riage-pockets full of all sorter nice goodies, to say nothing about the wine and cordials, and them kinder fixings. A bit of cold turkey and a slice of neat's tongue tastes mighty good when one's travelling; I knows all about it. Well, I'll go and draw a cup of gunpowder tea, and serve it up for you, mistress, with loaf sugar and cream." It was not long before Aunt Milly reappeared with a waiter, from which the japan had partially disappeared, a cup of common white crockery, and a little blue bowl with brown sugar, instead of the white crystal she had promised to serve. Going up to Mrs. Bellamy with as much ceremony as if she were in a fashionable drawing-room, she apologized for every deficiency with a grace and readiness that left no room for doubt.

"I'm mighty sorry, mistress, and ashamed, too, to offer you this sort of sugar; but we've just this minute got out of the white. If you'd come any other day but this-it's really mortifying-and this common crockery aint fit for quality folks to use. But you know, mistress, when folks move, chiny and porceling breaks up so, it all turns to rack and ruin. We sold it all out, and the glass and silver too; and this is such a sorter out-of-the-way place, and one see so little fine company, we don't mind about the 'ficiencies."

"Milly has mounted her hobby-horse, I see," said Mr. Warland, observing Mr. Bellamy and his wife exchange a benevolent smile while his head-cook was expatiating over her cup of black tea and brown sugar; "I must, however, do her the justice to say, that whatever may be her present position, she once was familiar with the luxuries of which she boasts."

"La! please, master," said Milly, casting a cunning look out of the corner of her eye, "I never boasts of myself, but I allos was proud of belonging to quality folks, and not to the no-account sort of people."

Well, take away the waiter; don't you see the lady has put her cup' back?"

Mrs. Bellamy tried to sip the beverage, so kindly prepared; but her utmost efforts only enabled her to get down a little. Aunt Milly was distressed because "the cat had stolen the nice cream, that would have made it so good," and she was equally distressed "that the beautiful Meosselles

counterpane was in the wash, and that the lady would have to sleep under that rough kivering.'

Mrs. Bellamy assured her on that point, that it was of no consequence, as she only wished to recline on the outside of the bed, wrapped in her shawls, and be ready for a very early ride in the morning.

"But who is that little creature in the other bed?" said she, starting; for she had not observed before that it had an occupant. Now the firelight played lambently on little Katy's round, but colourless cheeks and dark hair, which lay loose upon the pillow.

"La! bless your heart, mistress, that's little Katy; it's my own blessed child, that I weaned and took right out of its mother's arms. And so I did young master, there; and since their own mother died, my poor, dear mistress, I haint lived for anything else in the world but them children, and I shall live for them, till the Lord pleases to take me home to my blessed husband that's now in glory."

Mrs. Bellamy was so much interested in the sleeping child that she walked across the room, and gazed on its infantine features, to the delight of the affectionate Milly.

"Oh! mistress," continued she, in the abundance of her affection, "them children's mighty near to me; if they were my own born and raised, I couldn't think more of 'em. When my Heavenly Master saw fit to take away my poor mistress from evil to come, she make me promise 'fore she die, never to leave or 'sake her little ones; and I never will, as long as one foot can trot after the other. No; as long as poor Milly has a mouthful of hoe-cake as big as a barley-corn," added she, forgetting her vain boasting in the pure reality of her affection, "she'll break it with them two blessed children."

Wiping a tear from her eye with the corner of her white starched apron, she stroked back the child's dishevelled hair, and smoothed the sheet carefully over the counterpane.

"They are both beautiful children," replied Mrs. Bellamy, looking from the placid face of the sleeper to the little ferryman near the fire. "How long is it since their mother died?"

"Just two years and six months next Sabbath evening, at half past eleven

o'clock;" then lowering her voice so that her master and Mr. Bellamy, who were engaged in earnest conversation, could not hear her, "that was an awful night, it was; I never shall forget it in all my born days. I thought master would have gone 'stracted sure enough; he went raving about the room, and bunting his head 'gin every thing that come in his way, as if he wanted to split it right open; if it hadn't been for that trouble, he never 'd seen this sorter place. We couldn't stay there no more, so he sold every negro he had but me, and come off like St. Bartholomew in the wilderness, to live, as it were, on the locusses and wild honey."

The lady, though she was much interested in the history of the orphan children, and touched by the devotion of the faithful slave, felt very weary and anxious to resume her reclining position. The coloured girl was already fast asleep; and Marcus, wrapping himself in a blanket that Aunt Milly brought from the kitchen, soon slept as soundly as if lying on a bed of down. Mrs. Bellamy, overcome by fatigue, suffered her head to fall entirely back on the pillow, whose clean surface she did not shrink from pressing; and she also soon lost all consciousness of surrounding objects. Aunt Milly retired to the kitchen, rejoicing that she had not been obliged to commit the honour of the family, by get ting a supper, which would have shamed her cookery and the former grandeur of their house. All slept but Mr. Bellamy and his host, who sat smoking their pipes and conversing with earnest interest by the light-wood blaze.

"I am astonished," said Mr. Bellamy, continuing the conversation, now audible in the stillness of the apartment, "I am astonished that a man of your natural and cultivated powers of mind can settle down in this obscure spot, lost to mankind and lost to himself. Pardon me if I speak too plainly, but I cannot help it. A man is never lost while conscious of his degenerate condition. If not for your own sake, for the sake of your children, rouse yourself and be a man again. Why, this boy of yours is the finest child I ever saw in my life. To put him in a ferry-boat, and throw all his energies into that long pole he grasps with such a princely air, when by education he might be made such an orna

ment to the world, is a crime in the sight of God and man."

"Alas! what else can I do with him now? I have wasted the property that might have been his. I have forfeited the confidence and respect of society. I have made myself a by-word and a reproach among men. I came here that I might hide myself from every eye that knew me in the days that were mine, before the tempter found this burning plague-spot in my heart, and blew upon it with his breath of flame."

"You have but to make a solemn resolution never to taste another drop of the poison; to do as thousands have done before you, and been saved," cried Mr. Bellamy, rapping the ashes from his pipe in an energetic manner. "You are still in the prime and vigour of your days. You can resume your station in society. You can give your children the blessings of civilized and social life."

"Look at this tremulous hand,” said Mr. Warland, holding up the half-palsied member, "and see what a wreck my nerv ous system now is. I might have reformed years ago, but now it is too late. Every energy of body and mind is fast wasting away. I cannot live without the excitement of drink. I must drink to appease the gnawing of remorse - to drown the scorpions of avenging conscience:-drink to forget that I broke the heart of my wife, beggared my children, sold and scattered my poor slaves:-drink to forget that I have sold myself to the arch-tempter of mankind.”

"Well, drink as much as you please, but let it be cold water-pure, crystal water from the spring. Promise me, if you have one remnant of manhood left, that you will not taste another drop of alcohol. If you will, I will do something for that boy of yours. If I had such a son, I would not take a million ingots of gold for him. He must be educated. How you can sit down and give yourself up to perdition, without one spark of pride for your children, or one feeling of respect for yourself, is astonishing - astounding-incomprehensible. The maniac, chained to his dungeon walls, is a sane man to you!"

"I know it-I feel it," cried the wretched man, "but I've made so many resolutions and broken them all, I'm afraid to pro

mise. I have tried-God knows I have but it is all in vain. You think I don't love my children. I would sacrifice myself if it would do them any good. I would endure anything to save them one pang. And yet".

"You cannot give up the suicidal habit of drinking," interrupted Mr. Bellamy.

"Alas! no-some demon stands at my elbow and urges me on, though I know that every step brings me nearer to destruction."

Here he leaned his head on his hand, and wept and sobbed in the impotence of unavailing remorse.

"God help you! poor man, and God help your poor children," exclaimed Mr. Bellamy, too much moved to remain still in his chair, and rising, he walked the room with troubled steps.

His heart yearned over the sleeping children, doomed to an orphanage more sad than that created by death itself. It yearned, too, over the helpless man, who seemed wrapped in the tightening coils of a hydra, whose blood is gall, and whose breath is fire. He stopped at the side of the slumbering boy, on whose placid brow a heaven-born smile was lingering, as if it had been fanned by an angel's wing. "And this boy must live under this doom," cried he, bitterly. "Oh! miserable infatuation-unparalleled madness!"

"I will try once more," cried the weeping inebriate. "I will try for the sake of that boy and my poor, little, motherless Katy. I thank you for the interest you have taken in a doomed wretch. If I had known you a little sooner, I might perhaps have been saved. But friends looked coldly on me, neighbours passed by me on the other side-even my wife turned from me in loathing. Poor soul, she could not help it-no, she could not. I thought lost, and plunged deeper and deeper, trying to annihilate myself. But there is something here that is undying," cried he, smiting his breast with his hand. "There is a fire that is unquenchable. The word of God is true."

was

"I shall be travelling this way again in about six months," said Mr. Bellamy, trying to speak calmly. "In the mean time, abstain from the poison that is consuming you, and if I then find you are trying

see

to help yourself and family, I will what I can do for you. I will get a respectable situation for yourself, and assist in the education of your children. But remember, it must be a sober man that I place in a responsible office. I cannot compromise my own reputation."

Mr. Warland renewed the oft-repeated and oft-broken promise of abstinence, with an earnest resolution of amendment; and Mr. Bellamy, gratified at obtaining this victory, and hoping he would have strength to keep his word inviolate, lay down on the couch, and fell into the calm slumbers of an untroubled bosom. Mr. Warland could not sleep. The stings of an awakened conscience, and the terrible gnawings of unsatisfied appetite would not let him rest. Crouching by the hearth, he gazed on the little cupboard which contained the fluid that had turned his blood to fire, and for which he was craving with insane, irresistible desire; then looking on the calm sleepers, he said to himself, he might taste, and they would never know. His bold boy would not dash the glass again from his grasping hand; his new friend's admonishing voice was silent now. Stealing darkly towards the corner, he opened the door, and laid his hand upon the bottle.

"I have promised," he said, pausing and trembling, "the breath is not yet dry upon my lips-I have promised once again, and shall I break my word this very night

this hour-this moment? Oh! merciful Father!" he exclaimed, sinking on his knees, and holding up his trembling arms towards heaven, "Holy Spirit, whom I have insulted and abjured, forsake me not in this my extremity. Give me strength to wrestle with my indwelling sin. Take away the curse from me and my children."

Jacob wrestled with the angel of his dream till the breaking day, and won the blessing for which he fought. Warland struggled with the demon of temptation till morning light, and at last prevailed. How many more conflicts could he endure, and live?

Before the rising of the sun, all was life and bustle in the cabin. The travellers were anxious to commence their journey at the earliest possible hour, and Aunt Milly, finding that they were resolved

to start before breakfast, and thus knowing that the credit of the family was safe, gave a glowing description of the luxuries that she had intended to place before them.

Little Katy gazed with surprise and alarm on the strange faces that met her waking eyes; but there was something so kind and reassuring in their countenances, that she soon glided to the side of the lady, and even played with the rings that glittered on her snowy fingers. Mrs. Bellamy, who had no children of her own, felt inexpressible tenderness for this motherless child, confided to the care of an evidently inebriate father, and a slave who, however faithful and affectionate, was incapacitated, by her darkened intellect, from bestowing that moral and mental culture her dawning years demanded. There was something peculiar in the face of Katy-peculiar for a child in any situation, but especially in hers. A pensive, even melancholy, expression, and a total absence of colour gave her a look of refinement, more interesting than mere rosy, joyous beauty. Her eyes were blue, of a darker hue than her brother's, but their lashes were of raven blackness, and her eyebrows and hair were exceedingly dark. Aunt Milly had arrayed her in her best frock and apron, and brushed her hair till it looked glossy as the wing of a bird: and when a child feels that she has her best dress on, no matter what that dress may be, whether the costliest silk or the cheapest calico, the association is the same, and all the self-respect which external circumstances can give her, elevates her spirits. It was this consciousness of looking her best, that gave her confidence to caress Mrs. Bellamy's gem-decorated hand, and peep into her pale face with those eyes, that resembled the violet in colour and their natural bending towards the earth.

"You are a very sweet little girl," said the kind-hearted lady, putting her arm caressingly round her. "Whom do you love best?"

"Marcus and Aunt Milly, and father, too," answered the child.

"Marcus is very kind to you, is he not? He is a good brother, I know."

Oh, yes, ma'am," replied Katy, with a fervour that changed the whole expression of her features; "he is so good!-you don't

know how good he is. He saves all the money he gets, and puts it in a little box with a hole in the top, where it can't come out again, for me, when I get big enough to go to school. I can read now; he taught me how himself, and reads books to me every night."

"Does he go to school, my child?"

"No ma'am; but father teaches him. Father is a great scholar, and knows everything. Brother Marcus can read Latin and Greek, too, and father says he will be a great man some time."

But how does your brother carn money? asked the lady, urged by a better motive than idle curiosity. They happened to be alone in the room at this moment, as all were busy in preparation for their departure.

"He catches fish, and sells them; and sometimes the gentlemen that cross in the boat give him money; and he makes little willow baskets at night, and Aunt Milly carries them away off and sells them for him. But you mustn't tell of that, please don't," added the child, lowering her voice. He don't want it known, 'cause he says it's girl-work. I help him make them, too. Aunt Milly keeps the box for us, and puts money in it herself."

"And how does she earn money in a place like this; and what is she going to do with it? Help send you to school?"

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Yes, ma'am, that's what she does it for. She takes in washing and sewing; all she can get, though that aint much; we live so far off. Uncle Simon brings work to her."

"And who is Uncle Simon?"

"Don't you know Uncle Simon?" asked the child in an accent of astonishment. "He comes to see Aunt Milly, and he's so good. He's lame, and goes with a crutch; and he's old, too; and his master don't make him do much, but he does a heap for us, for all that."

But your father, my dear child, your father puts money in your little box, too, does he not? '

"Father never has any money to put anywhere," replied little Katy, a shade of inexpressible melancholy stealing over her sweet countenance. "He spends it"

Mrs. Bellamy felt that she had arrived at a point where it would be sacrilege to go farther. The vices of a parent must be sacred ground to an innocent child, and

never invaded by others, in their presence; but she knew little Katy must be aware of the appropriation of her father's money, and that, young as she was, she mourned over his degradation, and its awful con

sequences.

"I love father, because he loves me," said the child, fearful Mrs. Bellamy would think ill of him, because she had said he put no money in her little hoard.

"Will you tell your brother to come and see me a few moments before I go? I want to speak with him."

Away Katy flew, and soon returned, holding Marcus by the hand, whose face reflected the radiance of the rising day. He stood before her, his cap in his hand, and a modest blush glowing on his cheek. "You were so very kind and considerate as to give up your bed and sleep on the hard floor," said Mrs. Bellamy; I owe you some return; what can I do for you?" "Nothing, ma'am. I am sure, I hope you don't thing I did it in the thought of being paid. Besides, it's father's bed, not mine. If anybody is to be thanked, it's he, not I, ma'am."

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It was very strange, but this rich and high-bred lady felt embarrassed at the thought of offering money to the son of the poor ferryman. She felt afraid of offending that innate nobility of soul, which gave such intelligence and spirit to his whole countenance. She had drawn an eagle from her purse, but hesitated in what manner to present it. At length she said, while a slight colour mantled her delicate cheek,

"Your little sister tells me that you are very good to her, and are saving all your money for her use. Will you add this to her little store, and remember too that you have friends now who will always feel interested in your welfare?"

"Thank you, ma'am," said Marcus, receiving the golden coin with a bright blush, and bowing low as he took it from that beautiful jewelled hand. "You have given it to her, and I must not refuse it. But we have done nothing to deserve it. It is all your gift, and a generous one, I'm

sure."

"Don't you desire to go to school yourself?" asked Mrs. Bellamy. "You will not be contented to stay here and row a ferryboat much longer. You ought not to be.

You were made for something better. Have you no relations that can assist you?'' "Not that I know, ma'am. I do desire to go to school. I feel as if I should some day, but I could not leave my father now. He could not get along without me. He instructs me, too, when he is well enough." He paused with painful confusion, and then continued: "My father is an educated man, and takes great delight in giving me lessons when he has time. He has a good many books, which I love to read. See here, ma'am," said he, drawing aside a little calico curtain over the fireplace, and exhibiting several rows of classic volumes, "these are my treasures. We had a large library once, but these are all that are left. Contented!" repeated he, his lips curling with that peculiar curve she had admired so much the night before, "Oh! no, ma'am-don't think I am contented here."

"You ought not to be," said the lady, rising and folding her shawl more closely round her, for she heard the rumbling of the carriage wheels approaching the door. "You must think of me sometimes, and remember what I have said to you.”

"Think of you! exclaimed the boy, with fervid, enthusiastic gratitude. "Oh! madam, how could I ever forget you?"

The gentleness, kindness, and descension of this beautiful lady opened a fount of sensibility in the young heart of Marcus that was never again sealed. She appeared in that rude cabin like an angel visitant, a messenger of mercy, bearing tidings from a fairer, purer world. He felt that he was of a kindred nature, that it was for such fellowship he was created, and he made a vow to himself that he would prove worthy of the interest he had excited in her. He would strive, and toil, and struggle as never boy yet toiled and struggled, with an opposing destiny, till he had won back that position in society his father had forfeited; and perhaps, when his arm had the strength and his spirit the power of manhood, this fair, rich, and beautiful woman might possibly need his protection and aid. She might be riding in the darkness of night, and her carriage hurried to the brink of a precipice, and he rush forward and arrest the plunging horses; or she might be attacked by robbers, and his