own.

And to such childless, insulated beings, at the period when recollections rather than anticipations form the character of life, this world must naturally wear a totally different aspect from that which it presents to their more busily-connected neighbours; for there is an awkward corner in human existence at which, bidding of necessity a final adieu to youth, we naturally lose with it all lively interest in our own prospects, and are therefore desolate indeed if we cannot identify ourselves with the fate of others. Such feelings may not, perhaps, be inaptly compared to those of a traveller who, after having revelled in the bright skies, the glowing landscapes, and intoxicating