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to see how it looked there. "How kind it was in Miss Florence to think of giving this to us," said Mary; 'though she has done so much for us, and given us so many things, yet this present seems the best of all, because it seemed as if she thought of us, and knew just how we felt, and so few do that."

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Stephens, sighing.

What a bright afternoon that small gift made in that little room. How much faster Mary's tongue and fingers flew the livelong day; and Mrs. Stephens, in the happiness of her child, almost forgot that she had a headache, and thought, as she sipped her evening cup of tea, that she felt stronger than she had done for some time.

That rose, its sweet influence died not with that first day. Through all the long, cold winter that followed, the watching, tending, and cherishing of that flower, awakened a thousand pleasing trains of thought, that beguiled the sameness and weariness of their life. Every day the fair growing thing put forth some fresh beauty— a bud, a leaf, or a new shoot, constantly excited fresh delight in its possessors.

As it stood in the window, the passer-by would sometimes stop and gaze, attracted by its beauty, and then how proud and happy was Mary, nor did even the serious and care-worn widow notice with indifference, when she saw the eye of a chance visitor rest admiringly on their favourite.

But little did Florence know when she gave that gift, that there was twined around it an invisible thread that reached far and brightly into the web of her destiny.

One cold afternoon in early spring, a tall, graceful young man called at the lowly room to receive and pay for some linen which the widow had been making up. He was a wayfarer and stranger in the place, recommended through the charity of some of Mrs. Stephens' friends. His eye, as he was going out, rested admiringly upon the rose; he stopped and looked earnestly at it.

"It was given to us," said little Mary, quickly, "by a young lady as sweet and beautiful as that is

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Ah," said the stranger, turning and fixing upon her a pair of very bright eyes, pleased and rather struck with the simplicity of the communication, "and how came she to give it you, my little girl ?”

"Oh, because we are poor, and mother is sick, and we never can have anything pretty. We used to have a garden and we loved flowers so much, and Miss Florence found all this out, and so she gave us this.”

one,

"Florence," echoed the stranger.

"Yes, Miss Florence l'Estrange, a beautiful young lady -they say she was from foreign parts, though she speaks English just like any other lady, only sweeter."

"Is she here now? Is she in this city ?" said the gentleman, eagerly.

"No, she left some months since," said the widow; but noticing the sudden shade of disappointment on his face, she added: "but you can find all about her by inquiring of her aunt, Mrs. Carlisle's, No. 10 - street."

As the result of this, Florence received from the office in the next mail a letter, in a hand-writing that made her tremble. During the many early years of her life spent in France, she had well learned that writing; had loved as a woman like her loves, only once; but there had been obstacles of parents and friends, separation and long suspense, till at length, for many bitter years, she had believed that the relentless sea had closed for ever over that hand and heart; and it was this belief that had touched with such sweet, calm sorrow, every line in her lovely face. But this letter told her he was living; that he had traced her, even as a hidden streamlet may be traced, by the freshness and greenness of heart, which her deeds of kindness had left wherever she had passed.

And this much said, do our fair readers need any help in finishing this story for themselves? Of course not.

LETTERS TO THE YOUNG.

NO. XVI.-MILTON'S PROSE WORKS.

MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,-I am afraid I shall weary you with my long stay at the shrine of John Milton. Glorious as the subject is, some of you will, I dare say, wish for a change. I beg you, however, to have patience with me, for I assure you that this will be my last letter on the subject. I did not think of saying half as much as I have already said about Milton, and his noble writings. But, as I had engaged to write you a letter about his poetry, and as I read, for my own instruction and gratification, all I could lay my hands on about the man; and read, and re-read some of his most admirable and eloquent productions, the subject continued to enlarge, and my feelings as well as convictions became so deeply interested in the subject, that I felt it really difficult to tear myself away from his poetry; and when at last I did finish what I had to say about his poetry, I, having received so much pleasure, and I hope profit, from the reading of some of his immortal "Prose Works," determined, with the kind permission of the Editor, to write you at least one letter about them. You will see from the extracts that I shall give you from his prose works, that they are pervaded with a spirit as lofty and poetic as that which breathes in his poetry; and I can scarcely tell you which I admire the most-his poetry or his prose.

In endeavouring to form a correct estimate of the man himself, of his noble independence of mind, of his sublime and lofty spirit, his intense zeal for the cause of mental, political, civil, and religious freedom, of his deep and ardent piety, of his vast acquirements, and the faithfulness and conscientious sincerity with which he made all his mental stores subservient to the glory of God and the good of man, I found the reading of some of his prose works of immense service to me. And my young friends, it is worth while study

He raises our estimate of

ing the character of such a man. humanity; he shows us how sublime a studious man, by culture and piety, can become.

It is impossible for me, my young friends, to convey to you one tithe of the delight which some of his prose writings have afforded me, in bringing me into the most intimate communion with the inmost spirit of the man himself. The foul calumnies which his bitter foes endeavoured to cast on his fair fame, led him, in self defence, to unfold the private history of his own mind and life-to throw open not only the doors of his study and his closet-but also to bare to us the sanctuary of his own soul; and a sublime sight it is to look into the bosom and contemplate the spirit of such a being. One of the principle lessons, which this part of his prose works teaches us, is that of pity and contempt for the meanness of envy and the nobleness of true honour and moral magnanimity. His foes show how envy can degrade human nature. His own conduct and spirit show us how glorious a thing is genuine independence and magnanimity. In the history of all great movements, there are masterspirits whom God raises up to do his work-men with large intellects and large hearts-men willing to make a sacrifice of their all to their country and their God-to give themselves without reserve to God and his cause. These men, being fitted both by nature and previous culture for leading on the armies of the living God, in the great battle for truth and freedom, secure their own place and fill it well. But although they serve so ably and faithfully the cause which they have espoused, there are always found little mindsnarrow envious souls-who, while themselves unable to take the helm and steer the vessel in safety, yet seem to think that they do God service while thus acting-spend their time in giving annoyance to those whom God and good men alike see fit to be placed at the head of great movements. There never yet was a great cause that was not either more or less injured and marred by the conduct of these little spirits. I wish you, my young friends, to be above such a disposition, to learn to despise such meanness. I would wish you to be above the spirit of envy and

jealousy, and be ever ready to acknowledge worth wherever it is seen; and think yourself honoured in being allowed to take the lowest place in the great army of the living God. Uncle Joseph would, however, both in himself and his young friends, equally deprecate crouching servility and mean spirited enviousness. You will see in John Milton neither the one nor the other; but a spirit of carnest and manly piety and prudence. You will admire the noble bard as you see him lay aside or forsake for a time the more congenial pursuits of polite literature, and grasp and wield with astonishing power the pen of the sturdy controversialist. He entered the lists of controversy reluctantly, but under a solemn sense of duty. He expresses his feelings on the subject in the following noble words. He regrets his being called "to interrupt the pursuits of his hopes, and to leave a calm and pleasing solitariness, fed with cheerful and confident thoughts, to embark on a troubled sea of noises and hoarse disputes, from beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies." And he adds: "For surely to every good and peaceable man, it must, in nature, needs be a hateful thing to be the displeaser and molester of thousands! much better would it like him, doubtless, to be the messenger of gladness and contentment, which is his chief intended business to all mankind, but that they resist and oppose their own true happiness. But when God commands to take the trumpet, and blow a dolorous or a jarring blast, it lies not in man's will what he shall say, or what he shall conceal. If he shall think to be silent, as Jeremiah did, because of the reproach and derision he met with daily, and all his familiar friends watched for his halting, to be revenged on him for speaking the truth, he would be forced to confess as he confessed: "His word was in my breast as a burning fire shut up in my bones; I was weary with forbearing, and could not stay. Such were the feelings with which Milton began his prose works, and although he sometimes allows his feeling of contempt for his mean spirited opponentsmany of whom were beneath contempt-to lead him to use language that we wish he had not used, yet his controver