"Tell the young ladies. Let me see them.”

"Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you wouldn't make such a noise. Move off."

"But I must die if I am turned away."

"Not you. I'm fear'd you have some ill plans agate, that bring you about folk's houses at this time o' night. If you've any followers-housebreakers or such like-anywhere near, you may tell them we are not by ourselves in the house; we have a gentleman, and dogs, and guns." Here the honest but inflexible servant clapped the door to and bolted it within.

This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering—a throe of true despair-rent and heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not another step could I stir. I sank on the wet door-step : I groaned, I wrung my hands, I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror! Alas, this isolation, this banishment from my kind! Not only the anchor of home, but the footing of fortitude was gone-at least for a moment: but the last I soon endeavoured to regain.

"I can but die,” I said; "and I believe in God. Let me try to wait His will in silence."

These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all my misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain there, dumb and still.

"All men must die," said a voice quite close at hand; "but all are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yours would be if you perished here of want."

"Who or what speaks?" I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and incapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope

A form was near-what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguishing. With a loud, long knock,' the new comer appealed to the door.

"Is it you, Mr St John?" cried Hannah.

"Yes, yes; open quickly."

"Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is! Come in; your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe there are bad folks about. There has been a beggar

***

woman-I declare she is not gone yet!-laid down there. Get up! for shame! Move off, I say!"

You

"Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. have done your duty in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I was near, and listened to both you and her. I think this is a peculiar case,-I must at least examine into it. Young woman, rise, and pass before me into the house."

With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that clean, bright kitchen-on the very hearth, trembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother Mr St John, the old servant, were all gazing at me.

"St John, who is it?" I heard one ask.

"I cannot tell: I found her at the door," was the reply.

"She does look white," said Hannah.

"As white as clay or death," was responded. "She will fall: let her sit."

And indeed my head swam: I dropped; but a chair received me. I still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.

"Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some. But she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!"

"A mere spectre ! "

"Is she ill, or only famished?"

"Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece of bread."

Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: "Try to eat."

"Yes-try," repeated Mary, gently; and Mary's hand removed my sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me feebly at first, eagerly soon.

"Not too much at first-restrain her," said the brother; "she has had enough." And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread.

-ask

"A little more, St John-look at the avidity in her eyes." "No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak nowher her name.

I felt I could speak, and I answered-" My name is Jane Elliot." Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before re

solved to assume an alias.

"And where do you live? Where are your friends?"

I was silent.

"Can we send for any one you know?"

I shook my head.

"What account can you give of yourself?"

Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house, and once was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put off the mendicant, to resume my natural manner and character. I began once more to know myself; and when Mr St John demanded an account-which at present I was far too weak to render-I said, after a brief pause

"Sir, I can give you no details to-night."

"But what, then," said he, "do you expect me to do for you?"

"Nothing," I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers. Diana took the word :

"Do you mean," she asked, "that we have now given you what aid you require, and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy night?"

I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable counte nance; instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden courage. Answering her compassionate gaze with a smile, I said: "I will trust you. If I were a masterless and stray dog, I know that you would not turn me from your hearth to-night: as it is, I really have no fear. Do with me and for me as you like; but excuse me from much discourse-my breath is short-I feel a

spasm when I speak." All three surveyed me, and all three were silent.

'Hannah," said Mr St John, at last, "let her sit there at present, and ask her no questions; in ten minutes more give her the remainder of that milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into the parlour and talk the matter over."

They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned-I could not tell which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing over me as I sat by the genial fire. In an undertone she gave some directions to Hannah. Erelong, with the servant's aid, I contrived to mount a staircase; my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed received me. I thanked God-experienced amidst unutterable exhaustion a glow of grateful joy-and slept.

Sermon upon the Love of our Neighbour.

BISHOP BUTler. ["AND if there be any other commandment, it is briefly comprehended in this saying, namely, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself."-Rom. xiii. 9.]

It is commonly observed, that there is a disposition in men to complain of the viciousness and corruption of the age in which they live, as greater than that of former ones; which observation is usually followed with this further one, that mankind has been in that respect much the same in all times. Now, not to determine whether this last be not contradicted by the accounts of history, thus much can scarce be doubted, that vice and folly take different turns, and some particular kinds of it are more open and avowed in some ages than others: and, I suppose, it may be spoken of as very much the distinction of the present, to profess a contracted spirit, and greater regards to self-interest than appears to have been done formerly. Upon this account it seems worth while to inquire whether private interest is likely to be promoted in proportion to the degree in which self-love engrosses us, and prevails over all other principles; or whether the con

tracted affection may not possibly be so prevalent as to disappoint itself, and even contradict its own end-private good.

And since, further, there is generally thought to be some peculiar kind of contrariety between self-love and the love of our neighbour; between the pursuit of public and of private good; insomuch that, when you are recommending one of these, you are supposed to be speaking against the other; and from hence. ariseth a secret prejudice against, and frequently open scorn of, all talk of public spirit, and real good-will to our fellow-creatures; it will be necessary to inquire what respect benevolence hath to self-love, and the pursuit of private interest to the pursuit of public; or whether there be anything of that peculiar inconsistence and contrariety between them over and above what there is be tween self-love and other passions and particular affections, and their respective pursuits.

These inquiries, it is hoped, may be favourably attended to; for there shall be all possible concessions made to the favourite passion, which hath so much allowed to it, and whose cause is so universally pleaded; it shall be treated with the utmost tenderness and concern for its interests.

In order to this, as well as to determine the forementioned questions, it will be necessary to consider the nature, the object, and end of that self-love, as distinguished from other principles or affections in the mind, and their respective objects. Every man hath a general desire of his own happiness; and likewise a variety of particular affections, passions, and appetites to particular external objects. The former proceeds from, or is, self-love; and seems inseparable from all sensible creatures who can reflect upon themselves. What is to be said of the latter is, that they proceed from, or together make up, that particular nature according to which man is made. The object the former pursues is somewhat external, our own happiness, enjoyment, satisfaction: whether we have or have not a distinct particular perception what it is, or wherein it consists. The objects of the latter are this or that particular external thing, which the affections tend towards, and of which it hath always a par