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102 and schoolboys, and all who live within the walls of the Charter House, attend service. A very fine old chapel it is, but I have not space to talk about it here.

If I were compelled to send a boy to any of the London schools, and unless there are drawbacks of which I know nothing, I would certainly select the Charter House, in preference to Westminster, St. Paul’s, or Merchant Taylors’, on account of the Green and playing-grounds. Still, it would be far better if the governors and trustees could make up their minds to remove their penates altogether to the open country. The number of scholars, both at Westminster and Charter House, is sadly lower than it used to be; and the real reason of this falling off is, that parents very properly prefer to send their children to school in the country. Perhaps on another day I may say a few words about Westminster, the Bluecoat School, and Merchant Taylors’. For the present, as Dr. Sleath used to say, “There will be a play to-day, for the composition of” 2em

? You do but jest! You smile in the dark, I know! Surely I should know best How the quick pulses go. Lay your hand on my cheek: Feel, though you see not, the red. Why, in another week, I shall have left my bed!

It was being so long alone— So sick of the world’s vain strife, Uncared for, and unknown, That sapp’d the springs of life! You have given a world of love: Nay, soften that anxious brow; Is not our God above? He will not summon me now.

The summer is coming fast; I can scent the rich perfume Of the lilac by the door, And the delicate apple-bloom. Where shall our year be spent? I long for the hills of Spain— We will go to Rome, for Lent, Then back to our home again.

O, what is this sudden pang? Is it growing darker, Will? Heavily goes my heart,— It is almost standing still! Raise me—I cannot breathe— Pray for me, love,” she said. Father, into Thy hands!” And my young wife was dead.

night mail lumbering through the heavy snow one wild and gusty December night, some forty years ago, bore a shivering freight of blue-nosed passengers on their comfortless journey across the barren moors of Dearthshire, and among them Mrs. Gurdlestone’s maid, Hester Burgess, in the rumble. A mail-coach ride from London to Dearthshire was no inconsiderable undertaking for an unprotected female in those days, mind you, still less for a timid young woman just going into service for the first time, thrown upon the world by the death of her mother, alone and friendless. And indeed Hester Burgess had a dreary and