descriptions of men with whose names they were already familiar,-how Shaftesbury had spoken, and Guthrie had preached; whilst not least interesting to the hearts of her rural subjects was a graphic account of our gracious Queen from the enthusiastic pen of Flora.

She

But never had the young correspondent expressed herself in such glowing terms of admiration and pleasure as in her description of Sir Amery Legrange, whom she spoke of as one of the leading writers of the day. had been actually introduced to "the lion," had listened to the wondrous flow of eloquence which made his conversation an intellectual treat beyond any which she had ever known before. With his expansive brow, eagle eye, most poetical cast of countenance, his were exactly the face and form which a painter would wish to immortalize on canvass, as representing the beau ideal of a genius; and Flora could not but imagine that Sir Amery must have drawn himself in the hero of his famous chef-d'œuvre, "The Master-Mind."

"The Master-Mind!" lisped Emma from the sofa ; "oh! I have read that, all the world has read it, it is a most charming

work! I have it somewhere in my boxes, I think."

Mrs. Vernon was content to be classed with those not of the world, for she had never read, nor even heard of the book. She was pleased, however, that her child should have met one of the literary celebrities of London, and had thus added another to the pleasant recollections which she would carry with her from the metropolis.

The next morning's post brought a description of a fête at the Botanical Gardens; and this sentence occurred in Flora's letter: "We met our brilliant author just as we were entering the gardens, and he remained the whole time with our party. He has certainly wonderful powers of conversation; just such as might be expected from a writer whose pen seems dipped in the colours of the rainbow, and brightens whatever it touches. When he

speaks, we can do nothing but listen."

"I think, Emma," said Mrs. Vernon, "that you mentioned that you had a copy of 'The Master-Mind' beside you. I should be obliged you would allow me to read it."

if

"Oh, certainly, when I can lay hands upon.

it; but all my luggage is still one mass of confusion, and whatever I want is certain to be at the very bottom of the very last box into which I should think of looking for it. But you really wish to see The Master-Mind?' Well," added the lady, with an affected laugh, "I should as soon have dreamed of Mr. Ward's dancing a polka, as of your sitting quietly down to a novel!"

Emma's promise to look for the work was speedily forgotten by herself, nor did more than one reminder induce her to take this slight trouble for one to whom she owed the comfort of a home.

Flora's subsequent letters contained scarcely any mention of Sir Amery. She occasionally quoted his opinion, or mentioned a brilliant remark made by him on some subject of general interest; but it was merely from such passing allusions that her mother gathered that Flora was not unfrequently in the society of the literary" lion."

Mrs. Vernon had much to occupy her thoughts -much to engage her anxious attention. She was now patiently listening to the frivolous complaints of the hypocondriac widow; then

quitting her to stand by the death-bed of a young school-girl-hear her last faint breathings of devotion-receive her last message of affection to Flora. The next hour would find

Mrs. Vernon seated amongst the children, enduring their rough play and noisy glee, and ministering to their amusement as patiently as she had done to the wants of the suffering and the dying. But the wear upon her spirits and the strain upon her energies were too much for the strength of Mrs. Vernon. There was no one to watch her faded cheek, her weary step, her languid eye; no one, at least in her own home, to think for her, care for her, -attend to the comforts of one who ever attended to the comforts of others. She might have been ill, she might have been dying, and Emma, absorbed in her own selfish cares, would never have observed that anything ailed her. Mrs. Vernon missed Flora each day more and more-longed more and more to hear her light step on the stair, her sweet song from the garden--to look again into those soft and loving eyes which were wont to rest on her so tenderly, so fondly. But Mrs. Vernon would not abridge a visit which afforded so much enjoy

ment to her daughter; she would not, even by the slightest allusion to her own failing health and spirits, throw a shadow over that enjoyment. She was content if Flora was happy; and if she herself needed comfort and strength, was not the source of all comfort and strength ever open to the Christian!

CHAPTER IX.

THE NOVEL.

ONE afternoon, Mrs. Vernon returned exceed

ingly wearied from a visit to who resided at some distance.

a sick woman

The walk was

too long for her, and had her daughter been at home, she would not have been suffered to take it; for Flora, in the vigour of her youthful strength, appropriated to herself all the more distant visits. Certainly a feeling of regret crossed the mind of Mrs. Vernon, as she wearily ascended her own stair, and heard loud, angry sounds from above, that peace and seclusion were now hers no longer-that she could not have rest when she was tired, nor