sails, according as is best, and we must steer knowledgeably and trust to Providence for prosperous gales. If I put out to sea, with tattered canvas, and helm out of order, and a leak or two in the vessel, I must expect disasters, and it is idle to cry to God to steer me safely back again to port; but if I do all that in me lies, and a storm arises, and my sails are torn to ribbons, and my bows broken in, and my rudder will not answer, then I may call upon the Lord, and look for Him to succour me in my hour of need; for it is written of them that see the works of the LORD, and His wonders in the deep,-' Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven.

"Why do you say those last words so emphatically, Gilbert?"

"Because it sounds so good. I am only a sailor in a small way, I never go very far from land; but I know what it is to be tossed up and down, and like to go to pieces, and then get into port-into the desired haven! And they do say, life is a voyage, and we are all bound for some haven or other. Do you think it is so, Miss Margaret?"

"I do not know; I never thought about it, Gilbert. If life is a voyage, I have always taken it, so far, in a snug little cock-boat moored on to a fine large bark, and I have never been in deep waters yet."

"No, Miss Margaret, you haven't. You've just been rocking about in creeks and shallow pools, and you don't know what a strong breeze or a heavy sea is like."

"I should like a little breeze, Gilbert; it's rather tame living here at North Combe always !"

"Oh, Miss Margaret, don't'e quarrel with your calm, quiet life; may be there'll come a time when you'll look back on these pleasant, free-and-easy days, just like a shipwrecked man looks back upon his leisure on the shore."

"What makes you say that, Gilbert?"

"Nothing in particular, miss; only there are hard lines for everybody; and just now-dear me, you are not at sea at all, but on a little inland lake, taking your pleasure in a fairy coracle, with silken sails and golden paddles."

"But, Gilbert, I should like to get out to sea. The lake is all very well for children, but I am growing out of childhood I shall soon be a woman. I should like to see the

world. I should like-"

"What would you like, Miss Margaret?"

“I should like to feel myself to be living; to go to many places; to know many people. I should like to be rich, that papa might give up his practice, and we could all travel for his health, and you should go with us, Gilbert. If I were rich, you should not spend your time in mending rotten nets, and caulking leaky boats, and going out with the night-tide; -you should have your wish, and learn all that is to be learnt !"

"Thank you, Miss Margaret, just the same as if you put the money down, and said, 'Here, Gilbert, go to school, and afterwards to college!' But I'll try hard to get some learning. I should like to be worthy of the Tredgold name, for we were not fishermen and peasants always ;—there's Tredgold-Austell, they tell me, down in Cornwall, a fine estate that once belonged to my forefathers,—a grand old place, I've heard, but very desolate. I should like to see it!"

"So should I, Gilbert; but I suppose it is out of the question; I have never been ten miles from St. Eldred's since I first came here, a little child, not four years old. Suppose you should ever get back this Tredgold-Austell ?"

"Tredgold-Austell is the name of the little town; Tredgold Court is what the house is called. Well, Miss Margaret, I mean to get it back, God helping me !"

"You do! Gilbert, you are crazy; you would want what Susan calls 'a power of money,' and you haven't any, now."

“No, Miss Margaret, but I have got two strong hands and two good legs to carry me about; and I've got some brains, with not much in them at present; but,

look you, I mean to learn every mortal thing I can, and to be a good fisherman, too. I take it that it's a bad way to get on, to begin by neglecting your duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call you; there's nothing gained by doing anything that's right to do by halves; and I'll mend these old nets as long as ever they will hang together; and I'll take the fish to market with a will; but I can take up the broken meshes and get my lesson too; and many's the page I've made my own between our cottage and St. Eldred's. Miss Margaret, you once lent me a map of the world; have you another of Europe that you could spare me for a bit."

“You shall have an atlas, if you like; at least I will ask papa about it, and he'll be sure to lend it you; he likes you, Gilbert, and so does mamma !"

"The doctor and madam are both very good to me, and so are you, Miss Margaret; and that reminds me, I've seen some of the purple sea-weed you want a mile or two on the other side of Black Tor; and there are handsome shells, too, -such as you would like for your collection;—and next week the tide will serve, and I will take you there in the boat, if you please, and Alice, my sister, will like to go very much."

"That will be charming! I will ask mamma if I may go. Tell Alice she must not bring her knitting, but make up her mind for a real holiday."

"And now you must go home, Miss Margaret,—it is twenty minutes to nine."

"How can you tell?"

"By the lights on Torstone Hill, also by the tide,-don't you see the "Little Gipsy" is afloat, and the creek is filling as fast as it can fill? And look, the bar is covered, and there is surf as far as Stanger's Bank! It is later than I thought, -only a quarter to!"

So I bade my friend good-night, and scampered home; not so fast as I came though, for I had to keep nearly all the way upon the shingle, and everybody knows what sort of travelling that is. When I reached Kelver House, papa

and mamma were at the gate looking for me, and the summer moon was beginning to cast long rays of silver on the placid sea. Oh, happy days of innocent trust, and peace, and pure unfeigned love! Happy child that I was, in the safe anchorage of those blessed home affections! Why did I long to set sail upon the troublous sea of life?

CHAPTER II.

GLIMPSES OF THE FUTURE.

THE next morning mamma and I sat with patience and resignation over a page of "Telemaque." Thirty years ago "Telemaque" was read or stumbled over by everybody who learned French, and the first two or three chapters are certainly interesting enough; and it is very nice to read. about Calypso, and Eucharis, and the rest of her nymphs, and very amusing to perceive how these fabled deities are as frail as the frailest of mortals, giving way to shocking tempers, burning with envy, wrath, and cruel jealousy, and occasionally taking such vengeance as only the sons and daughters of Olympus are privileged to take. But, then, there are pages upon pages of the driest and most ascetic morality, volumes of counsel from that trying Mentor, and confused philosophy, which I am pretty certain Frenchmen themselves never entirely understand; and mamma and I were helplessly floundering through a string of sentences all pronouns and participles, and it seemed to our unenlightened comprehensions that the great goddess Minerva, the wonderful Pallas Athene, under the form of Mentor, was really pouring out unmitigated "twaddle."

The page was accomplished at last somehow; there was rather more nonsense than sense in our rendering of it,—that was all; and poor mamma was even happier than myself when the old calf-bound, dimly-printed book was closed, and we could turn with easy consciences to the comparatively recreative task of irregular verbs and numeral adjectives.

Ah! my dear young ladies, studying in the school-rooms of the seventh decade of this clever nineteenth century, you little know how hard we of the prior generation had to work, in order to get ourselves presentably educated and well "finished." There were no "Ahn's Courses" then, no "Mary's Grammar," no systems teaching people all they wished to know in half-a-dozen lessons; we had to toil, and grope, and wonder, for our teachers, whose advantages were scantier than our own, were often in a labyrinth of doubts themselves, and knew not how to answer many of the questions propounded by their pupils. It is all changed now, and woe to the presumptuous wight who establishes himself in the tutorial chair without first qualifying. Teachers now are expected to know everything perfectly; they are to teach without books; they are to make lessons, however abstruse, positively charming; they must supply ability where that slight requisite is wanting; in short, they are to educate extensively and thoroughly, without pains or weariness on the part of the happy pupil without reproof, and, of course, without the smallest hint of punishment; to carry the young student from the first step to the last of his or her curriculum, in a comfortable first-class carriage, by express, and sometimes, special train. Our parents trod the grand highway of learning painfully on foot, getting a lift now and then as chance might favour them; we who are the middle-aged men and women of the day, travelled the same road respectably in a solemn, slow stage-coach; our children take it jauntily by rail, and I should not be surprised if a fourth and fifth generation flew from point to point of science and accomplishment in air balloons or by electric telegraph.

I had finished my French lesson with an emphatic "No more of that till another week," when papa, who was not out that morning, came in, and, to my intense horror, proposed to examine me in the very studies I had just joyfully discarded. Even mamma looked rather melancholy, for "Telemaque," as usual, had made her head ache.

"My dear," she said, "Margaret is tired, and, indeed,