"One day Varin came in, bringing him some copper-plates, which he told him he was in a great hurry to have finished. Monet began to dance Ma'amzelle Jacqueline up and down on his knee, and said to her,— Tell him we are not going to do any more work for anybody. All is paid for, and we are going to Normandy, and we shall play in the churchyard at Gouais, and that is better than engraving.' He gathered up his plates, "Varin was very angry at getting no answer. called him a fool, and went off in a passion. "After this," continued the pale young man, "you will hardly need to be told the sequel. A few days afterwards, when we had taken him to our hotel, where we had used to get him to dine with us, he was seized with a fit of raving madness, and we could do nothing more than send him to a suitable asylum. Poor Monet! Everything was done for him that could be done; but it was all in vain. One day, as I was going in with a friend to see him as usual, two of the infirmary servants met us, carrying a long, narrow deal box, that was about to figure in a pauper funeral. The corpse of poor Lili's father was in that box. We had fortunately arrived there in time to take possession of the body, which we had buried beside that of his little daughter. "You see, Monsieur," he added, as he turned away his head to wipe away a tear," the history you have asked for is a very simple one." An hour or two afterwards, when the greater part of the things had been disposed of, Ma'amzelle Jacqueline was put up for sale amidst the jeers and laughter of the assembled crowd; and, after a solitary bid of ten sous by a little girl, whose pecuniary resources probably did not admit of her going any higher, was knocked down at one franc to a pale young man with whitey-brown whiskers and seedy paletot. A. B. FELLOWSHIP. BY J. H. ECCLES. "To diffuse useful information, to further intellectual refinement, and to hasten the coming of a brighter day, is indeed a high calling, in which the most splendid talents and consummate virtue may well press onward."-Eliza Cook. 'Tis sweet to hold communion with deep and earnest men, Whose great hearts beat with sympathy, and yearn to aid and save "Tis sweet to hold communion with all who feel desire To make the world a place of love and raise life's standard higher, Who seek to cast out prejudice and moral worth impart, And ever find some traces left of Eden in the heart. 'Tis sweet to hold communion with men whose thoughts are pure, Who stand erect in self-respect, unbiass'd, kind, and free, 'Tis sweet to hold communion with each and everyone, THE REJECTED CANDIDATE. "IT was a glorious summer's evening!" A tide of long pent-up memories swept through the desolate heart of the writer as she penned these words, a mist gathered in her eyes, and her hand trembled; so she leant back in her chair to be idle for a little while, whilst her heart was still busy with the thoughts those words had awakened. "A glorious summer's evening!" such were the evenings of her merry childhood, when a romp in the hay field, or a ramble through the fragrant country lanes, was an excuse for postponing the ever unwelcome hour of bed. And glorious too were those evening hours in later life, ere yet the girl had tasted of a woman's trials, when the happy tryst was duly kept, and the sweet incense from the honeysuckle bower blends and mingles with the still sweeter incense of loving words from loving lips,-lips which will never now speak to her as in that dream of "auld lang syne." "Oh happy summer evenings of long past years, will ye never come again! is memory to be the only sweetener of the present?"" such was the murmur which arose unbidden to the writer's lips, as she pushed aside the MS., sighing for very weariness, and yearning with an inexpressible yearning for one more taste of the "glories" of a summer's evening,-one breath of the pleasant soul-reviving country air, of which she, cooped up in a second-rate London lodging, had now but a memory only. The room in which she sat was meanly furnished, everything was shabby, depressing, and uncomfortable. The colours of the scanty curtains, and still more scanty carpet, never of a cheerful hue, were faded, and the pattern of the chintz sofa cover had long since vanished in the wash-tub. The occupant of the apartment did not look in unison with her surroundings; she was neither young nor pretty, nor what is commonly called distingué in appearance, but she looked unquestionably the lady, despite the homeliness of her dress, and there was a certain air of refinement in the worn and suffering face which told of better days long gone by. She threw down her pen, more sadly than impatiently, and moved slowly to the open window, but the view it commanded of an untidy mews, a noisy public-house, backed by a stack of grimy chimnies, was not more inspiriting than that within doors; there was, indeed, a streak of rosy light faintly tinting the distant horizon, but a recollection of the splendid sunsets she had been wont to watch from a mossy hillock, in a far distant garden, made that dim light a ghastly mockery, and once more reseating herself, she prepared to resume her labours. Her pen had just been redipped, when the door was pushed partly open, to exhibit a card, unmistakeably soap-sudded, and fingers to match; the card was thrown into a chair conveniently near the entrance, as a harsh ungentle voice announced "Mrs. West," and a lady, rustling in ample skirts, entered the room, and stood for a moment irresolutely near the doorway. The new comer was tall and graceful in figure, and did ample justice to the studied beauty and elegance of her attire. There was a freshness and health in her clear brilliant complexion and sparkling eyes, which often caused her to be taken for younger than she really was, for no trace either of mental or of physical suffering, had as yet been stamped upon her frank and beaming countenance. After a momentary hesitation, she advanced towards the solitary occupant of the dingy room, who moved slowly forwards, with a puzzled look, to greet her visitor. "Excuse my intrusion, I came to see Janet Hill, an old school-fellow of mine; I understood that she lived here, but I see there is some mistake," and Mrs. West, with some trepidation, was about to retrace her steps, when arrested by a frail thin hand placed upon her arm. "It is not Janet but Lucy who is before you," was the rejoinder, in a low sad voice, which, although changed by sorrow, was still sweet to Mrs. West's ear, and by no means unremembered, although that good lady still looked dubious as to the identity of the speaker. "Why, Lucy, dear Lucy," she at last exclaimed, grasping the thin hand in both of hers, "I thought you were now no longer Miss Hill any more than I am Marion Harvey; you recollect me, do you not? How is it you are not in Australia? I thought you were married, and settled there years ago." "It was my sister who married, not I." "And have you been in England all these years, perhaps even in London, and I have known nothing about you, and have now found you out by a mere chance? Dear, dear, what trouble you must have known since our happy school days. Poor Lucy," she added, as she looked round at the unattractive poverty-stricken apartment, and then at the shrunken care-worn figure now seated beside her on the sofa. "Yes, I have had my full share of suffering, both physical and mental, though doubtless no more of either than was good for me, that is the one thought which enables me to bear up through all, and still struggle on." "Will you mind telling me something of your past sorrows and present difficulties, or is my visit ill-timed just now? You were writing when I came in; is not that an author's MS.?' "Yes; but not mine, I am only copying for a publisher; it is, just now, my only means of living, till I am once more strong enough for a governess's situation." Tears of compassion sprang to Mrs. West's eyes; she remembered the time when the worn and wasted woman beside her had known a luxurious home, and had been educated with the expectation of inheriting a considerable fortune. Lucy Hill had been too long unused to sympathy not to respond readily to that now offered her, and by degrees the long sad story of her family and personal trials was elicited from her; and Mrs. West discovered that she was indeed entirely dependent upon her own exertions for a bare maintenance, without a friend or relative to whom she could apply for assistance. Her father had been compelled to fly the country, having brought ruin and disgrace upon himself and children by some transaction which Lucy did not care to detail; and at first she, with her sister and a young brother, found a second home with a half-brother of her mother's, till that gentleman married, and was induced to withdraw his protection from them. Lucy then entered upon the governess carrer, working hard but saving nothing, for there was her brother to support and educate, and her father to assist in his poverty and exile whenever it was in her power to send him a remittance. "But how did the mistake about your marriage originate?" inquired Mrs. West, when the narrative of her old friend's early trials had been concluded. "I thought you were engaged to a Mr. Cooper, the only thing I did hear about you whilst I was abroad; and being told of the marriage of Miss Hill to a gentleman of that name, of course supposed it to be you." "Very naturally," was the smiling rejoinder, "if you did not see the Christian name in the paper-I was engaged to the gentleman who is now my brother-in-law." "May I ask how that happened, or is it a painful revival of an old grief!" "Nay, I have outlived worse sorrows than that. It all came about in a very matter-of-course way. I had a severe illness, small-pox, in fact, during the time of my engagement, shortly before my uncle's marriage, and was for a long time in danger. My recovery was very slow; when I at length left my room, I was, as you may imagine, no longer what I had been while fortunate enough to attract Henry Cooper's admiration. The altered feelings with which he regarded me were neither disguised nor unperceived. My sister had been safely removed from infection; she remained unaltered in appearance, and not unwilling to encourage the transfer of affections, which, certainly, could not have been very firmly rooted, also my sister had the advantage of a wealthy godmother, which I had not, and a legacy came in opportunely enough to enable them to leave England immediately upon their marriage; Mr. Cooper having been offered a very lucrative situation under government, in Australia." "And then it was that you first went out in life?" "Yes; I changed about from one family to another, with no settled home of my own to go to, and with perhaps too haughty a rejection of the hospitality of the friends who would then have welcomed me as a guest. I was very proud and felt my position keenly; but I could, at any rate, earn a living, and was fortunate in procuring situations, where my salary was not niggardly; but illness came at length in a most distressing formparalysis, which, for a time, unfitted me for all exertion, and even now sadly impairs my usefulness. I tried daily teaching in London for a time, being incapable of undertaking all the duties of a resident governess; but I found coach hire too expensive, and walking in all weathers impracticable; so that, as I have already told you, I subsist for the present upon the little I can earn in copying either for lawyers or publishers." "I must try to do something for you," said her old friend eagerly. "I heard your name quite by accident in a shop, and, on making enquiries, supposed it might be your sister living here, so I came hoping to be of use, and I mean to be, if possible, so do not look upon yourself as utterly destitute any longer. By-the-bye, have you ever applied for relief to the Governess's Institution; you are fairly entitled to a share in the fund set apart for the benefit of such as are in temporary distress?" "I have never yet received any assistance from a public charity," replied Miss Hill, somewhat proudly, "nor will I till my own exertions are powerless to procure me a subsistance." Mrs. West was sorry to have wounded the sensitive feelings of the poor governess; but the haughty mood was of brief duration, and all trace of it had subsided, when, remembering that her husband would be expecting her to call for him at his club, Mrs. West rose to take her leave, and with many promises of coming again soon, made the best of her way down the steep, dark staircase, and along the narrow by street to the carriage, still waiting for her at the corner of a wider thoroughfare. Poor Lucy Hill had been too accustomed to kind words meaning nothing, and promises unperformed, to depend much upon the prospect of assistance held out to her by her former school-fellow, yet still there was a possibility of some good resulting from the unexpected visit-a hope sufficient to stimulate her in her daily toil, and to soothe her weariness when the day's work was over. Week after week dragged painfully along, however, without bringing any communication from Mrs. West; and the "glorious summer evenings" had given place to autumn's chilly twilight, and hope was fast dying out of the desolate heart, ere that lady again found her way to the cheerless "two-pair back." “You must have doubted my sincerity, many a time and oft, I am cer VOL. II. tain, I see it in your wan untrusting face," she remarked, once more seating herself upon the hard sofa beside Miss Hill. "But I will explain my seeming neglect; in the first place, I was summoned unexpectedly to the country to nurse a sick relative, and could not write as I had not your precise address and had no means of obtaining it; secondly, I would not come till I had consulted and arranged with my husband; but now that I am here it is for a definite purpose, to carry you off with me immediately, so the sooner you pack up your property the better." Miss Hill's remonstrances were in vain, her energetic friend had arranged everything with the landlady, and would take no denial. MSS. could be completed far better in a comfortable home than in that wretched apartment, and all business that there was to transact could be accomplished quite as well elsewhere as there, and so, before many days, Lucy Hill found her. self perfectly established in Mr. West's most agreeably located residence, nominally as governess to his two little girls, but in reality as the friend and companion of his wife. For a few brief years this easy and happy life continued, and her health, although not altogether restored, was very much benefited by the careful tending and consideration she inet with from her kind and liberal patrons. Not only had she the advantage of first-rate medical advice, but the means and opportunity provided her for following out whatever was recommended as likely to benefit her. Mr. West was not one to do good by halves; he was a wealthy man, and disposed to use his wealth liberally and wisely. He had consented to Miss Hill becoming an inmate of his house for a time for his wife's sake, but it was not long before he became personally interested in the friendless and delicate governess, whose trials had been so varied, and whose life formed so sad a contrast to the happy lot which his wite enjoyed. Marion rejoiced to see how Miss Hill's judgment was deferred to, and her opinion asked, in many ways, which showed that her husband regarded her rather as a member of the family than a salaried dependent, and had quite made up her mind to retain her beneath her roof for life, unless a better home should be offered her. But these schemes were doomed to be frustrated. Lucy Hill's halcyon days were of brief duration. The brother, already alluded to as dependent in former years upon her exertions, who through all her trials had been but an additional sorrow to her, draining her scanty purse to minister to his reckless extravagance, became hopelessly imbecile, needing careful nursing, such as his sister alone could give, not having the money to procure a more suitable attendant. Once having recognised it as her duty to undertake this charge, her friends' remonstrances were of no avail in dissuading her from her purpose; her comparatively luxurious home was abandoned for a small cottage in a quiet country village, to which her brother was removed. At first she tried to support herself by her needle, but the occupation was distasteful, and she did not succeed in making it answer; so, at the suggestion of some who promised to befriend her, she opened a small day-school, dividing her time between her pupils and the invalid, who rarely left his room, but, being perfectly harmless, was often visited by some friendly neighbour when Miss Hill's presence was most needed in the school-room. Mrs. West still assisted her as far as it was in her power to do so; but death, sudden and unexpected, deprived Miss Hill of this staunch and valuable friend within a year after they had parted, and, as the sorrow-stricken family left England soon afterwards, she was altogether deprived of the sympathy and support she had so long enjoyed. It would be tedious to chronicle the daily trials which were combated, endured, or overcome, by this brave hearted woman, during the years |