folly to suppose that any other love could ever equal that of a mother; yet there is a peculiar feeling connected with little Ursula; a remembrance of the first moment when I held her in my arms and thought of her as Roger's child, that must always give her a claim upon my heart, with which no one else can interfere. Inherited love-the love that clings to the child because the parent has been dear—is a strong tie; and the second Ursula Grant is far more gentle and loving and teachable than the first ever was or will be. Her uncle William is her great charge; and she waits upon him with a devotion and thoughtfulness, mingled with much of her father's early piety, which are very touching; and often I think that Roger is blessed, through his child, by seeing his brother gradually but surely brought to follow in the same good path which he himself has so long trod.

Farmer Kemp is growing old, but works as heartily as ever; and Mrs. Kemp is young again in the happiness of having a married daughter and grandchildren. Miss Milicent is settled at the Heath. Her father's death, which took place about two years after my marriage, relieved her of the claim upon her fortune, and she has now a small but sufficient income, which is managed oddly still, but far more sensibly

than in days of yore. She is a busy and useful person, always having some plans of charity in her head, and occasionally much perplexing Mr. and Mrs. Richardson by her desire to carry them out. But she is not wilful as she was. Past lessons have not been forgotten, and when she is very unmanageable, Mr. Richardson generally applies to me, and a little talk in our parlour, or a conversation on the sea shore, whilst the children, of whom she is very fond, are picking up shells, and searching for Miss Milicent's "creatures," seldom fails to bring her to reason. It is not my own sense or eloquence which can affect her, but God's grace working through the remembrance of her mother. Truly, I often think to myself, "the path of the just is like the shining light" in more ways than one, for it is a guide through many a darkened way.

And Dene-the bright home of my childhood, the lovely spot in which my heart knew its earliest and most untrou bled joy !—

Miss Milicent's prophecy has come true, it has followed the fortunes of her family.

I will describe it as I last visited it.

I walked over St. Anne's hill, and along the top of the down, but when I wished to descend the sloping green path, I found myself stopped by fences and ditches, for the end of the down was enclosed, and Dene was no longer accessible in that direction. I went down on the other side, and made my way at the back of the plantation, till I came to a gate opening into the direct road to Hove. It was barred and padlocked. I clambered over it, and went up to the house. The shrubbery was grown into a thick dark plantation; the broad road was green with damp; the woodwork of the stables, the coach-house, and the cottage was unpainted; the clock was silent. A woman with a little child appeared at the front door, wondering apparently to see any living being. She told me that I might walk round, and I went to the little gate leading to the side entrance, and when I opened it found the path blocked up, and made my way by stooping amidst overgrown laurels to the front of the house.

No verandah was to be seen; the work of the old carpenter, which had been the pride and ornament of the place, and the wonder of the neighbourhood, had vanished entirely; the plain stone house stood in its bare desolation, with only the broad pavement before it. I turned to the lawn, once so exquisitely smooth and soft. It was fast becoming rank grass. Two straggling flower beds were left, but without a flower to brighten them. The fountains had ceased to play, the ponds were nearly empty, the walks round the garden were so overgrown that I did not attempt to pass by them, nor even to mount the steps of my favourite seat. In the inside of the house a few pieces of furniture still remained in the two sitting-rooms, making a mockery of comfort; the bed-rooms were empty.

I asked the woman what was to be done with the place, and she told me that she believed it was to be sold to a stranger, and the house was to be pulled down.

Such is Dene now.

In a few years another and a grander house may stand on its site. Lovelier flowers and walks, and fountains may VOL. II-14

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then adorn it; eyes more fitted to appreciate may look on it with delight, and lips more eloquent far than mine may speak its praise. But to me Dene is gone for ever.

And the happiness associated with it, the rush of glee, the entrancing dreams, the thrill of wondering admiration! -vain, indeed, would be the effort by any power of wealth and taste to recall that cloudless joy. It is to be found but in the blessed memories of childhood and the glorious prophecies of heaven.

THE END.