so he took to revenge, which he found a
wonderful solace. And he performed his part to
perfection. For there was not a petty spite,
I grieve to say, in which he did not indulge;
not a malicious expression, not an evidence of
contempt, that he let pass, whether to be
understood by the company at large, or by
their two selves alone. Every form and phase
of disdain he showed her by turns; every
kind of galling allusion he made spitefully
and continually; Mildred sitting by with
her shoulders twitching painfully, and her
large eyes raised with a kind of imploring
wonder to his face. This secret persecution
continued a long time, the poor little girl growing
paler and more nervous every day under it;
Mr. Henry Harley cooling towards her too;
till it became a sad and melancholy sight to
witness the gradual fading of the poor child's
life, and the patient despair with which she
sat by the closing tomb of her happiness.

In the very blackest hour of her
desolation Mr. Henry Harley went away. No
tears, no prayers from Mildred, could keep
him. He had fallen in love with a painting
lady at another boarding-house, where he had
been to visit a friend—for people who live in
boarding-houses are a peculiar race, almost as
exclusive and well-known among each other
as the gipsies or the Jews—and Mr. Harley's
artistic tastes were called in action: he must
go to study her effects. So he went, and
none could stay him. And now poor Mildred
was left alone; left to reflect on the past, and
perhaps to learn from disappointment that
saddest scepticism of all—as to whether the
sacrifice of worldly advantage to principle, of
ambition to love, were a folly or a good. But
she kept her faith in principle too, and her
pride and her secret as well; and no one
knew that Mr. Kelly who treated her now
with such bitter contempt, had once asked
her to become his wife, and had punished her
thus for refusing him.

Years rolled by, and still this strange girl
kept faithful to her first love, who now had
wholly deserted her: and still Mr. Kelly stayed
on and on in the same dull boarding-house,
as if for the one express purpose of insulting
the poor child with an endless ruthless
punishment. Till at last Mildred could bear
it no longer. Too timid to resent, she was too
sensitive to endure this kind of life, which
seemed to have no term to its sufferings. So
one morning she quietly walked out of the
house, leaving no address; and after a long
time of silence and of fearful suspense to
Mrs. Smith, she wrote to her, saying that she
had entered a family as governess, and that
she was going abroad next week. The reason
why she had not written before, she said, was
because she wished to be settled and well
provided for, before she met her mother
again. Her pride would not allow her to
undertake any matter like this, and then fail,
or be dependent on her friends for success.

"Ah, she was always a proud child!"
sighed Mrs. Smith tenderly; "and none the
worse for it!"

When Mr. Kelly heard where Mildred had
gone, and what she was doing, he paid his
bill, packed up his effects, and drove away
into the fog. And if a clairvoyante had
described what he was about, and how he
looked that day when rattling through the
streets of murky London, he would have been
seen huddled up in a corner of the cab,
sobbing like a child, and crying, "Mildred!
Mildred! I have driven you to this!"

Perhaps I may have more to tell of poor
Mildred Smith some day. And of Mr. Kelly
too.

A VISION.

GLOOMY and black are the cypress trees,
Drearily waileth the chill night breeze.
The long grass waveth, the tombs are white,
And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight.
Silent is all save the dropping rain,
When slowly there cometh a mourning train.
The lone churchyard is dark and dim,
And the mourners raise a funeral hymn:

"Open, dark grave, and take her;
          Though we have loved her so,
Yet we must now forsake her,
Love will no more awake her;
          (Oh, bitter woe!)
Open thine arms and take her
          To rest below!

"Vain is our mournful weeping
          Her gentle life is o'er;
Only the worm is creeping
Where she will soon be sleeping,
          For evermore—
Nor joy nor love is keeping
          For her in store!"

Gloomy and black are the cypress trees,
And drearily wave in the chill night breeze.
The dark clouds part and the heavens are blue,
Where the trembling stars are shining through.
Slowly across the gleaming sky,
A crowd of white angels are passing by.
Like a fleet of swans they float along,
Or the silver notes of a dying song.
Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise,
Fading away up the purple skies.
But hush! for the silent glory is stirred,
By a strain such as earth has never heard:

"Open, O Heaven! we bear her,
          This gentle maiden mild,
Earth's grief's we gladly spare her,
From earthly joys we tear her,
          Still undefiled;
And to thy arms we bear her,
          Thine own, thy child.

"Open, O Heaven! no morrow
          Will see this joy o'ercast,
No pain, no tears, no sorrow,
Her gentle heart will borrow;
          Sad life is past.
Shielded and safe from sorrow,
          At home at last."