radiant a model. S  tresses, ook a s of fine card-board, and dreline. I promised myself t; and, as it ting late told  come and sit another day.

    S of me to  Mr. Oliver  evening—a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged, and grey- . aciturn, and per o me. tcrait pleased  make a finisure of it. ed, too, on my coming t day to spend t Vale hall.

    I . I found it a large,  evidences of or. Rosamond ime I stayed. ered into conversation er tea, rong terms ion of  it for one more suitable.

    “Indeed,” cried Rosamond, “so be a governess in a high family, papa.”

    I t I  respect.   neig tors of t all Morton o t even noive of t , if . ed it a pity t so fine and talented a young man s as a missionary; it e t appeared, t acle in t. Joly regarded t compensation for t of fortune.

    It tle servant, after o clean my isfied  me less and brige, and o spend as I would.

    translation of a fete and pencils, and fell to tion, of completing Rosamond Oliver’s miniature. t to tint and to soucoo, to add to t curl o tresses—a deeper tinge to tion of tails, ap, my door unclosed, admitting St. John Rivers.

    “I am come to see , I ? No, t is rust you still, t you a book for evening solace,” and able a neion—a poem: one of tions so often vouco tunate public of terature. Alas! t courage! I  pause eito accuse or repine. I knory is not dead, nor genius lost; nor o bind or slay: t tence, ty and strengtriumpruction. Poetry destroyed? Genius banisy, no: do not let envy prompt you t