SIR ARTHUR WOODGATE.

A Story of the Reign of Henry the Eighth.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MAY YOU LIKE IT," &c.

"THANK God! I have rested well," was the answer of the old man as he gently laid his hands upon the head of his fair and youthful grand-daughter. Frances was kneeling at his feet, and meekly receiving the blessing, which, according to the good, grave fashion of the time, was his morning salutation to her. "And thank you also, my kind and anxious nurse! How could I do otherwise than recover, with this sweet face always smiling tenderly upon me, and served ever by these delicate and careful hands!" And speaking thus, he looked fondly in her face, and kissed her, and raised both her small fair hands to his lips. "And now tell me on what day your brother Hubert returned home. I cannot see why the doctors should have kept such pleasant news from me, with the fear that it would be at first too much for my slowly reurning strength. I feel that such welcome news would have restored me even sooner to health. Go, my child, seek your brother, and bring him back with you. We will all breakfast together this morning. I would fain know more of this dear truant boy; for at present, nearly related

as he is, you and

have seen but little of him. Poor

fellow! He hath come back to troublous times!"

Frances Woodgate and her brother Hubert were orphans; their home was then with their grandfather, Sir Arthur Woodgate.

Hubert had returned to England about a week before that morning, at a time when but faint hopes were entertained of the recovery of the aged knight. Little was indeed known of his character or disposition; for he had been absent from home since the death of his father, a period of five years.

He was an uncertain sort of person, and he returned to England almost as suddenly as he had left it. Frances knew nothing of his intentions, till a tall, handsome man appeared before her, in whom she soon recognized her beloved and long-absent brother.

Pleasant and entertaining as Hubert's society was, Sir Arthur and Frances soon found that his religious opi nions were never betrayed by him. He spoke of poetry and painting-the poetry and painting of Italy-with enthusiasm. He seemed, indeed, well acquainted with the politics, the literature, and the fine arts of the day; but when religion was the subject of discourse, although he politely acquiesced in the opinions of those he loved, his manner became cold and abstracted in no common degree.

The old man's health amended visibly, so that he determined to attend his parish church, to return thanks to his heavenly Father for his recovery. Frances Woodgate

and her brother were desired to accompany their grandfather. Frances was delighted to attend on him; and Hubert went, but half unwillingly. A sermon was preached by a distinguished divine, of the new learning, one well suited to the uncertain and troubled aspect of the times. Frances and most of the congregation were affected even to tears, as the preacher spoke, with an eloquence that went to the heart, of the peculiar and tender care of their heavenly Father towards his children, and how he would never leave them nor forsake them. Once she turned her tearful eyes upon her grandfather, and upon her brother, for whose safety she felt so deep and trembling an anxiety. A smile, it might be a sneer, was on her brother's lip; and her tears flowed faster than before, but the spring from whence they flowed was become bitter.

It was in the spring of the year of our Lord 1539, that Master Hubert Woodgate returned from his five years of foreign travel. The climate of England was not more yariable than were the religious opinions which the crafty Herod of those times sent forth from his adulterous and unsanctified heart, calling upon his hapless people to believe them, or to die. That year was distinguished by the passing of the Bill of Six Articles, well named, the Bloody Bill, in Parliament.

Frances had been long accustomed to read the Bible daily to her grandfather. Some days had elapsed since the passing of the Bloody Bill. They heard daily, nay hourly, of the arrest of some of those with whom they

were acquainted; but she still read the Bible at the usual hour to the old man. Hubert began to betray at times an impatience of temper which surprised his sister. Frances became unusually calm; but her cheek grew pale, and a sadness stole over her whole manner. Sir Arthur seemed daily to acquire a more vigorous spirit; and his discourse turned less upon worldly affairs, and more frequently to the promises and encouragements of the holy Scriptures-to the joys and glories of that state, where the "servants of the Lord shall serve him, and see his face," in glory and eternal joy.-It happened, one morning, that the weather being very rainy, Hubert, who usually spent his mornings with some of his noble friends about court, turned his steps to the apartment which his grandfather constantly occupied. It was a pleasant parlour on the ground-floor, furnished, as favourite and private apartments often are, with more attention to comfort than to show. Sir Arthur was always pleased to look round upon the books and manuscripts which had lain undisturbed for years about the room-1 -the casque, and short-sword, and a few pieces of dinted armour, which he had worn in the days of his youth and manhood. 66 'My child,” said Sir Arthur to Frances, "I am ready to hear you read to me: you may open the Bible." "Had you not better defer your reading a little while?" cried Hubert, who was leaning on the windowframe, and who turned his head towards them as he spoke, from intently gazing on something that was passing in the street.