make Tommy," said Mrs. Rundle; "why are you always exciting his feelings with such melancholy sights; I would not have my Henry so weak-hearted for all the world: he told me yesterday that he saw Tommy talking to an old Woman, and busily employed picking up threads and tape for her, which I suppose some person had thrown down :--now the friendship I feel for you, made me much hurt to think your child should so disgrace himself as to touch an old Woman, and her dirty basket." "I beg your pardon," rejoined Mrs. Somerville, "but I should almost be inclined to disown my child, if he were not willing to render assistance to any one in distress; and where was there so much need of aid as to that poor old Woman, who, in loseing the contents of her basket, might, perhaps, have lost her all; I am proud to say, my child can feel anothers' sorrow, can weep anothers' woe; and if he lives he will no doubt learn to govern his feelings by the influence of Reason and Religion."—" But,” said Mrs. Rundle, (her features betraying that she did not altogether like this address,)" he will, I foresee,

have distresses enough of his own, without feeling for others; poor Tommy will never be rich; I wish there was any chance of it, for your sake; my Henry, however, will be his friend; he will have plenty of money-£10,000 per annum when he is of age." "Ma'am," said Mrs. Somerville, while her heart chilled at the degrading inuendo," my children shall never be dependants; no, their hearts, thank God, already revolt at the idea; they may be poor, but God will defend his own, and can raise up one, or put another down at his will." "Well," said Mrs. Rundle, with dissembled placidity, "I did not mean to wound your feelings; Tommy is, indeed, a sweet little boy.—I was coming this very day to request his and Geraldine's company to a dance next Wednesday. I will not hear of a refusal, for Henry would be quite disconcerted if they do not come; I wish you would accompany them, for I have some new chandeliers, which will have a brilliant effect by candle-light, and which I long for you to see." Mrs. Somerville yielded a reluctant consent to the invitation, and parted with the indifference her heart dictated.

CHAPTER II.

Oh, Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,
Th' assaults of discontent, and doubts repel;
Dark, even at noontide, is our mortal sphere;
But let us hope-to doubt, is to rebel.

BEATIE.

TOMMY rose early on the following day, and found Geraldine already in the breakfast room, seated at a table, drawing. He stole softly behind her chair, and observed, while she drew, a tear drop on her paper: presently she threw down her pencil, saying, as she rose, “I cannot do it! such drawing as mine will never succeed; and then what can I do! but I will try again;" and she was returning to her seat, when she saw Tommy before her. Why, Geraldine, what have you been talking about?" exclaimed Tommy, "I never talk to myself. Did you draw this, dear Geraldine? I wish you would teach me, and then I can help Mamma too." "Oh, Tommy! I draw so badly, I can do nothing to please me; but if you like, I will give you some pencils, and you may copy what I shew

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you." "Thank you, dear Geraldine; but who are you going to give these drawings to, when they are finished? poor Papa would like to see them when he comes home." "Hush, Tommy," said Geraldine, while her beautiful blue eyes were filled with tears; "you know Mamma told us not to talk about him, but only to think of, and pray for him."-"Well, and I do think of him," replied Tommy, "and I never can help remembering my dear, dear Papa, for I love him, and he loves me too, and you, and Mamma; and I am sure he would like to have these pretty drawings," "No, no, Tommy; do not take them away, for I want to send them somewhere: but look, there is a man coming across the fields, leading a little boy; I dare say it is poor blind Edwin." "Oh! so it is" said Tommy, as he flew delighted from the window to the door, "I will go and meet him. You may put by your drawings to-day, Geraldine, for Mamma has promised us a holiday."

Tommy soon returned with Edwin, and, leading him to Geraldine, told him, she was his sister. Edwin bowed, with a blush of youthful modesty; his light-brown hair curled in Na

ture's own ringlets; his mouth had the expression of sense and intelligence; and, if we might judge from the smile which played around it, we should decide that his heart was good; but at times there was a melancholy which reminded of his misfortune; his eyes, where all, alas! was vacant, were hid by long curling eye-lashes, and the momentary observation of a stranger would not have discovered their defect.

"Dear Mamma," said Tommy, as Mrs. Somerville came into the room, "here is Edwin; he shall have some of the bread and honey which the good old gentleman gave me." Mrs. Somerville was pleased with the simplicity of Edwin's manners.

The repast finished, Geraldine and Tommy, each taking a hand of Edwin, led him to the garden. Tommy gathered for him the sweetest flowers, and then conducted him to the arbour, where Geraldine usually sat to learn her lesson, or practise on her lute. "My sister will play to you, Edwin," said Tommy, "do you like music?" "Yes, Sir, very much; two or three of my companions play on a piano, and I always leave off my work to listen to them.