his anxious and affectionate heart had ever asked for them. It took a mighty load from that heart, to know that this was now secured. They might pursue their way for the present, according to any plan that seemed best to them; but if illness or any other calamity should deprive them of the power of exertion, there would now be no privation, and no painful dependance to apprehend on their account. As Robert had expected, both sisters chose simultaneously, and without a moment's hesitation, that the interest of their little property should be entirely appropriated by their parents. Helen had no wish but to pursue the path of independence which she had chosen for herself; and as for Catherine, she declared that she had no use for money, beyond the supply of her own personal wants, which she had succeeded in reducing to the smallest possible amount; so small, indeed, that Robert expressed some concern about the respectability of her appearance; but Catherine argued, that as her place in the world seemed to be exclusively that of a nurse, it would be absurd as well as inconvenient for her to adopt any kind of costume unfitted for her station. One thing only Robert stipulated for, and adhered to with pertinacity-it was, that Catherine should officiate as one of the bridesmaids at his wedding; and that, on that signal occasion, she should not disgrace her family. Catherine freely gave her promise to this effect, and in the meantime she was permitted to go on in her own humble way. are we must all undertake that journey alone. Much is said on this subject to terrify and alarm; but if the presence of death leads us only to think of meeting the call of the last messenger, a great portion of the message conveyed is lost upon those who remain; because it reaches not directly the great question of life, and of that present life with which they have to do. That both applications of the message necessary, is clear to every candid mind; but when we think of ourselves, and of our own danger or safety, we think most of death-when we think of God and his glory, of his purpose in placing us here, and of all that he has devised and brought into operation for our temporal happiness, and our eternal salvation, we think most of living, and living so as to walk daily in the steps of the Saviour. It was with this view of life, that Catherine Clifton returned to her duties: and when once the effects of long watching and constant anxiety had been thrown off from her physical system, she returned cheerfully as ever, and was in all things herself again; except that in her inner life there was a stronger and deeper earnestness so to pursue her work on earth, that she might at last resign her life with the calmness and the perfect peace which she had recently witnessed. that Catherine wondered sometimes Grace Linden, who had been once so entirely dependent upon her services, should express no wish for her return; and welcome as was this sudden release from duty under present circumstances, she was entirely at a loss how to account for it. She did not know that in the last stages of that fatal disease, there is often such a total prostration of strength as to leave scarcely the power to wish: neither did she know, that in the present case there had been such frequent recourse to the administering of sedatives, that the poor patient scarcely knew from day to day who was in attendance in her room; or, if at one moment she entertained the purpose of requesting that Catherine inight be sent for, she lost all consciousness the next, and so forgot alike the wish and the expression of her desire to have Instead of bridal robes, however, Catherine seemed likely to have much more to do at present with the habiliments of mourning. She could smile, it is true, and that not unfrequently, for her nature was constitutionally buoyant and hopeful; but much had passed lately in her individual experience which had made her look upon life, as well as death, more seriously than ever in her life before. Indeed, the presence of death does little for us, when it only invests with awe and terror the dark portals of the grave-when it only brings the last journey before us invested with this stern reality, that weit gratified. must all set out on that journey, perhaps, In this manner life ebbed out,-with at some unexpected summons, and that her, as it does with thousands, leaving towards the last scarcely a consciousness either of living or dying. If, in all instances where this is the case, this parting languor and destitution of all thought, was only preceded by the brightness which characterized the first stages of Grace Linden's illness; and if, in that season of brightness, the great work which has to be transacted between the soul and its Maker has only been as humbly, as sincerely, and as prayerfully carried on, there would be little to regret in those deepening shadows which obscure the natural day. But where the case is different, how pitiful-how more than pitiful is that false calm-that sleep from which there is no wakingthat death in life which steeps the senses in oblivion, at the very time when every power and every energy is wanted in its utmost force, to test and to feel the reality of things eternal! It was this false calm which gave the impression to Henry Linden that his sister was not suffering, and that, in the absence of suffering, she must be doing well. Little, indeed, did he know of illness in its peculiar symptoms--still less of those which indicate the near approach of final dissolution. Those who attended in the sick-room, and whose knowledge went far beyond his own, made it no part of their business to communicate the unwelcome intelligence that his sister was dying. Once or twice they had expressed their dissent from his encouraging prognostications; but the impatient manner in which these opinions had been received was a sufficient reason with them for abstaining from all further expression of what they knew to be the truth. Prompted by her own feelings, Catherine Clifton had decided upon returning home, in order to be nearer to her friend, if not actually on the spot, when she received a letter from her mother, in which her return was urged with great earnestness, Mrs. Clifton having learned from one of the servants of the house, that the encouraging accounts she was in the habit of receiving from Henry, were the result of a delusion in which he persisted contrary to all reason. Catherine lost no time in complying with this request, and she set out immediately. The day on which she left London was almost the first of a late spring, which set in with such balmy airs, and such sweet promise of reviving nature, that it seemed doubly painful to think of the last expiring light of a young and beautiful life, under such circumstances. Yet so it was. The truth stood out in stern reality; and Catherine knew that she must prepare to behold one of the most touching pictures which the imagination is capable of conceiving beauty exchanged for ashes-youth enrobed in the stern habiliments of decay, and all this, too, when the banks were gay with flowers, and the woods were filled with the melody of joy. All things, as Catherine journeyed onward, seemed to wear the same aspect of rejoicing and exultation. All things seemed to be tending towards the one great object of all the multitudes of earth,-provision for long life, and its enjoyment. The market gardens full of fresh green produce, and the laden carts which thronged the outskirts of the city; the flocks and herds which, farther on, amidst more rural scenery speckled the smooth downs, or browsed in the deeper meadows, all the busy occupations of husbandry now carried on with unwearied alacrity, owing to the lateness of the season; and then, as the day advanced, light rolling carriages, each with its gay freightage of beauty and of happiness; all these were sights so much in accordance with Catherine's natural temperament, but now with the scenes she was expecting to witness, so dissonant and jarring, that she found herself shrinking into the remotest corner of the carriage, and even hiding her face beneath a deep veil, in order that she might not see the sunshine and the glitter of the green earth and cloudless sky, nor the life and the happy merriment of all animated nature. All sense of what surrounded her, however, was lost to Catherine's feelings before she reached her home. One idea alone took possession of her mind,—Was her friend still living, and would she be able to exchange with her so much as a word of parting kindness? It so happened that the carriage in which Catherine travelled, passed directly within view of the front of Mr. Linden's house, though at a considerable distance. Catherine fancied that even the outward aspect of their dwelling would indicate something of the state of the family within, and, with the utmost stretch of attention, she strained her eyes in that direction long before the house itself was in view. At last she recognised the well remembered fields, for there was a long plantation stretching from the grounds, a brook, a stile, a winding path which had been familiarly trod in happy days, that now seemed-oh, so long ago! A bright afternoon sun was shining full upon the hill side on which stood Mr. Linden's house. Catherine had seen the windows, on such an afternoon, flash out against the light, as if they were illuiminated. She strained her eyes; a long line of road-side trees shut out the view; now she could see even the bowery shrubs of the garden, and now the house with its full front, broad and clear in the golden sunshine. Catherine found, on reaching home, that all was as she had apprehended. The gentle spirit of her friend had passed away so peacefully that those who watched could scarcely tell the moment when the last faint sigh was breathed. No one was surprised, except the brother, to find that her sweet life had ebbed away. But to him the shock appeared, for a while, to be unsupportable. With his usual impetuosity of emotion, he refused at first to be comCatherine had been for a good while forted; and when the remains of his stretching her head quite out of the beautiful sister had been solemnly conwindow of the carriage. She now sunk signed to their last earthly resting place, down, and covered her face with her he declared himself incapable of enduring hands. It was a public conveyance; his life in a house which death had stripthere were other passengers, and Cathe-ped of every attraction; and thus, setting rine felt that strangers had no business out again upon a distant journey, he soon to meddle with her grief; so she spoke succeeded in forgetting, with his accusnot, nor gave any sign of feeling, beyond tomed facility, all which it was either the close pressure of her handkerchief painful or uncongenial to his feelings upon her eyes and forehead. One of to remember. the passengers, more observant than the rest, got up and looked out of the window from whence Catherine had looked, in order to see what she had seen; but there was nothing for the common eye to behold; nothing but green fields, meadows sprinkled with daisies and buttercups, and a gentleman's pretty residence on the opposite hill side. There was nobody, that this walking in the garden passenger could see, or the grounds, nor waving a kerchief from the windows. Indeed the whole house looked still as death, and only one peculiarity was made visible by the bright sunshine, all the windows were white, perhaps there were blinds let down,-perhaps somebody was dead. The passenger sat down again, and fixing a long gaze upon Catherine, seemed not to be observant of any other object, until the rattling of the vehicle over the firmer pavement of the streets, startled all the travellers into the agreeable necessity For a short time Catherine Clifton now had rest from arduous duties. Rest was urgently required, for her feelings had so long been kept on the utmost stretch of endurance, that her health had become enfeebled to an extent beyond what she was herself aware of; and she only became fully sensible of her weakness when all cause for extraordinary exertion had ceased. But rest on earth seemed not very likely to be Catherine's lot; for scarcely had more than one month of comparative quiet enabled her to regain some portion of he accustomed vigour and elasticity, when a letter from her sister Helen arrived, imploring her, if possible, to fly to her assistance. She was left, she said, with a whole family of children upon her hands; and symptoms of a dangerous malady were appearing amongst them. What could Catherine do but go? panions, to enjoy an interval of recreation; or, when the potent beams of the sun are softened, and evening steals quietly over the scene; when the labours of the day are over, and the body is disposed to exercise, then the joyous cricketers can give themselves up to the cheering influence of the sport, and forget grim care, "Whose tooth is like the tiger's-sharp." The game of cricket has, within the last few years, made some progress in public favour. In parts of the country where it was almost unknown, it has now a large and increasing body of admirers. It is, indeed, a pastime for all,-peer, patriot, or peasant! For the first, it has the inducements of elegance, grace, and dexterity; for the next, it is one of the few legacies of our forefathers still free and untaxed; and, for the last, it possess all the charms that rustic emulation and hilarity can desire. Would that all would think more of such sports; for business should never infringe upon the time devoted to healthful and manly exercises; and, in an age when sinews may be required, it were well if there were more pastime and less hunting after shadows. For the guidance of those of our young friends who may feel disposed to form a club amongst themselves for this game, we append the following rules, which are usually termed THE LAWS OF CRICKET. 1. The ball. At the beginning of each innings, either party may call for a new ball. 2. The bat-May be generally four inches and one quarter in the widest part, and about thirty-eight inches in length. 3. The stumps-Must be twenty-seven inches out of the ground; the bails eight inches in length; the stumps of sufficient thickness to prevent the ball from passing through. 4. The bowling crease-Must be in a line with the stumps, six feet eight inches in length; the stumps in the centre; with a return crease at each end, towards the bowler, at right angles. 5. The popping crease-Must be four feet from the wicket, and parallel to it; unlimited in length; but not shorter than the bowling crease. 6. The wickets-Must be pitched oppo site to each other, by the umpires, at the distance of twenty-two yards. 7. It shall not be lawful for either party, during a match, to alter the ground, without the consent of the other, by rolling, watering, covering, mowing, or beating. This rule is not meant to prevent the striker from beating the ground with his bat near to the spot where he stands during the innings, nor to prevent the bowler from filling up holes with sawdust, &c., when the ground shall be wet. 8. After rain the wickets may be changed with the consent of both parties. 9. The bowler shall deliver the ball with one foot on the ground behind the bowling crease, and within the return crease; and shall bowl four balls before he change wickets; which he shall be permitted to do only once in the same innings. 10. The ball must be bowled. If it be thrown or jerked, or if the hand be above the shoulder in the delivery, the umpire must call "no ball." 11. He may require the striker at the wicket from which he is bowling, to stand on that side of it which he may direct. 12. If the bowler toss the ball over the striker's head, or bowl it so wide that it shall be out of the distance to be played at, the umpire (even although he attempt to hit it) shall adjudge one run to the parties receiving the innings, either with or without an appeal from them; which shall be put down to the score of wide balls; and such ball shall not be reckoned as any of the four balls. When the umpire shall have called "wide ball," one run only shall be reckoned, and the ball be considered dead. 13. If the bowler deliver a "no ball," the striker may play at it, and be allowed as many runs as he can get, and he shall not be put out except by running out. 14. În the event of no run being obtained by any other means, one run shall then be scored. In the event of a change of bowling, ONE BALL shall be allowed for the sake of practice. 15. At the beginning of each innings the umpire shall call "play;" from that time to the end of each innings, no trialball shall be allowed to any bowler. 16. The striker is out, if either of the bails be bowled off, or if a stump be bowled out of the ground. |