on her lap, and, as he found himself still unnoticed, at length he raised his tearful eyes, looked in her face, and asked her why she was so sad, when every body was so happy?

Put away your daisies, Jane," said he to his young sister, who was sitting by his mother's side, arranging a nosegay of wild-flowers-" Put away your daisies, and come and kiss mamma, for she is weeping."

At this moment, a stranger appeared standing within the cottage-gate; he wore a dark riding-cloak, the cape of which he held to his face, with the evident intention of concealing his features; and remained for awhile unnoticed by those he was so earnestly contemplating.

"Mamma, mamma, do not look so sad!" exclaimed both her children, and Mary Edmonds turned and smiled through her tears as she kissed them.

The stranger advanced a few steps nearer to the group, and withdrew the cloak that more than half hid his face. The expression of his countenance was melancholy also; but it was a melancholy mingled with remorse-very different from that of the woman on whom he was so intently gazing. The fall of his cloak appeared to be accidental; for in an instant he resumed the disguise, and continued to look upon the mother embracing and weeping over her children.

He had not continued in this posture many minutes, before he attracted the attention of the little boy, who pointed him out to his mother. She rose, and politely curtesied to the stranger.

"If you are going to join the crowd of merry villagers, sir,” said she, “you have but to pass this corner, and you will see the light-hearted and happy."

The stranger made no reply.

"Or, perhaps, sir," she continued, "you are on your way to the village inn; yonder road will lead you to it, but you will find it deserted now."

Still the stranger gave her no answer; and while she stood gazing with some surprise upon him, she saw his bosom heave as if in violent agitation, and a suppressed sob appeared to shake his whole frame.

"You do not know me, Mary?" said he.

Mary Edmonds looked at him fixedly, and while she gazed, he let the mantle fall from his face. She sank upon the green sward from which she had risen, and appeared to exert a more than human strength, while she replied to his question.

"Too well do I know that voice, and those features.Go, my children," said she, " and wait within until I come to you." The little ones immediately passed through the gate, and entered the cottage.

The stranger instantly fell at Mary's feet, embraced them, and wept like a child.-"Oh!" said he, “I cannot ask for pardon; but, for the love of Him who died for sinners, give it to me, Mary-give it to me!"

Mary Edmonds took her husband's hand, and her tears fell fast upon it:-" Oh! why did you desert me?"? were the only words she could utter.

"Oh! I have wronged you," he answered, "but I

have suffered deeply-most deeply: by day and by night the bitterest remorse has been with me, until my life became a burthen, and I have come, on my knees to obtain forgiveness, or to depart from you and die. For the sake of those little ones-I have never seen one of them until this night-forgive me, Mary! For the sake of that God you have always loved, and who has given me a broken and a contrite heart-forgive me, Mary! Forgive me, even on the return of the very day on which, like a wretch, I left you!"

Mary Edmonds had deeply felt the wrongs she had suffered deserted by the husband in whom had centred all her earthly hopes and affections, at the moment, too, when his cares and attentions were rendered doubly necessary, she had struggled, and not altogether in vain, to forget the days-the words-the looks the actions of pure and devoted love, in the remembrance of the sin by which he had been led away-the surest death-blow to a woman's peace and to a woman's pride. But she was a wife and a mother; and the parent of her children, the object of her early and disinterested attachment was before her-a penitent! She knew that in heaven there is joy over a sinner that repenteth; and few will blame her for raising her husband from the ground, and, amid weeping and thanksgiving to the Almighty for his restoration to virtue, receiving him again to her home and her affections.

L. A. H.

THE OLD MAID'S PRAYER TO DIANA.

BY THE LATE MRS. HENRY TIGHE.

SINCE thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree,
That Old Maid as I am, an Old Maid I must be,
O hear the petition I offer to thee-

For to bear it must be my endeavour:

From the grief of my friendships all dropping around, Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be foundFrom the legacy-hunters that near us abound,

Diana, thy servant deliver.

From the scorn of the young and the flaunts of the gay,
From all the trite ridicule rattled away

By the pert ones who know nothing wiser to say,
Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her :

From repining at fancied neglected desert,
Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert,
From finical niceness or slatternly dirt;
Diana, thy servant deliver.

From over solicitous guarding of pelf,

From humour unchecked-that most obstinate elfFrom every unsocial attention to self,

Or ridiculous whim whatsoever :

From the vapourish freaks or methodical airs,
Apt to sprout in a brain that's exempted from cares,
From impertinent meddling in others' affairs,
Diana, thy servant deliver.

From the erring attachments of desolate souls,
From the love of spadille, and of matadore voles,
Or of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkies, and owls,
Be they ne'er so uncommon and clever :

But chief from the love (with all loveliness flown)
Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down
On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown,-
Diana, thy servant deliver.

From spleen at beholding the young more caressed,
From pettish asperity tartly expressed,

From scandal, detraction, and every such pest-
From all, thy true servant deliver :

Nor let satisfaction depart from her cot-
Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient, if not;
Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot,

Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever.