drank at dinner was filtered; and then they
went and scoured out the few water-tubs
there were in the village, and consulted their
neighbours as to how the public of Bleaburn
could be persuaded not to throw filth and
refuse into the stream at the upper part,
defiling it for those who lived lower down.

One morning at the beginning of December
—on such a morning as was now sadly
frequent, drizzly, and far too warm for the
season—the lads who went up to the brow
saw the same sight that had been visible in
the same place one evening in the preceding
August. There was a chaise, and an anxious
post-boy, and a lady talking with one of the
cordon. Mr. Kirby had learned what friends
Mary Pickard had in England, and which of
them lived nearest, and he had taken the
liberty of writing to declare the condition of
the Good Lady. His letter brought the
friend, Mrs. Henderson, who came charged
with affectionate messages to Mary from her
young daughters, and a fixed determination
not to return without the invalid.

"To think," as she said to Mary when she
appeared by the side of her mattress, "that
you should be in England, suffering in this
way, and we not have any idea what you were
going through!"

Mary smiled, and said she had gone through
nothing terrible on her own account. She
might have been at Mr. Kirby's for three
weeks past, but that she really preferred being
where she was.

"Do not ask her now, Madam, where she
likes to be," said Mr. Kirby, who had been
brought down the street by the bustle of a
stranger's arrival. "Do not consult her at
all, but take her away, and nurse her well."

"Yes," said the Doctor; "lay her in a good
air, and let her sleep, and feed her well; and
she will soon come round. She is better—
even here."

"Madam," said Widow Johnson's feeble
but steady voice, "be to her what she has
been to us; raise her up to what she was
when I first heard her step upon those stairs,
and we shall say you deserve to be her friend."

"You will go, will not you? "whispered
Mrs. Kirby to Mary. "You will let us
manage it all for you?"

"Do what you please with me," was the
reply. "You know best how to get me well
soonest. Only let me tell Aunty that I will
come again, as soon as I am able."

"Better not," said the prudent Mrs. Kirby.
"There is no saying what may be the condition
of this place by the spring. And it might
keep Mrs. Johnson in a state of expectation
not fit for one so feeble. Better not."

"Very well," said Mary.

Mrs. Kirby thought of something that her
husband had said of Mary; that he had never
seen any one with such power of will and
command so docile. She merely promised
her aunt frequent news of her; agreed with
those who doubted whether she could bear
the jolting of any kind of carriage on the road
up to the brow; admitted that, though she
could now stand, she could not walk across
the room; allowed herself to be carried on
her mattress in a carpet, by four men, up to
the chaise; and nodded in reply to a remark
made by one little girl to another in the
street, and which the doctor wished she had
not heard, that she looked "rarely bad."
The landlady at O——seemed, by her
countenance, to have much the same opinion
of Mary's looks, when she herself brought
out the glass of wine, for which Mrs. Henderson
stopped her chaise at the door of the
Cross Keys. The landlady brought it herself,
because none of her people would give as
much as a glass of cold water, hand to hand
with any one who came from Bleaburn. The
landlady stood shaking her head, and saying
she had done the best she could; she had
warned the young lady in time.

"But you were quite out in your warning,"
said Mary. "You were sure I should have
the fever: but I have not."

"You have not!"

"I have had no disease—no complaint
whatever. I am only weak from fatigue."

"It is quite true," said Mrs. Henderson,
as the hostess turned to her for confirmation.
"Good wine like this, the fresh air of our
moors, and the easy sleep that comes to
Good Ladies like her, are the only medicines
she wants."

The landlady curtsied low—said the payment
made should supply a glass of wine to
somebody at Bleaburn, and bade the driver
proceed. After a mile or two, he turned his
head, touched his hat, and directed the ladies'
attention to a bottle of wine, with loosened
cork, and a cup which the hostess had contrived
to smuggle into the pocket of the
chaise. She was sure the young lady would
want some wine before they stopped.

"How kind every body is!" said Mary,
with swimming eyes. Mrs. Henderson cleared
her throat, and looked out of the window on
her side.

YOUNG RUSSIA.

CERTAIN social theorists have, of late years,
proclaimed themselves to the puzzled public
under the name and signification of 'Young.'
Young France, Young Germany, and Young
England have had their day, and having now
grown older, and by consequence wiser, are
comparatively mute. In accordance with
what seems a natural law, it is only when a
fashion is being forgotten where it originated
—in the west—that it reaches Russia, which
rigidly keeps a century or so behind the rest
of the Continent. It is only recently, therefore,
that we hear of 'Young Russia.'

The main principles of all these national
youths are alike. They are pleasingly picturesque
—simperingly amiable; with a pretty
and piquant dash of paradox. What they