evenings were passed amid books and music, his faithful dog at his feet, and his kitten on his knee. At our entrance, a pair of nesting birds flew forth in alarm. Methought they were fitting representatives of that gentle spirit which would not have disturbed their callow young, or harmed the trusting sparrow. If that spirit had endured aught from man which it could not forget or reveal, - if the fine balance of the mind had been broken by the pressure laid upon it, we would stand upon the sufferer's grave, not to condemn, but to pity. XIII. COUSIN DEBORAH'S LEGACY. CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL. COUSIN DEBORAH was an old, unmarried lady, who had no other property than a moderate life annuity. The furniture of her house was faded and antique ; the linen was well darned; the plate was scanty, and worn thin with use and frequent scouring; the books were few and in no very good condition. She had no jewels or trinkets; her days were passed in a dreary state of tranquillity, stitching, stitching, stitching, forever, with her beloved huge work box at her elbow. That wanted nothing; for it was abundantly fitted up with worsted, cotton, tape, buttons, bodkins, needles, and such a multiplicity of reels and balls that to enumerate them would be a tedious task. Cousin Deborah particularly prided herself on her darning; carpets, house linen, stockings, all bore unimpeachable testimony to this branch of industry. Holes and thin places were hailed with delight by her; and it was whispered-but that might be a mere matter of scandal- that she even went so far as to cut holes in her best table cloths for the purpose of exercising her skill and ingenuity in repairing the fractures. Be that as it may, the work box was as much a companion to her as dogs or cats are to many other single ladies. She was lost without it: her conversation always turned on the subject of thread papers and needle cases; and never was darning cotton more scientifically rolled into neat balls, than by the taper fingers of Cousin Deborah. The contents of that wonderful work box would have furnished a small shop. As a child, I always regarded it with a species of awe and veneration; and without daring to lay a finger on the treasures it contained, my prying eyes greedily devoured its mysteries, when the raised edge revealed its mountains of cotton and forests of pins and needles. And I have, no doubt that Cousin Deborah first regarded me with favor in consequence of being asked by my mother to give me a lesson in darninga most necessary accomplishment in our family, as I was the eldest of many brothers and sisters; and, though very happy among ourselves, the circumstances of our dear parents rendered the strictest industry and frugality absolutely. indispensable in order to make "both ends meet." She was proud of me, on the whole, as a pupil, though she sometimes had occasion to reprove me for idleness and skipping stitches; and between us, it is impossible to say how many pairs of stockings we made whole in the course of the year. We resided near our cousin Deborah; and many a time I was invited to take tea with her, and bring my work bag in my hand, as a matter of course, and to sit with her for long hours without speaking, intent on our needles, the silence unbroken save by the ticking of the eight day clock. I sometimes found it very dull work, I confess. Not so Cousin Deborah. She needed no other society than that of her work box; and I do not believe she loved any human being so well. Her whole heart was in it; and the attachment she evidenced towards me, as time went on, was fostered and encouraged by our mutual zeal in performing tasks of needle work. Not that I shared in her devotion: I was actuated by a sense of duty alone, and would far rather, could I have done so conscientiously, have been dancing and laughing with companions of my own age. But ply the needle I did, and so did Cousin Deborah; and we two became, with the huge old work box between us, quite a pair of loving friends; and at least two evenings in every week I went to sit with the lone woman. She would have had me do so every evening; but, though there were so many of us at home, our parents could not bear to spare any of us out of their sight oftener than they deemed indispensable. At length Cousin Deborah's quiet and blameless life came to an end. Having shut her work box, locked it, and put the key in a sealed packet, she turned her face to the wall, and fell asleep. When her will was opened, it was found that she had left her books, furniture, and plate to a family that stood in the same relationship to her as we did, but who were in much more prosperous circumstances than we. To me she devised the huge old work box, with all its contents, "in token of the high esteem and affection with which I was regarded" by the deceased. I was to inherit the well-stored work box, only on condition that it was to be daily used by me in preference to all others. "Every ball of darning cotton, as it diminishes, shall bring its blessing," said Cousin Deborah; "for Ada Benwell" (that was my name) "is a good girl, and has darned more holes in the stockings of her little brothers and sisters than any other girl of her age. Therefore I particularly commend the balls of darning cotton to her notice; and I particularly recommend her to use them up as soon as she can, and she will meet with her reward in due season." My mother was a little disappointed at the contents of our kinswoman's will, and expressed her displeasure in a few sharp remarks, for which my father gently reproved her. The subject of the legacies was never again discussed by us. The work box was in constant requisition at my side, and the balls of darning cotton rapidly diminished. One day, as I was sitting beside my mother busy with my needle, she remarked, "You have followed our poor cousin's directions, my dear Ada. She particularly recommended you to use up the balls of darning cotton as soon as possible; and look, there is one just done." As my mother spoke, I unrolled a long needleful, and came to the end of that ball. A piece of paper fell to the ground, which had been the nucleus on which the ball was formed. I stooped to pick it up, and was just about throwing it into the fire, when it caught my mother's eye, and she stretched out her hand and seized it. In a moment she unfolded it before our astonished gaze: it was a bank note of fifty pounds. “O, dear, misjudged Cousin Deborah!" she exclaimed; "this is our Ada's reward in due season. It's just like her kind, queer old soul!" We were not long in using up all the other balls of darning cotton in that marvellous work box; and such a reward as I found for my industry sure never was met with before or since. Truly, it was a fairy box, and my needle the fairy's wand. No less than ten fifty pound notes were thus brought to light; and my father laughingly declared I had wrought my own dower with my needle. No persuasions could induce him to appropriate the treasure; he said it was my "reward," and belonged to me alone. XIV. THE WRECK. MRS. HEMANS. [Felicia Dorothea Hemans was born in Liverpool, Engiand, September 25, 1794, and died May 12, 1835. Her poetry is remarkable for purity and delicacy of feeling, and a fine sense of the beauty of nature.] Art night the booming * minute gun And mournfully the rising sun Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. Had veiled her topsails to the sand, *Booming, heavily sounding or swelling. The queenly ship!- brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her We saw her mighty cable riven, Like floating gossamer. We saw her proud flag struck that morn, A star once o'er the seas Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, And sadder things than these. We saw her treasures cast away · And gorgeous robes but O, that shore We saw the strong man still and low, Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, And near him on the sea weed lay - For her pale arms a babe had pressed, Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast, Yet not undone the clasp. Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child's form, Where still their wet long streamers clung, *Fretted, corroded or worn by the action of water. |