worse than usual in health. For a long while she had been ailing, and Beatrice had fancied that she was every day becoming increasingly feeble; but the change lately had been far more marked. Mr. Wentworth's visits were now very frequent, though not from the expectation of any profit to himself, for Miss Vivian's horror of doctor's fees was proverbial in the place, and his calls were ostensibly only those of a friend. She would not have received him in any other capacity. Although sinking beneath disease and old age, hovering as it were on the brink of the grave, she still grasped her money with a clutch as tight as ever. Yet she was not naturally a miser-only somewhat prudent and calculating. But for years the love of hoarding, unresisted, unchecked, had grown and increased upon her; and now, when her long joyless life was nearly over, she seemed unable to make an effort to release herself from the chain-golden though it was—which made her a willing captive.

"I cannot, cannot understand it," said Beatrice, sorrowfully, one day. "If she were a young person, saving for a lifetime, I could comprehend, though I could not excuse it. But now it seems so utterly inexplicable—such an unreasoning love of money for its own sake! She absolutely cares for nothing

else."

"She has fostered the tendency so long that it has become second nature," responded Mr. Mansfield, who was walking with Beatrice in the Rookery garden.

"It seems as if nothing could touch it,” said Beatrice.

"Nothing can, Beatrice, but the grace of God. We are utterly powerless in such a case. As well might I attempt to thaw a frozen lake merely with the warmth of my hand, as attempt, by human influence only, to melt the ice in which her very heart seems frozen up. We must commit her into the hands of God. He can melt the ice, Beatrice, and soften the hardest heart."

"I know-I know it. But oh, Mr. Mansfield!" and Beatrice burst into tears, "there is a verse of the Bible that will come into my head whenever I think or speak of this, and I cannot drive it away- Ephraim is joined to idols; let him alone!"

66

"Beatrice, God's grace is sufficient for the most hardened and heartless of sinners," said Mr. Mansfield. 'We must trust even till the last hour that she may be led to repentance. Nothing is impossible with God."

"I know it," said Beatrice again. "Poor Miss Vivian! She is sadly ill and feeble. Papa says it is a general break-up of her constitution, and that she cannot last long. She may be taken suddenly worse any day, and sink in a few hours."

"It is very sad to think about. And you say she will not allow you to speak on the subject of religion ?"

"Not a word. I dare not even propose to read the Bible to her. The instant I allude to the subject, she cuts me short, and says she would rather be alone than hear such remarks."

Beatrice mused sorrowfully for some minutes, when Constance joined them, exclaiming at her father's having taken possession of Beatrice for so long a time.

"And there's Leonard quite in despair because he can't find you; and he saw you come out of the Mansion garden," added Constance, who rarely missed an opportunity of bringing a blush to Beatrice's cheeks, though she was not so unmerciful as to follow it up. "How is Miss Vivian this afternoon ?"

"Very weak and poorly. I have not been long with her. Captain Gifford went in, so I came away."

"Is it true that she has been making her will, and leaving everything to him?" asked Constance. "I have heard it spoken about more than once lately."

"I know no more about it than you do," said Beatrice, quietly; while Mr. Mansfield observed

"People are very ready to gossip about what does not concern them, and to talk of matters of which they are perfectly ignorant."

"Only it does concern us, papa, and we are not quite ignorant," continued Constance, laughing. "Not that I mean to trouble myself about it, any more than Leonard does. But here he comes; and you must stay with us to dinner this evening, Beatrice, for once."

"I have made her promise that already," said Mr. Mansfield.

NE of the most familiar of the British burrowing rodents is the common rabbit (Lepus cuniculus). The varieties are very numerous, and some are so unlike the orginal stock, that they seem to be species and not varieties; indeed, they might have taken rank as species, did they not invariably display a tendency to recede to the ancestral short brown fur and upright ears of the wild rabbit.

The rabbit lives, as we all know, in burrows, and is of a social nature, a considerable number of burrows being gathered together, and known by the name of a warren. Whenever the rabbits find an undisturbed spot which combines the advantages of a sandy situation with the vicinity of food, they establish themselves forthwith, and sink their multitudinous tunnels into the ground. The favourite locality is a loose, sandy, or gravelly soil, covered with patches of furze bushes; for this soil is easily excavated, and is very dry, and the young shoots of the furze yield a food equally grateful and nutritious. Moreover, the tangled roots of the furze afford an excellent protection to the burrows, and the overhanging branches,

with their prickly verdure, serve admirably to shelter the entrances.

When once they have established themselves, the rabbits increase with almost incredible rapidity, nearly rivalling the rats and mice in fecundity, and converting the land into a very honeycomb of burrows. Indeed, were not the flesh of the rabbit marketable, and its fur valu able--were not the stoat, the weasel, the hawk, and other furred and feathered depredators extremely fond of young rabbits, the animals would spread so fast as to become a positive nuisance. In some places they have increased to such an extent, that the safety of buildings has been endangered by the deep and ramifying tunnels which they have sunk beside the foundations; and in one case known to the writer they multiplied so inordinately, that the proprietor of the ground, albeit a most staunch conservator of animal life, was obliged in selfdefence, to have them exterminated.

It is not a very easy matter to drive them from any place of which they have already taken possession; and even after employing all the paraphernalia of ferrets, nets, and guns, two or three isolated individuals are apt to

escape, and then the rabbit host is soon marvellously reproduced. The rabbit becomes a parent at a very early age, and by the time that it is a year old it may have attained the dignity of a grandparent.

As is the case with most animals, the rabbit seeks a quiet and retired spot for her little nursery. She does not produce her young in any of the burrows to which the general rabbit colony has access, but prepares an isolated tunnel, at the end of which she forms her nest. The bed on which the young recline is beautifully soft and fine, being composed chiefly of the downy fur which grows on the mother's breast, and which

she plucks off with her teeth in tufts of considerable size. Anyone who keeps tame rabbits may see the female preparing her cradle with this soft fur, and note how perseveringly she denudes her breast of her covering. The homeaffection is thus seen to be planted in the lowest as well as the highest developments of animal life-may we not say, furnishing in every case a true, though dim reflection of the infinite love of the great Parent, without whose knowledge the sparrow falls not to the ground, and who, "like a Father," "pitieth them that fear Him"? C. A. H. B.

閻

ONDON BRIDGE is not exactly the most convenient place in the world for recognitions, greetings, friendly

inquiries, and the deliberate narra

tion of personal histories. It has happened to me, however, twice in my life, during occasional visits to the metropolis, to be thrown most unexpectedly in the way of old friends on London Bridge.

In the first instance, which happened many years ago, I was hurrying rapidly along the crowded thoroughfare, when the sight of a once familiar face suddenly arrested my steps. It was the countenance of a middle-aged man, who was leaning over the balustrade, and pensively contemplating the busy scene below; and in that countenance I recognised an old schoolfellow and companion. But how changed! The man was stamped with marks of prema

ture age.

Care, anxiety, and despondency betrayed themselves in every line of his formerly joyous features. Poverty was visible in every seam of his threadbare garments.

For a moment I hesitated whether to address my former friend, or to pass on unnoticing and unnoticed. If shame to be seen in friendly contact with evident destitution had anything to do with this hesitation, may my God forgive the pride of my heart! But whether this, or some more justifiable feeling, caused me to pause, the pause was of short duration. I approached the unconscious and vacant gazer, and touched his shoulder. He turned sharply round, seemingly with trembling apprehension, and had stammered out, “What do you want?" before he recognised the intruder. Then, sud

denly recollecting me, he grasped my hand, and burst into tears.

In a short space of time we were seated together in the box of a neighbouring coffeeroom, and I was in possession of the outlines of George Harford's history.

It was a mournful story. Poor George could with sad propriety adopt the language, “Lover and friend hast Thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness.” The greater part of his family connexions had been removed by death; and by those who remained he had been neglected or forsaken, as his circumstances became impaired, and his prospects darkened.

He had first entered into business with a moderate capital, and for a short time had succeeded. Then a reverse had taken place, on his own showing, unforeseen and unavoidable, by which he was nearly ruined, and his establishment broken up. Dejected, but not quite despairing, George Harford had striven to retrieve his losses, by engaging in partnership with a plausible rogue, who first contrived to rob him of what little he had left, and then to get rid of him as an encumbrance.

Once more George set himself to the task of working upwards from the pit into which he had fallen. With some trifling assistance from a distant relation, he established a very humble business in the outskirts of London, which promised to yield him, at least, a mere subsistence. But," said my poor, almost heartbroken old friend, "just as I was striving my hardest, and had hopes of repaying the loan, and of having at length a comfortable though

66

to mine. It spread: my dwelling was consumed, and my stock-in-trade with it, while I escaped only with my life. Would to God," he exclaimed, with a sudden burst of impatience, "that I had died then-if it had but been His will," he added, contritely. "Had I died then, I should have been taken away from the evil to come. I was uninsured," he continued; "and 1 had to bear the bitter reproaches of my relative for this unwise neglect. I could not ask him for further assistance, and he did not offer it. He left me to take my chance for the future."

I will not weary and distress the reader by recounting every fresh disaster of my poor friend. It is enough to say that when I encountered his faded form on London Bridge, he was homeless and moneyless; without employment, and without hope. I know not what temptation might have been at that moment busily at work in his heart, while he stood watching the dark stream which flowed beneath him; but he spoke of his life having been saved by the unexpected meeting.

Many years after my meeting with George Harford, I was again walking over London Bridge, when in the crowd of passers-by, a young man hastily moved on, with whose features I fancied I had once been familiar, though I could not recall the how or the when. As we were passing each other our eyes met, and after a moment's hesitation, the stranger or the friend-whichever or whoever he might be-smiled, held out his hand, and addressing me by name, gave mine a hearty and cordial pressure, while he expressed at once his surprise and his pleasure in having thus met me. While he was speaking, I vainly endeavoured to disentangle my memory; at length I was obliged to confess, that though the face, manner, and voice were those of a former acquaintance, I could not remember more.

on his good looks, and ventured to inquire into his present pursuits.

"I am pressed for time now," he answered, "having an engagement in the City, but you will come and see me to-night? Here is my address," and he put a card into my hand. "I shall be at home at eight-or, stop, I will make it seven, and you will spend the evening with me; I have a spare bed "-and so on.

The card indicated that Mr. Frederic Heath was at that time the inhabitant of a certain house in a certain terrace at Clapham. For a moment or two I hesitated whether or not to accept the invitation. There was an air of brisk self-satisfaction, and a trifle of assump. tion, in my new old-acquaintance, which did not entirely harmonize with my feelings; and I was about to express my regret that I could not conveniently take up my abode with him that night, when he added,

The name was enough.

No, certainly I had not forgotten Frederic Heath, whom I had known ten years before as an ardent, active, persevering youth, and whose father, while he lived, was my old friend and correspondent. I apologized for my lapse of memory, which was justly to be attributed to Frederic's advance from youth to manhood, with the natural changes which this advance had brought about. Having thus, as I hoped, cleared myself from the charge of wilful for

half an hour's pleasant chat with the ladies before my young friend made his appearance. From them I learned his history; as much of which as is needful to my purpose may be told in a few words.

At the death of my old friend, his widow and children were left in straitened circumstances, alleviated, however, by the firm assurance that the husband and father was "asleep in Jesus," by humble trust in the Father of the fatherless and the Friend of the widow, and by the fact that both son and

daughter had been previously prepared for personal exertion in the world. Before the first pangs of sorrowing affection had well subsided, Kate sought and obtained employment as a daily governess; while Frederic, two or three years her junior, received an advance of salary in the counting-house of his employer.

After a few years of unwearied application, joined with business tact, Frederic had received overtures of partnership from a citizen, who set the young man's valuable qualifications against his want of capital. The offer was accepted: the concern prospered, and at the time of our meeting, Frederic Heath was a successful and a still rising man.

"He has been a good son and brother," said his mother, with affectionate emotion. "He insisted upon our sharing the fruits of his industry. Last year he took this house for us, that we might be nearer the country than we were; and he has furnished it with a view far more to our convenience and comfort than his own. There is one thing, however, which gives me many anxious thoughts

At this moment the knocker at the door announced the approach of Mr. Frederic, and our conversation was, of course, broken off.

My young friend apologised-sincerely, I believe-for his unintentional delay, welcomed me as his father's friend to his abode, and, after a few words of affection to his mother and sister, he retired for a few minutes to wash away, as he said, the smoke of the City. We were soon seated around the tea-table, and talking of days long past. At the same time, I had leisure to look around me; and though I was not, I trust, impertinently curious, I could scarcely fail to observe many indications of prosperity, which certainly gave me some surprise. The useful and necessary furniture of the room in which we sat was expensive, and many luxuries were scattered about, which showed that money was, in one way or other, readily at the command of my young friend. He talked largely, too, and somewhat boastingly, I thought, of what he intended to do in the way of fresh purchases, as soon as he could afford it; and when reminded by his mother that already they enjoyed as much as could be desired of the good things of this life, and much more than could have been hoped for at a period not long gone by, the young man listened impatiently, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. He was evidently ashamed of the honour

able poverty from which he had so rapidly emerged.

All at once I thought of George Harford, and, to give a turn to the conversation, gave the history of my meeting with him on London Bridge, and contrasted his experience of life with that of my young friend Frederic, whom I had, singularly enough, encountered on nearly the same spot that morning. I ventured to add, that God in His providence sees fit to deal with His creatures in a variety of ways. To some He gives the power to get wealth every project appears to prosper in their hands, and they know but little of the vexations and struggles of adversity; while to others, their equals in talent, enterprise, and industry, every avenue to prosperity is apparently closed, and their lives present nothing but a series of disappointments and worldly sorrows.

It was easy to be seen that my old friend Mrs. Heath sympathised with my feelings and approved of my homily. Not so, however, her He heard me patiently, but when I had ended, he, with more petulance, I thought, than the occasion demanded, challenged the correctness and propriety of my views.

son.

"I do not believe," he said, "in these notions about Providence."

"You do not believe in a God, perhaps ?" I responded.

"Oh, yes, I do," he replied; "and I think that He has given to all natural powers to improve, and that it is our own fault if we do not improve them."

"True, my friend; and what then?"

"Why, that every man's well-being is almost entirely in his own power; and that riches even are at the command of all who will but exert their energies to obtain them."

"For instance," I said, "you think my old friend Harford might have been as prosperous as yourself, had he but been as painstaking and industrious ?"

"I have no doubt of it," the young man confidently answered. "The fact is, I have no patience with those who lay the blame of their own want of success upon Providence. There was, only to-day, a fellow came to me with a long story about being ruined by Providence. I soon cut it short, though."