go quicker, made the distance appear longer; and by the time she was lifted out, she had foolishly allowed herself to become as ill-tempered as she had been in the morning, and fancied that her cousin had been very cross to her. As he took her from the cart he begged she would run to his mother, to get him something to eat. Mary did not like to refuse, for she really was very fond of him, and ran to do as he wished; but, when she saw him quite intent upon his cold meat and bread, she was much annoyed; and fancied he must be very unkind not to tell her what she so much wished to hear. She watched each mouthful, until James begged her to go away, and let him eat in peace. More irritated than before, she called Trust, who had been sitting close to the table, begging for his share. The dog lingered, as if appealing to his mistress's good nature, but she had none to bestow; and leaving even her favourite, she ran into the garden to look for the work which she had left there; but she hunted in vain ; no handkerchief could she find. In great alarm, as it was one she was hemming for Miss Stanmore, she hunted in every direction; at last she caught sight of it on a hedge, in a corner of the garden. She ran to take it off; but just as she had carefully extricated it from the last branch, a gust of wind again blew it away, and this time, unfortunately, it blew it into the well. In great trouble, she screamed to her aunt, who was not very far off.

"We must fetch James," said Martha; "perhaps he can get it with a stick; run and ask him to come.'

But Mary felt that she should be ashamed to ask a favour of him, and stood looking at the water. Her aunt desired her to run directly, or the handkerchief would get heavy when wet.

Mary could not again refuse; with much confusion, she went to James, and asked his assistance. The supper that she fancied took his whole attention, was instantly neglected; and, with Trust, he ran to his mother; but the water was low, and no long stick was at hand. "Never mind, Mary," said James to the little girl, who had begun to cry, 66 we will get it; come here, Trust!"

He showed the handkerchief to the dog, who seemed quite to understand what he was to do; he put the animal into one of the buckets, and carefully lowered him. Mary was now more alarmed for her favourite than for the work; but, when she saw him snap at it, and look up at them to draw him up, she was quite re-assured. With a bound Trust jumped out, and shaking the drops of water off his head, he laid his prize safe at his mistress's feet. Mary now cried from shame and repentance at having been so unjust to James, who was so ready to assist her, though still tired and hungry. She was soon forgiven, and was so anxious to show her regret that she hastened with him into the kitchen, and would have given him all the provisions in the house, if he would have submitted; at the same time, she constantly rewarded Trust with morsels from James's plate.

At last, both had finished, and her aunt and uncle coming in, James gave the account of his day's ad ventures.

He had, with some difficulty, found the cottage whither the letter directed them. The young woman was so ill that it was thought she could scarcely live through the night; she knew her father, and expressed the greatest pleasure at seeing him. Her husband, and a little child not quite a year old, were with her. This was as much as James could say, as he had not liked to intrude on them longer than he could help. He thought, from the state the daughter was in, that her father would soon be able to return; and he remarked, that they had better get the cottage ready. Robert had commissioned James to get some furniture in the town; and the next day Mary was very busy helping Martha to clean the cottage. The things soon arrived, and by the evening the little dwelling was in good order, although it still looked desolate. Mary had begged to be allowed to stay there

as late as possible, in case the traveller should return, and go there instead of to the farm. She was sitting at the window with her work, although her eyes were oftener turned to the road that led to the town. At last her patience was rewarded by the sight of her friend, close to the gate. He held in his arms what seemed to her a bundle, but he evidently took great care of it. Mary was soon at his side, but he seemed much overcome and exhausted; and, when they reached the parlour, he placed his treasure in Mary's arms. She felt that it was something heavy; and, on removing the large shawl that had covered it, found a poor baby, fast asleep-she could scarcely contain her surprise, but Robert's grief had saddened the child; and, carefully placing the little motherless thing in her lap, she watched its placid slumbers.

Old Robert had rested his head on his hand at the table, but, suddenly raising his eyes, he saw the two children; and, drawing near to them, he told Mary that the baby was his grandchild; that he should keep it with him; and that if her aunt would allow her, Mary should live with them, and take care of it, if she would try to be steady, and good enough to take so important a charge.

"I will do my very best; indeed, I shall love it very much;" and her arms clasped the infant tighter as she spoke. It opened its bright eyes-smiled contentedly, as if answering her affection-rested its little head upon her bosom, and was soon fast asleep again.

"You shall begin your duties to-night, Mary; and before it is quite dark, take my precious little one to your aunt's. I am sure she will let it stay with her to-night; to-morrow we shall get a cradle, and you can then bring it here."

"But will you not come home with me? You have had no supper, and my aunt would like to see you." "No, I cannot come to-night; take care of my child; and to-morrow I shall be better able to talk to Martha." Mary longed to ask several questions, but she saw the old man would rather be alone; and, carefully replacing the baby's shawl, she tenderly raised it, and as gently as she could carried it to the farm.

Her arrival with her burden caused some surprise, but she had not courage to tell them that she hoped to have the constant care of the baby; she was intent on doing her duty towards it; and, when she had begged James to carry some supper, and the small box that the old man had left there the day before, to the cottage, she begged for some night-clothes of her youngest cousin, and soon undressed the little one. Her handiness and steady care quite astonished her aunt; but Mary could not notice anything but her charge. She put it into her own little bed, told her aunt all that she knew about the old man, and was soon by its side. For the first time in her life Mary's mind was too much occupied to sleep; she felt the importance of her new duties, and began to feel that she should have some pain at leaving her present home. The events of the last few days had seemed to create new ideas; she saw that she had no right to consult and indulge merely her own wishes; and, although still a child, she determined to act differently for the future, praying earnestly for strength and direction to persevere and learn what she ought to do. But she was not accustomed to be troubled with anxiety, and in the midst of resolutions and intentions she fell fast asleep. The cry of the baby awoke Mary at an early hour, and she was soon comforting it by all the means in her power. It was not difficult to soothe the child, who seemed very good tempered. Mary washed and dressed it, as she had seen her aunt attend to her baby; and, when she thought breakfast was ready, carried it to Martha, to know what she was to give it. Her aunt gladly showed her how to prepare its food, and praised her for her expertness.

Soon after breakfast old Robert came to the farm, and expressed his wish that Mary should come and live with him. He explained to Martha how his daughter's

him that Etty would be warm enough amidst the straw at the bottom of the tilted cart. This seemed to pacify the boy a little, and he ate a mouthful or two of the bread and cheese which she had cut him, then laid the rest upon the table. At another time he would have finished it all in about five minutes, but now he was uneasy through thinking about his sister and mother. Meantime, the carrier had reached the high hilly road which led in a direct line to his own door. He had persuaded his youthful passenger to get out, and walk beside him, without telling her why he did so; but such was the force of the wind that he expected every moment his cart would be blown over, and then he thought that some of the heavy boxes or hampers might fall upon her and injure her; so he held the horse and led it with one hand, while with the other he took hold of the little girl, and thus they measured their slow steps through the keen, cutting wind, and heavy falling snow. The candle had long stood at the little end window of the house, and, as the carrier's eye first caught it in the distance, he said, "See, there it is!" for, as it threw out its rays upon the night, it seemed like a bright burning star amid the din and desolation of that wintry landscape. The careful housewife had placed a pair of shoes and a coat before the fire, and the kettle had so long sung to itself upon the hob, that the boy wondered a dozen times to himself whether or not it would give over. None but an ear accustomed to the lightest change of sound would have heard the noise of those muffled wheels, as they came along slowly and heavily through the snow; and when she jumped up, and rushed to the door, exclaiming, "Here they come !" the boy also rose up, and listening with his head aside, said, "I don't hear 'em :" but when he got to the door, he could see a dark mass of something moving towards him, through the drifted snow. The little girl was first carefully attended to, and seated in the warmest place beside the fire, and then the carrier's wife helped her husband to bring in the boxes and parcels, which were placed upon the floor: the storm rushing in with such force all the time, that it made the bright toasting forks, and ladles, and bridles, and bits, and stirrups, which hung up against the opposite wall, jingle one against the other. A few words had passed between the carrier and his wife outside the door, and he came in as if to warm his hands, while his real intention was to persuade the children to remain all night but the girl's answer was so earnest, and so full of feeling, when she said "that she knew how unhappy her mother would be, and as for herself, she should not be able to sleep a moment," that it became painful to press her further, for she had a hundred reasons for going, and not one for remaining behind. The hardy boy also mustered up courage to speak, and said, that "they were not made of salt, and so could not melt away; and as for the road, that was easy to find, and the box would shove away the snow as they carried it between them."

"Well," said the carrier, shrugging up his shoulders, "I will not compel you to stay; and, since you are so bent upon going, I will take you to the end of Fossdyke Lane before I unharness my horses; it will save you a mile."

They both kindly entreated of him not to do so; he would have to come back by himself, they said, and they should soon be there; but on this point he was resolute, and, buttoning up his coat again, which he had unloosened for a few moments, he went outside, wiped the snow from off the horses, put the children with the little box inside the cart, saying to his wife as he departed, "I shall not be long," and again resumed his journey.

The high range of hills along which he now passed was called the cliff, or scar: if you stood on the steep acclivity on a clear day, and looked down into the valley, you saw ledge below ledge, which told you how the ocean, ages ago, had ebbed, and then remained stationary, then rolled away again, and again stood still,

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until it once more emptied its waters somewhere out at the mouth of that vast valley, then paused, until a new table-land was formed; for so was the whole slope from the summit of the cliff left, in wavy ridges and steep level embankments, for miles and miles along; and now over all these the snow had drifted from that wide unsheltered valley, and still kept gathering in vast heaps everywhere, saving upon the road, where our travellers journeyed; for from the highway it was blown onward to the foot of other and more distant hills. At the end of the lane, the carrier left his passengers, bidding them be sure to take care and keep on in a direct course; for he knew that they were scarcely a mile from their mother's cottage: and after he had gone, with the snow beating in their faces, the children went cheerfully their way, carrying the little box between them. As the wind blew direct from the village to which they were journeying, they heard the church clock strike eleven, and the boy said, "In another half-hour we shall see mother."

The road was all down-hill, and as the snow added much to the lightness of the night, they found no other difficulty than in its depth, for the first quarter of a mile, so went on keeping the centre of the road. As they proceeded further, to where the hilly way dipped down more abruptly, they remarked to eachother that the hedges on either hand were more than half hidden, and they went onward and onward until the snow covered them midway, and they found that, light as the box was, holding it up so high made it very heavy; and when the tops of the hedges were no longer visible, and they could only see the dark outline of some tree, whose stem was already buried, it was then that they paused, and looked at one another-and heaving a deep sigh, Etty said, "We shall never get home to night."

The boy stood upon the box, and looking over the scene, said, "I can see the three elms that hang over mother's cottage, but Farmer Ingram's five barred gate, which I know we are close upon, is covered with snowand that is just as high as my head, for I measured myself there last summer, when I was tenting the corn. Dear Etty, what will mother do for us !"

But Etty was seated upon the box, with her face buried within her hands, sobbing aloud. The boy sat behind his sister, and taking hold of her hands, said, "Don't cry so, Etty; let us say our prayers -you know mother told us, that God could do every thing."

Etty said she would not cry, and rising up, placed her hand upon his shoulder, and mounting upon the box, exclaimed, "I can see lights moving about where the elm trees stand; oh! God! perhaps poor mother has set out to meet us, and is lost, and they are seeking for her in the snow." And as she spoke, the picture rose so vividly before her imagination, as in fancy she saw her dear widowed mother dragged out from under the deep snow-drift, pale and cold, and stiff, and dead, that she unconsciously uttered a loud shriek, and fell as if lifeless among the high piled drift. The brave little brother forgot all about his own safety, while he tried to restore his sister, and as he knelt over her, and took off his cap to make a pillow for her head, while the tears followed each other in rapid succession down his hardy cheeks, his heart sunk within him; for although he called, "Etty, Etty!" in every endearing and plaintive tone, she made no answer; and when he kissed her he found her lips as cold as death; and as he raised her arm for a moment, it again dropped by her side, motionless, resting just where it fell.

His first act was to jump up, and plunge headlong into the snow in the direction of home, to fetch his mother. But a few yards before him the road went down sheer and deep; it was the steepest part of that hilly lane; and after struggling over head in the snow for a minute or two, he found his way back to his unconscious sister, and sitting down beside her, wrung his hands and wept aloud. But even in that bleak and bitter night, God's good angels were abroad, and walk

ing the earth; and it might be that the prayers of those children had drawn to the spot one of the invisible messengers; for, if prayer can reach up to the gates of heaven, who can tell how many "ministering spirits" are ever waiting there to do the Almighty's bidding? And, perhaps, one of those stood in the highway, unseen by the carrier, and prevented his horses from moving further, even as an angel stopped the ass on which Balaam rode. For thrice did the horses halt within a brief space of time; and as the carrier's heart had for some time smote him for leaving the children at the end of the lane, to find their way home by themselves, he resolved to turn back: he did so, and the horses seemed again to move along cheerfully.

"Something told me," said the old carrier after, "that the children were in danger, and the instant the horses went so freely along of their own accord, I knew it was so; and, from the moment I started to go back, my heart felt lighter, and I seemed to breathe more freely-as for the snow and wind I scarcely felt either." The drift was settling fast down, and covering over the two children; for deep heart-breaking sorrow had so benumbed every other feeling in the poor boy, that as he sat holding the cold, lifeless hand of his sister within his own, he felt not the snow gathering over him-felt not the big white flakes as they settled down upon his naked head, melting, at first, one by one, until a few remained, and others came faster and faster; he saw them not,-he felt them not,-as he bent over the form of his dear sister; even his sobbing became less audible, and a dull, drowsy feeling was unconsciously creeping over him,- that cold sleep which many a benighted one has sunk under, never more to wake again until the last trumpet sounds, and the grave gives up its hidden families of the dead. A few more of those low, unconscious sobs, and all would have been over, the snow would have been "their winding-sheet," when, hark! there came a sound as if driven back through the wind-it approached nearer; he heard the creaking of wheels, then the jingling of harness;-that sound had saved them both from death: he sprang up, as it were unaware; he raised his sister in his arms, he parted the long hair from her face, he strained his eyes, and looked forward; in a moment he was all eyes, all ears; then the wind came with another long, deep howl; it passed on, and the same sounds were heard again; he caught the "gee-whoop" of the carrier, he could not be far off, there could not be many yards between them; he shouted and received an answer: both cart and horse were fast, and he heard the heavy plod, plod of the carrier as he came along by himself, for his cart and horses could make no further progress along that deep, hilly, and snow-covered lane. The kind hearted old carrier took the girl in his arms, as if she had been a mere child, and placed her upon the straw at the bottom of the cart whilst he was endeavouring to restore her, his wife came up, for she also had begun to feel uneasy, and said, that had she met her husband, she was determined to persuade him to turn back, and see whether the children had arrived in safety at home. They returned to the carrier's house, and Etty was soon in a warm, sound sleep; for she felt casier after she had knelt down and prayed for her mother. Nor had she been asleep more than an hour, when a loud knocking was heard at the door; for a man had come all the way round by the low road, which ran along the middle of the valley, and was five or six miles further than the nearest way, which was now impassable. All this way had that kind hearted man come, that he might gather tidings of the safety of the children, for their mother had fainted away many times during that awful night; and, al though kind neighbours attended upon her, yet they could afford her no comfort; and it was not until this poor labourer volunteered to go and see what had befallen them, that she could be at all pacified. The carrier got up, and pursuaded him to take one of the best horses in his stable, and make all the speed he could

back, by that long roundabout low road, where the snow had not gathered in deep drifts, and to tell the fond mother that both her children were safe. But nothing could dissuade the brave boy from accompanying him: so he was at last allowed to ride behind, for he said, "When my mother sees me, she will know that Etty is safe, or I should never leave her." They reached home in about two hours, in safety, and brought comfort to the sad heart of that fond and disconsolate mother The little box was not found until after many days, when the snow had melted away; and there are those yet living who well remember that night. Etty heard the village bells ringing for church, as, accompanied by the honest carrier, she entered her home. What her feelings were when she remembered how from that church-tower, she heard the clock strike eleven on the previous night, I cannot tell you; but her eyes were filled with tears, as she raised her sweet face, and looked at the old carrier, while with her finger she pointed to the village church.

RAMBLES IN BELGIUM.
No. II.

FROM Ostend to Bruges the distance is but short. I was particularly reminded of the fertility of the soil by the rich appearance the highly cultivated fields exhibited, on either side of the railroad. The Flemings everywhere gave me the idea of being a very industrious race; men, women, and children, were all engaged in gathering in the products of nature. Nothing, however, can exceed the monotony of the country; no swelling undulations, no hills, and but few trees, and those disposed in very formal lines. It was a positive relief to my feelings, when the trumpet of the conductor sounded to tell us we were at our journey's end,-quaint old Bruges.

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The aspect of the city is very striking the houses, with their very picturesque appearance, full of gable ends, carvings, fantastic sculptured ornaments, &c. ; squares with their municipal halls, the broad streets, the linden avenues, the canals intersecting the houses in all directions, afford the stranger a pleasant contrast from the town of Ostend. My first visit was to the church of Nôtre Dame, in which I saw a beautiful specimen of the carved wood-work for which Flanders was of old so celebrated. It is made of oak, and is of the grandest dimensions: in the confessionals are other not less interesting examples of this art. The caryatides are especially fine: in almost every church I visited in Belgium, I was astonished with the beauty of these carvings, which so profusely adorn the altars, side aisles, &c. In a side chapel are the monuments of Charles the Bold, and the Empress Mary, his daughter.

These tombs are composed of a very dark stone, having whole length figures on them of the illustrious Duke, and the last native sovereign of Flanders, designed in gilt copper, and surrounded by coats of arms, medallions, lozenges, and shields, recording the possessions of the unfortunate Mary. I would recommend no tourist, visiting Bruges, to omit a pilgrimage to these interesting memorials. A painting of the Crucifixion, by Porbus, hangs near, and is a first-rate specimen of the master.

From Nôtre Dame I went to Les Halles, or the Hôtel de Ville, where I had been advised to ascend the tower, to see the mechanism which sets in motion the sweetest and most musical chimes I had ever heard. Not feeling well, and the day being unusually warm, I contented