as yet neither damped by care nor dulled by sorrow. At such an early age, it was almost impossible to discover those traits which might decide his tastes for any future course of life; but, in his own mind, his father had already destined him for the bar, a selection in which he had been influenced as much by an idea of his fitness for an active profession, as by the circumstance of his having in London an old and attached friend, with whom his intimacy had commenced at college, and who was now in extensive practice as a barrister. Under his auspices, and relying on his professions of attachment and anxiety for the advancement of Frank, Mr. Hartwell hoped that he might one day rise to eminence. He resolved, in the meantime, to bestow on him all the preparatory education which his future destiny might require; and already in his quick apprehension, and decided predilection for study, he thought he could trace indications of the leading lawyer, and possibly, at some distant day, of the im

portant and venerable judge. But still these happy dreams were but too often interrupted by a sigh, when he recalled his mind from those fond forebodings to a more immediate period, and thought of the means by which his son was to be supported in the interim between his novitiate and the full accomplishment of his wishes; perhaps, too, his anxiety was increased by another reflection which sometimes forced itself upon his mind. If in Frank's character there was one trait which discovered itself less amiable than another, and sometimes called for an admonition from his father, it was a slight indication of a "firmness," to use a gentle word, which sometimes approached to obstinacy; and though a little persuasion was at first sufficient to remove it, its frequent occurrence began by degrees to give it more decision, and greater inveteracy, till in more than one instance, correction was obliged to follow disregarded remonstrances, and Mr. Hartwell became unwillingly convinced that there were

some points of his son's character not quite in unison with the general amiability of the whole. But, taken all in all, Frank was far from a disobedient or a self-willed boy, and his occasional stubbornness was rather a source of momentary annoyance than of permanent anxiety.

The second child of the Rector of Elm Grove was a daughter, nearly two years younger than Frank, but in disposition and manners totally different. From an infant she had always been extremely delicate, and even at this period her health was so precarious as to be a source of continual uneasiness to her parents; and, it was in fact, evident, that her little slender form, if it ever attained maturity, could never hope for freedom from weakness, or perhaps, disease. Under all her debility and suffering, however, she maintained the most unruffled sweetness of temper, and even when she felt the greatest annoyance from ill health, her pale face wore a smile of contentment, which charmed, whilst it agonized her sedulous and affectionate mother. Frank

was her only playmate, and in the sunny days of summer they used to stroll about the fields of the village, his arm around her neck, and hers encircling his waist, whilst Frank climbed the steepest banks to gather violets and strawberries for Emily; or she sat in her little chaise, whilst her brother drew her for hours around the walks of the shady garden. They were seldom separated, and it was at once the pride of their father, and the admiration of the village, to see the little drooping girl leaning upon or caressing her manly brother, and he in return lavishing all his boyish fondness on his dear little delicate sister.

On the sabbath, when they accompanied Mr. Hartwell to the village church, Emily always walked hand-in-hand with Frank, and during the service Frank held the little gilded prayerbook for Emily. Their gentle and serious deportment was the admiration of the whole congregation, and as they again walked home with their delighted parents, the villagers all

crowded to caress the two beautiful children, and congratulate their happy father on his lovely offspring.

But these were days too bright and too happy to be lasting. To Mr. Hartwell they were indeed the sunshine of the breast; and when the labours of the day were done, when he returned from a ride to visit some distant parishioner, or came home in the evening from an inspection of his farm, and seated himself with his wife and his children by their neat but humble fire-side, a burst of gratitude would suffuse his eyes with tears, and he would shake off the emotion of the moment with a smile, and lavish the fondest caresses on his adored children. Morning never broke upon his dwelling, that its light did not shine upon contentment; and at night, when the evening prayer was done, and its inmates retired to rest, sleep never lighted upon less envious eyes, or lulled the cares of more guileless and innocent bosoms.