Yes, you know, and you are silent,
Not a word shall asking win;

Little mouth, more sweet than rose-bud,
Fast it locks the secret in.

Not a glimpse upon your present,
You unfold to glad my view;
Ah! what secrets of your future
I could tell to you.

I must read that sunny present
By the memory of my past,
Its to-day and its to-morrow

Are as lifetimes, vague and vast;
And each face in that green valley
Takes for you an aspect mild,
And each voice grows soft in saying,
"Kiss me, little child."

As a boon the kiss is granted,
Baby-mouth, your touch is sweet!
Takes the love without the trouble
From those lips that with it meet,
Gives the love, O pure! O tender!
Of the valley where it grows,
But the baby-heart receiveth
MORE THAN IT BESTOW's.

Comes the future to the present

"Ah," she saith, "too blithe of mood,

Why that smile, which seems to whisper
I am happy, God is good?

God is good-that truth eternal,
Sown for you in happiest years,
I must tend it in my shadow,
Water it with tears.

"Ah, sweet present, I must lead thee
By a daylight more subdued,
There must teach thee low to whisper
'I am mourning, God is good.'
Peace, thou future, clouds are coming,
Stooping from the mountain's crest,
But that sunshine floods the valley,
Let her, let her rest.

Comes the future to the present,

"Child," she saith, "and wilt thou rest?

How long, child, before thy footsteps

Fret to reach yon cloudy crest?
Ah, the valley!-angels guard it,
But the heights are brave to see,
Looking down were long contentment,
Come up, child, to me."

So she speaks, but do not heed her,
Little child, with wondrous eyes,
Not afraid, but clear and tender,

Blue, and fill'd with prophecies;
Thou for whom life's veil unlifted
Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold,
Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth,
Climb, but heights are cold.

There are buds that fold within them,
Closed and cover'd from our sight,
Many a richly-tinted petal,

Never look'd on by the light,
Fain to see their shrouded faces,
Sun and dew are long at strife,
Till at length the sweet buds open-
Such a bud is life.

When the rose of thine own being
Shall reveal its central fold,
Thou shalt look within and marvel,
Fearing what thine eyes behold;
What it shows and what it teaches

Are not things wherewith to part,
Thorny rose! that always costeth
Beatings at the heart.

Learn that if to thee the meaning
Of all other eyes be shown,
Fewer eyes can ever front thee,

That are skill'd to read thine own;
And that if thy love's deep current,
Many another's far outflows,
Then thy heart must take for ever
LESS THAN IT BESTOWS.

224

DR. DEANE'S GOVERNESS;

OR, DEPENDENT AND INDEPENDENT.

CHAPTER IV.

THREE days had passed, days of deep anxiety and much. exertion to Ann Salter and her mother. The farmer had received greater injuries than had first appeared; but he was going on favourably, and though entirely unused to illness, was very patient, excepting when the thought of his farm came into his head, and then he could not help showing the restlessness and harass of mind that oppressed him.

After the first day and night, Mrs. Salter entirely recovered her self-possession, and was unwearied in her care of her husband; but more was required in his sick-room than could be done by one person; and his daughter sometimes found the various duties now devolving on her almost too much for her strength. There was the servant to look after; for, as Mrs. Salter justly said of her, she had no headpiece, and though professing to understand a dairy, would spoil a whole churning of butter if she was not well attended to; then she loved to gossip outside the back door with the farm labourers, leaving the household work undone.

"Ann, Ann," Mrs. Salter would call gently down the stairs, Have you seen that Emmy has scalded the milkpans?" or, "Have you seen that Emmy has fed those turkeys?" or, "Have you looked after Emmy, and made her kill those young cockerels ready for to-morrow's market?" Sometimes the answer would be, "No, mother; but I will see what she is about when I have weighed the butter for tomorrow. or, "When I have plucked the chickens-they are nearly finished." Sometimes it would be, "No, mother; but I will scald the milkpans myself, for the grains are just come, and Emmy is gone with them to feed the pigs."

Sometimes when Mrs. Salter came down for any little nicety which Ann had prepared for her father, she would sink into a chair, look admiringly at her daughter, and exclaim, with tender pride, "Deary me, what a thing it is to have a daughter ! Here I come down and find everything done to my hands, and her stirring about as busy as a bee. Ann, dear, I'm glad you haven't forgotten how to cook." "Oh no, mother!" would be the cheerful answer; fear of that."

"" no

Ah! I wish your dear father and me could afford to have

you at home always. Dick, you're pleased to have Ann at home, I know?"

Dick, a great, stupid youth of sixteen, his mother's pet when her daughter was away, would answer, shaking his fair hair and heavy head, "I should rather expect so, mother."

Then Mrs. Salter would proceed to carry the little tray with its savoury contents to her husband, being dutifully followed by Dick, who would bear the salt or sugar, as the case might be, and who never would go up and see his father unless he had some such pretence for presenting himself; for he was very shy; and to walk up to his father's bed with no other object than to say, "How do you feel yourself to-day, father? I hope you're mending," would have appeared to him a formidable and affecting ceremony.

When they were gone, Ann Salter's face would cloud with involuntary anxiety, and, busy as she was, a number of moral reflections would crowd into her mind-reflections on being discontented with one's lot-reflections on the folly of not knowing when one was well off, and on the happy lot of a governess as compared with the housekeeper and factotum in a farm. It was not that she did not love her parents and her brothers, not that she did not feel willing to exert herself, both strenuously and cheerfully, in their behalf, but that she perceived how much more carefully one eats bread in one's father's house, if he is poor, than in another man's house if he is rich. In the Doctor's house she had none of the cares of providing-none of the anxieties of possession-her meal and her salary were assured to her. Here she was anxious about every trifle that passed under her hand. "If I spoil these cream cheeses, there is so much money lost that should have gone towards the rent.' "If we cannot sell the poultry this week, how are we to pay the shoe-bill?"

And then would come another set of reflections, which would run thus: Supposing that father does not get well enough to attend to the farm, and mother has to hire somebody to do it for him, then they will not be able to afford to keep Emmy; and what if I should be obliged to come home and do the work. Of all my ten brothers, there is not one that can take father's place. What a sad pity it is that those of every family who have the most energy, and can be worst spared, are those that go away! There are Tom and James in Australia. Then there are Will, and George, and Alick, in Canada, doing very well, and Edward just gone out to them. Well, here is Sam and Joe at home, only because father could not trust them out of his sight, poor fellows; and there is Dick, a mere spoilt child. I see nothing for it

but for me to give up my situation; and, oh, what a misfortune that will be! I shall soon lose a great deal that I have learned, and, perhaps, become coarse with hard work, and low-spirited for want of sometimes hearing a little intellectual conversation. hope it will not be my duty to come home

I cannot bear the thought of it.

"Your servant, Miss Ann," said a man's voice behind her, as she was one day indulging in some such reflections as these. Ann Salter turned suddenly, and encountered the blushing face of William Dobson.

"I just took the liberty to come and inquire after Mr. Salter," said the young man.

"You are very good," replied Ann Salter; "my father is better to-day, but his arm is very painful. Will you sit down?"

William Dobson sat down-they were in the kitchen-Ann Salter had been stirring a pudding, and had one of her mother's aprons tied before her. The consciousness of how different her dress and occupation were from anything he had seen in her before, made her blush with a not unnatural feeling of shame and shyness; but she was relieved when he said, "I need not ask how you are, Miss Ann, for though you must have had a great deal of anxiety, I never saw you looking better activity seems to suit you."

"I am very well, thank you," she answered; and then thought within herself, "Shall I go on stirring this pudding? or, shall I let it spoil because I am too proud to stir it before him?" Good sense prevailed: she took up the spoon, and there was a long pause. She did not think it her duty to find conversation, but quietly waited till her visitor spoke; at last he said, "I had a long letter from your brother Tom this morning, Miss Ann, and thinking you might not have heard this mail, I thought you would be glad to see it."

Ann Salter was glad; Tom was her favourite brother, and she listened to his letter with delight. "How pleased mother will be to hear it!" she observed.

"He is going to write to her," replied William Dobson. "He says so in the postscript."

"Not on the old subject of our going to Australia, I hope,” exclaimed Ann Salter, hastily.

"Why, yes, it is on that subject," said William Dobson; "and if you have anything to say against it to your parents, Miss Ann, perhaps I had better read what he says, and then you will have the start of your brother. He says, ‘P. S.— I have half written a long letter to my mother, urging her to come out here; for I know if she was willing to leave the old