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grew stronger, and I looked up, and saw Amy
standing before me.

The door was closed behind her, and she
stood there, still, and dressed in deep mourning.
I kept my eyes upon her, arose, and walking
over to her, put forth my hand to touch her,
wondering.

"Oh, Amy, is it you, indeed? " I pressed
her to me firmly, and kissed her, and leaning
my head upon her shoulder, wept for joy.
She, too, wept. " This moment has blotted
out from my memory all the time that you
have been away, Amy. It seems to me only
last night that you bade me farewell in this
very place. It has been a hard trial."

"For both," said Amy. " I told my uncle
I would stay by him while he lived; and I
have kept my promise."

"He is dead?"

She did not answer me; but I glanced
again at her mourning bonnet, and her dress
of crape. " He had become more strange of
late," said Amy. "The fancy that you would
come and take me from him grew stronger
before he died. I knew how strongly the
fancy had taken possession of his mind, and
that it grew out of his love for me. That was
enough."

"And you came here alone, Amy?"

"Yes, and from a distant place; I knew that
you were now the Warden, and I came alone to
ask you to forgive me, even though you should
have changed towards me."

Well, well! what need have I to write how
I replied to Amy, God bless her!

                *  *  *  *  *

"Dear love," said I; " my mother waits for
me at tea." I took her hand and led her
down the room, and through into the house.
By-and-bye, we all three sat together, with
the window open, looking out into the
gardensAmy in the old chair in which she
had often sat at work. It had been a fine
day, and the sun went down without a cloud.
We lighted no candles, but still sat there
talking, when the leaves were stirred by a
cool wind, and many stars were out.

Early in the winter of that year our old
enemy, the blind man, fell ill and died. Amy
was then my dear, dear wife. She knew that
he had been the cause of sorrow to us;
but she waited on him in his illness, and was,
at the last, an Angel by his bed. We sat that
night beside the fire. We sat there until late,
remembering our old troubles, and grateful
to the Providence that had shaped them to a
happy end.

             BRITAIN.

My faith is in my native land;
Her maids are pure, her sons are brave;
And Liberty sails from her strand,
That free-born men may free the slave.
Her courage is the fear of God:
From Him she gathers strength complete,
To tread the path that One hath trod,
And One, alone, with naked feet.

She is not what she yet may be;
And, therefore, till her work is done,
I know she marches onward free,
On to the setting of her sun.
Great splendour will the world behold;
The West will shine with wondrous light,
And she, on clouds of crumbling gold,
Will sink to her immortal night.

A welcome hand she reaches out
To modern friend, or ancient foe;
Nor can her grasp give birth to doubt
Of honest faith, or friendship slow.
In forward steps her sons are bold,
But to her system firm and true,
They know the value of the Old,
They feel the virtue of the New.

Her may the Arts for evermore
Ennoble for their nourriture!
Her may the distant sheening shore
Enrich; and may her temples pure
To all men preach the living truth!
But never let her missions roam
Unblest abroad, while age and youth
Are pining to be taught at home.

Her mighty names can never die;
The Fountain-spring baptised their years:
She is the foremost in the eye
Of Destiny, through them and theirs;
And while her sons remain sincere,
And what they feel speak freely forth,
The moving world may never fear
The icy fetters of the North.

OUR PARISH POOR BOX.

We live in a curious parish. It is curious
for many reasons; but is most curious because
three parts of its inhabitants live away from
home three parts of their time. Not that we
dwell amongst rich landholders who come
down only on rent days; or just to look at
the estates which support their extravagance
in other places, as they would walk into their
picture-gallery to look at a landscape. Neither
is our parish afflicted with meteorological and
sanitary arrangements of such a character as
to banish every person who can afford to stay
away. We simply belong to a very industrious
parish; and being idle ourselves, have leisure
to devote to the praise of other people's
industry.

St. Nancy de Lovell is a large parish, and
has many defects for which its size furnishes
no excuse. While it has large streets and
squares, large families and populations, it has
a large number of small, dirty, and crowded
streets. These small, dirty, and crowded
streets yield a large proportion of unhealthy
and ill-cared-for families, which swell the
"statistical" population, and lead to angry
remarks in newspapers. If the tax-gatherer
calls upon one of the "existing" population
of St. Nancy de Lovell (one of the
hundreds who merely exist), his appeals are
vain. "Father is at work," says one child;
"Mother's out charing," says another. So

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