CHAPTER III.

Ar sixteen or seventeen years of age, Martlet followed his mother to the grave; and his sister, a year older than himself, became his father's housekeeper. She was a kind and amiable girl, and did all in her power to console her father for the loss he had sustained. Mary III, the interesting duughtor of a respectable neighbour, was her intimate and constant associate; Martlet, therefore, saw Mary often. He could not look upon her with indifference, though he had not as yet felt the power of all-conquering love. To this he was a stranger, when one of those apparently trifling incidents which happen to most men at some time or other, inspired him with feelings of a far higher order than those of admiration. But we must let him tell part of his own story, in an extract from the last letter I ever received from him.

"I was lying on a bed of sickness, and

Mary sent me cakes, which she had made herself; and, when my health permitted me to leave my bed, she gave me oranges, apples, and every thing that she thought necessary for my weak condition. I was charmed with her kindness, the amiable qualities of her heart, and the simplicity of her manners. Mary was not perhaps what the world would call beautiful, but deeply interesting. You could not help continually looking at her, and yet you could not tell why. Her person was of the middle height, rounded, and of exquisite symmetry. Her complexion was a clear brunette-her hair dark brown-her eyes of a deep melting blue — her features small, regular, and expressive of a most striking dignity. But it was in her eyes that her power of fascination chiefly dwelt. They were capable of every variety of expression. When she was speaking to me, they were lit up with the tenderest emotion, yet there was not a spark of languishing or voluptuousness. There was about them the dignity of conscious innocence and truth, and it was to me irresistible.

"Mary had seen little of the world. She

had received her humble education at home. No boarding-school, or mixture with the gay and fashionable, had tainted with affectation the purity of her manners. She was, indeed, nature's artless, unsophisticated child; neither had sorrow shed the gloom of melancholy over her placid brow. She was cheerful, and her manner of speaking partook of the warmth and feeling of her general character. When she spoke, thoughts breathed, and words burned,' so unlike the coldness of many who seem not to feel what they say. A more animated and expressive countenance while speaking, I never saw. She was remarkable for the cleanliness of her person, and the neatness and chasteness of her dress; nothing gaudy or unbecoming. She wore her hair extremely neat. Two beautiful and polished arches shewed her temples; yet in all this there was no indication of a desire to produce effect.

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Mary and I soon understood each other. We confessed our love with the simplicity of youth, before the false delicacy and maxims of the world had perverted the feelings of the

heart. All my spare moments from labour were spent with Mary. To her I poured out my soul. In the evening, after the toil of the day, I used to hasten to Mary; and, if I was later than I had promised, she would gently chide me; but, seeming to recollect that I might have been detained by business contrary to my will, she would look upon me with an eye of the tenderest pity, and say, 'Surely, Martlet, you have not been at work so long as this—you must be tired.' But, ah! I felt no toil when thinking of Mary; and, while

'I thought the gentlest breath of heaven

Too rough to blow 'pon her,'

the cold of the bitter frosty night lost its chilling power on me in her presence. How tenderly I loved her let my constancy, the midnight hour, the solitary shade, and the pale moon, declare.

"On the Sabbaths we used to go to chapel together. There I saw her love of religion, and her practice of its precepts in her conduct. She also sang the hymns with considerable taste and sweetness. She had a brother, who

was very religious; and she painted his virtues to me in simple, though lively colours.

"On our way from the chapel I endeavoured to impress upon her mind my own peculiar views of religion. I cautioned her to distinguish the corruptions of Christianity from the thing itself. I spoke of the simplicity of religion-its remoteness from the glare and pomp of external appearance. And, in connexion with our future prospects in life, I mentioned God's providential care of his creatures. Alas, that I who could say to Mary,

He who feeds the young ravens when they cry' will not suffer us to want--that I could say this and be myself the subject of corroding apprehension respecting future poverty!

I saw

"When alone, I was miserable. that without wealth no man could expect any thing save contempt in this world. I felt within me the elements of mental exertion; but I discovered that I was thought an improper associate for clerks and shop-boys, because I was a mechanic. Heaven knows envy had not a place in my breast; but I felt my soul roused with indignation at the base and cring