bave it. And neighbour Brown and the miller and I must eat. I can take nothing off, unless- But indeed I do need them," he added hesitatingly, and, sinking his voice as he looked down at the shoes and stockings that certainly betrayed a very long acquaintance with the world, and might fairly be called shabby-" I really cannot do without them." "And why not?" he added, after a moment's deep pause. "Three months soon go round; and if I take care and stitch the old shoes once more, they must hold out. Poor people, they need it more than I! Gray-haired fool that I am, must I be so vain in my old age, and play the fop! Come, Friedefeld, to work. Bis dat qui cito dat." So saying, he took a sheet of paper, cut it into seven pieces, wrapped up a crown in each, and wrote an address on the back. And then, going to the window, he murmured, "Heavenly Father, let Thy blessing rest upon these mites, and help me, Thine aged servant, through this new quarter!" And as he prayed, the blackbird piped, "Leave God to order all thy ways," and the village, and the meadow, and the tall trees lay quiet in the sunshine, and the lark's hymn came dripping down from the clouds, and the schoolmaster's heart was moved to gladness, and his care had passed from him to God, and he felt all the blessing of the morning, and his face was like a child's. When it was time to begin his duties, he took down the great rusty keys from the wall, and walked across the churchyard with a grave step, but a bright and joyous face, on past the vicarage till he reached the church. The bells rang out through the Sunday calm, the street was dotted with little groups of villagers, and over the bypaths through the fields the peasants came in their best, the little children, with handfuls of flowers that they had plucked by the way, for people went gravely and leisurely to church in Bernsdorf. And when they had sat themselves reverently in the high pews, the schoolmaster sat himself at the organ, and played a wonderful prelude to the praise and glory of the Lord. Never had he played so well. He took his theme from the blackbird's piping, that had been piping in his heart ever since, and the notes rolled along the vaulted roof like strong waves of the sea, and then floated sweetly and clear like children's voices. Now all the wood seemed to whisper up its hymn through its fresh, tossing leaves, and the brook joined in with its murmur, and many an eye in the congregation ran over with joy; and when, at last, the organ passed into the grand, simple chorale, and the schoolmaster led the singing with a firm, hearty voice, every one stood up and sang as it had not been sung for many a day, till the old church rang with brave Christian hope and solemn thanksgiving. "Admirable! admirable!" whispered a stranger, simply dressed in black, half to himself and half to the schoolmaster, as he rose up from the organ and went forward into the choir to hear the sermon. The words met with no other response than a gentle nod; and the stranger, having looked at him for a moment with a keen, penetrating glance, turned his attention to the preacher. The service was over, the church empty, and at length the schoolmaster came out, and walked slowly back. It was still early, about half-past ten; and at eleven a few boys dropped in, and sat down very quiet on the forms of the schoolroom, and among them the stranger in black. "I hope I don't disturb you," he said apologisingly; "but do you really keep school to-day--Sunday-my good friend?" "Only an hour," replied Friedefeld, who regarded his little Sunday school with much favour, but before a stranger with some trepidation. 66 Is that in the agreement?" "Well, yes and no," he replied, smiling; "it is no part of the official duty; but it is a duty of the conscience. I am here to seek the spiritual wellbeing of the children; and as for work, I think one can never do too much, if one is to walk uprightly before the Lord." "You are a noble fellow," muttered the stranger, arching his brows in astonishment; and then, aloud"With your permission, I shall remain during the lesson. I will be no disturbance. There, in the corner, I spy just the place for me." He sat down behind, and the schoolmaster began his lesson without further delay. It was very clear and simple; the children were interested and attentive, and gave ready and good answers, and the hour was almost over when an old dame burst into the room, holding tightly by the hand a pretty little fellow, who looked sorely downcast, and whose eyes, were red with crying. "Schoolmaster! schoolmaster!" she panted, and her face was glowing; "ha! the good-for-nothing! the good-for-nothing! ha! the good-for-nothing!" and her voice died away inarticulately in her throat, where some gurgling sounds still kept repeating, "the good-for-nothing!" "What is it, Mrs Barber? What has your grandson done? Come here, Willie. Pray sit down, Mrs Barber; you must be tired. And you, Willie, what have you done to your grandmother? Hide nothing." "Oh, the good-for-nothing! the good-for-nothing!" cried the grandame; "he robbed a bird's nest! Have always told him it was a sin. He had pandies for it once. Must be well punished, the good-for-nothing! To rob a bird's nest! Oh, fie, Willie! and I your grandmother, eh? What a sin! and on the blessed Sunday, too. Oh, that ever children were born!" "Is that true, Willie?" said the schoolmaster, with a grave, severe face. "It-it-it-is," stammered the little fellow, through his tears; "bu-bu-but, indeed-indeedgr-gr-grandma" .... | Enough, Willie; we shall learn the whole story when school is over. And now, stand there, beside the desk-so. And, Mrs Barber, wait a moment. Willie is mostly a good boy, but if he has sinned, he shall be punished. Now, children." Having stood quite still, the grandmother sat quietly upon a bench by the window, and the les son was continued with the same interest till twelve struck. And when it was over, and the children were out "Now, Willie," said Friedefeld, "tell me all about the bird's nest; but let it be the truth, for you know I hate nothing so much as a lie; for lying is sin, and 'sin is a reproach to any people,' as is written in-where, Willie?" "Well answered. And how did it happen about the bird's nest?" "In the Proverbs of Solomon, 14th chapter, thirty- word, I shall get angry and run away;" and, as the fourth verse." noise did not much subside, he turned aside, as if in great wrath, but it was only to rub his spectacles very hard, and let no one see the tears that were making them dim. However, it had its effect, and they stood looking sorrowfully down upon the ground, and without even a whisper. And now the stranger came forward, and, catching Friedefeld by the hand"Do not take it ill, my worthy friend, but I should like to know what brings these people to you? It seems," (turning round to the rest,) "good people, you are very fond of your schoolmaster?" "Sir, Bessie Ritchie's goldfinch died; and she is sick, you know, sir; and she cried, and I was so sorry; and I said I would get another for her; and then I hunted through the hedges and garden till I found a goldfinch's nest with four young ones, and I waited till they were fledged, and-and-then"Well, Willie, and what then?" And then I went early this morning to take out a bird for Bessie-only one, sir-only just one; the It was like opening a sluice-door, such a stream of beautifullest, because Bessie is sick; and just then words poured irrepressibly out of every mouth. The grandma came and caught me, and said I was a good-faithful working of forty years was revealed, and how for-nothing, and would not let me say a word, but brought me straight here to you, sir; and now-and -indeed-indeed, sir, I didn't mean any wrong; and because Bessie is sick I thought it was no sin to take one little bird, only just one. Oh, sir, forgive me, or I won't have a kind look from grandmother the whole week!" "Well, Willie," said the schoolmaster, kindly, "I see you speak the truth, and that you meant well; so we'll not say anything more about the bird's nest this time. It is right always to try and make sick people happy; but, remember, if you want to do good another time, tell it first to grandmother; and next Sunday, see that you come here instead of running after birds' nests; and don't forget to read out of the Bible to grandmother, for her eyes are not so strong as yours. Now, good-by; and tell Bessie I shall see her in the afternoon." the schoolmaster had nursed the sick, and comforted the stricken, and pinched himself to feed the hungry, and,-there never was any one like him, and it was like the sunshine to see him stepping into their houses; and for all he was such a scholar, he was just as humble as themselves, and sure they only wanted to come up this quiet day and thank him for his loving heart, and hear the blessed words he spoke about the Lord Jesus; and from lip to lip his praise flew round, while he stood by ashamed, and blushing as red as a young girl, and then hung his head like a poor sinner or thief caught in the act, and finally fled out of the room, into the garden, where he walked up and down between the sweet-briar and laburnums, wofully disturbed. And there, not long after, a deep, sweet voice spoke softly by his side, "Oh, thou good and faithful servant, thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things;" and, starting sharply, and half frightened, round, hə saw the stranger in black, who continued, with a smile : But, as Willie slipped away, radiant with joy, the schoolmaster said, softly, to the grandmother, "Everything in measure, Mrs Barber. It is good to be firm with the children, and not to spare the rod; but first, you know, Mrs Barber, first make inquiry, and then punish, if it be necessary. You understand me?" "Right well-right well, sir; and Willie is a good boy, and my heart's flower, but just for that he must never be a good-for-nothing. Yet now I know-first inquire and then punish. Won't forget it; and thank you, sir, for telling me, and God reward you!" As the old lady left with a profound courtesy, which was chiefly directed towards the seat she had occupied, the stranger, who had been quietly observing everything from his retreat, came forward, and was about to address the schoolmaster, when a succession of vehement tappings at the door, followed by a great shing of feet, interrupted the half-formed words, and, before he could go on, the room filled up with a motley group of people, that seemed to have broken out of an hospital. Wooden legs, crutches, arms in slings, and sleeves that were armless, heads bound up with handkerchiefs, stooped people and crooked peo-whose soul rests in the bosom of God. ple, had surrounded the schoolmaster, who was tryng to make himself heard through a very Babel of voices and coughs. "Now, good friends, what do you want? Don't you know how wrong it is to be out? And you, Stanpily, with that broken arm; and, Bartels-you ught to be in bed; and, Ursula-tut! tut! Are you gone mad?" And then, thinking it was too serere, he added, "Well, well; God bless you all. Sit down; but quiet, quiet-not a word; if you say a "The Lord has had some purpose in sending me here this day, and surely will fulfil this word that He has spoken. Patiently and hiddenly you have sown the good seed these many years, and cared nothing for yourself. And now it may be the Lord will give you your reward, even on earth, and the time of the reaping is come. You will hear from me again." Before the astonished schoolmaster could answer, the stranger had disappeared. There was nothing left for him but these odd mysterious words, over which he shook his head, and could find no meaning in them, and so, like a wise man, soon forgot them, and made ready for the afternoon service. When that was over, he visited, as his custom was, the poor and sick of the congregation, returning towards evening,,somewhat tired, but happy, and knelt in his little room with a thankful heart to Almighty God, and did not forget the stranger in his prayer, and then lay down to sleep the tranquil sleep of the righteous, Rather more than a week had passed. The shoes had been stitched, except one obstinate rent that refused entreaty, and the well-known stockings had been seen again at church-I question if the honest villagers would have liked the new ones half so welland the blackbird was piping to himself before the school began, when there came a clatter of a horse's feet, and the express postman rode straight up to the window, and reaching in a packet, cried, "Nothing to pay," and rode off before Bernsdorf had time to take in the astounding fact, though, on reflection, it would have admitted that the king himself might correspond with its schoolmaster. Friedefeld contemplated the packet from all sides, and ended with the superscription. It was addressed, "Lebrecht Friedefeld, late schoolmaster in Bernsdorf." No mistake then about the person. But "late" and he turned it round again, and looked at the seal. It was the official seal of the Board. "Late!" he cried, in alarm. "Will the gentlemen in town really drive me from my post? Though my hair is gray, body and spirit are active still. Late! Ah! what news lies under this great red seal! Well, whatever happens, everything goes by God's will and grace. So saying, he broke the seal hastily, but his hand trembled, and a dark mist drew before his eyes. A paper fell out-another-then a third. Catching at the first, he spread it open, stole one glance at it, became white, and sank back into his chair. "Was I not right? Who could have thought it? My dismissal! Graciously indeed, but without a word about pension. Cast as a useless servant out of the vineyard, where I have worked, and sowed, and planted. That is hard;" and a tear slowly filled his eye, and stole down a furrow in his cheek. "Leave God to order all thy ways," sang the blackbird, who was watching intently, with head on one side, and evidently felt the gravity of the situation, and hope in Him, whate'er betide." 66 “Right, right, my pretty blackbird—well spoken; but truly my mind is troubled, and needs every comfort. O Lord my God, how hast Thou laid this sore burden on Thy servant?" "What? Murmuring!-sad! What is this?" said a familiar voice; and the schoolmaster's eyes fell upon the stranger in black, who had slipped into the room unnoticed. "Read on, Lebrecht Friedefeld. If the Lord takes, can He not also give?" Seizing the second paper, the schoolmaster read"Wh-, what!" he stammered, with altered face. "Chief organist!-Income, four hundred crowns !— I, old Lebrecht Friedefeld!--I to play that glorious organ in the cathedral, finger it, unlock its heavenly music?" 66 Certainly; but read further, you faithful, old, God-fearing man. There is another paper." Friedefeld took it, unfolded it with unsteady fingers, and, as he read, his eyes fairly ran over with tears, and he looked up, speaking in broken words: "Too much-too much goodness, O Father, for Thy sinful child! Lord, how is it possible-how shall I believe it-that I, the old village schoolmaster, shall be rector in the capital, with eight hundred crowns a-year! I, the poor schoolmaster! No, it is a dream. My thoughts must have got confused." No dream, but reality, my dear rector and chief organist. You are wide awake, and hold the proof of your good fortune in your hands; for you will observe that these papers are made out and confirmed by the Board; and see, there is your name. So, now you must be happy; for God has appointed you to a place where you can do much to His glory." "Hosanna! Bless the Lord, O my soul!" And, after a pause, the schoolmaster added, "Just permit me one question. How have I deserved this in my humble position?" "Remember the parable of the Lord that is writ ten in Matt. xxv. 14-30: 'Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.' "But you, sir, who are you?" "I? I am one who went out to seek, and whose steps God guided till he found. I am Bishop Weilert, from the capital. The seminary needed a head. I made long and fruitless trial, and what I could not find in honour I sought in lowliness, until, at last, my feet passed over your quiet threshold. There I found what I sought: true fear of God, true righteousness, true humility, and faith and piety to do the good only for the good's sake, and not by order of the commandments; true husbandry, true self-denial; and I said in my heart, This is the man! I hurried home, and related to the prince what I had seen, heard, and observed. He received my words graciously, and here, my worthy rector, is the resultnot of my words, but of your life." The two men grasped each other by the hand; tears stood in their eyes; and Friedefeld spoke 'Glory be to God in the highest! Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name!" But the blackbird only sang its clear steadfast words "Leave God to order all thy ways, And hope in Him, whate'er betide; Thy all-sufficient strength and guide." This is my story. It happened in the village of Bernsdorf, on the borders of Silesia. If you will not believe me, you will be kind enough to travel there (it is a beautiful country, and as they say in it, "very friendly,") and satisfy yourself. Old Ursula's cough is worse, perhaps, but no cough will ever prevent her telling you of all that came to pass out of that Sunday morning not so many springs ago. And if you go to the rector himself, you may have the story from his own lips. He is simple Lebrecht Friedefeld still SADDEST times are oft the sweetest, Whispering messages of love, And to lift our hearts above. Jesus tells us that, through bitter Sufferings, He was perfect made; And He asks us were it fitter None of these on us were laid, Or that we, when waves of trouble Roll tempestuous o'er the soul, Learn how God will give us double When we reach the wish'd-for goal. Oh, how sweetly does He lead us, In those hours when like to sink, To the waters-there to feed us With His manna on their brinkTill we rise with strength renewed, Both to do and bear His willHeart-revived and soul-bedewedThanking God for good and ill! J. A EUPHAME NAPIER seeks her fortune. Lady Somerville has kept her word. The Lady of Ormeslaw is satisfied; and Euphame Napier has paid her duty to her patroness, received Mr Durie's blessing, said farewell to Mrs Jonet,-too stern to weep at so small a matter as a parting in this world,-has turned her back on the old house in Bristo Street, which henceforth shall be tinged to her with rosy morning colours, and set out, bearing the badge of her diamond rose, for her service in the Loudons-a waiting-woman's place in the family of the Laird of Ormeslaw. Waiting-women in Anne's reign were very frequently poor gentlewomen, daughters of clergymen, of houses impoverished in the last national struggle, of the limited professional men, of merchants, like Euphame's father, more gently bred than savingly bent. They formed a peculiar class in a peculiar position, divided from their employers by a very nar row line, and, in their fairest colours, capable of filling offices of great importance in the household, and of discharging the most serious duties; excellent nurses in times of sickness, stewards on occasions of absence, second mothers to orphan families, often fixtures under the roof which had first sheltered them-firm and valuable family friends. Thus Lady Ormeslaw, sending in horses to Edinburgh for Euphame and the spring supplies of merchandise, furnished her with a proper escort, as careful as if she had been a young lady visiting the house the old serving-man and his wife, mounted on the same mare-very available in such a case-their son, the farm lad, on the young pack-horse, with pistols at his holster, and the black pony for Euphame. You are well aware how difficult and treacherous travelling was a hundred and fifty years ago, how the very mail-coach to London, running then for a season, was stopped and exposed to robbery at least once a month, and you perceive that Euphame was fortunate in such a mode of conveying her youthful person from one locality to another. On a June morning, then, when the dew-drops were on the corn, and the lark in the sky, Euphame and her little train rode along high-roads, by warm thatch-roofed farm-houses, and lowly clay-biggins, and squalid miners' hutsthrough blossoming clover, and white-budding beans, and rich plantations with the blue belt of the Forth and the hills of Fife visible from every high ground, and the green Lammermoors, in long, low swells shutting in the prospect. Ormeslaw was strange to Euphame. The house in Bristo Street had evidently been a "land" over whose "wa'" a countess might have looked. The mansion of Lady Somerville was a decayed palace, but Ormeslaw was a peel tower, passing from the hands of border chiefs to yeoman lairds. It had a vaulted kitchen, a wool-room, and a few closets for domestics in the tower; and in the house a black wainscoted dining-room, my lady's room, which was hung with the Seasons in tapestry, the nursery for the children, and the sleeping-rooms of the family. Without were brew-house, malt-barn, and kiln, besides straw-house, cow-house, stable, and kennel. In this Ormeslaw dwelt a devout, sedate, sagacious, silent laird, his more worldly and managing dame, their children, and retainers. Euphame came down to fill a vacancy in the household. Lady Ormeslaw was the reverse of slothful. She wanted no softspoken lass to tie her hair, lace her stomacher, or cast up" her accounts; but she was reasonably ambitious, she would have a set of worked chairs, such as we see now with straight arms and backs, and covers in faded tent-stitch, routed out of odd dusty corners, or fallen into humble cottages; she would have the little lasses learn betimes straw-work, filigree-work, and gimp-work; she would acquire the newest notion in vogue as to washing gauzes and Flanders lace; she would see the last shapes for pastry and butter-work; (which Euphame bore in her mails, as a young lady will transport credentials, in the shape of a modern Battle of Prague or an impossible song;) she would obtain the plan of boning fowls without cutting the back, as well as securing for the bairns writing-lessons in the most approved hand, and "the best end of dancing-a good carriage." What aspiring matron could resist such a catalogue of advantages, even though Euphame was a little in the way, and invested with a degree of awkwardness and peril to some of her neighbours? Euphame was received in state by the lady, a shrewd-eyed, light-footed, fresh woman, rather brisk than dignified, but sufficiently authoritative. She melted, however, when she spoke of Lady Somerville, "My lady is owre gude for this world," she said softly. She flashed upon her waiting-woman in her brisk stomacher, apron, and mittens-so constantly going out and in, in and out of the house, and stepping about the kiln, the cows' park, the hens' nests, the herb-beds, that her train was perpetually hung over her arm, and her silk and whalebone caleche, folded back and laid on her shoulder ready for use, or, in fact, drawn over the mob-cap worn above the fly-cap, whose lace frill shaded her white but somewhat puckered brow. For Euphame, she had put aside her uniform, had strewed it with lavender, packed it with more than girlish sentiment, and stowed it away in an extreme recess of her valise. She had come out in her gentlewoman's attire, her gauze or chintz, with sleeves puckered and tight as armour, her satin pocket, in which she carried none of the snuff often found in that handy receptacle, her indispensable and innumerable knots of ribands, such as the demurest damsel found herself compelled to sport on breast and back, shoulders and elbows, tucking up the skirt of her dress, and fastening back her little hat instead of a jewelled button, when she sallied abroad on business or for a wholesome airing-and in any guise, Euphame was tall and straight, and fair and comely, as her old mother had foreshadowed her. Lady Ormeslaw received Lady Somerville's greeting, and presented Euphame to her charges, all stalking boldly or stealing slily across the threshold to stare at the stranger in my lady's room. "This is Primrose, (hold up your head, Primrose,) and Sybilla, (Sybbie, you hempie, where have you torn your frock!) and little Annie; and yon is Roger, with his feet from the plough, and Sandy, who has been seeking birds' nests, (you took the spotted eggs, but spared the wee gaping birds, as I telled you, ye little loon?) and the laird will appear presently and preside at the evening exercise, and we need not disturb Master George at his books." Euphame lived weeks at Ormeslaw before she saw the laird at other times than at meals and the morning and evening "exercise," which he conducted with great solemnity and ability. The grave, ardent Scotch lairds, on the covenanting side, had a wonderful faculty for divulging their strong religious views, and developing those of others, however quiet on other subjects, and the laird of Ormeslaw was a notably quiet man. A canny housemate the lady owned him, yet a formidable foe he had proved himself among men during the bygone political and religious troubles-far-sighted, energetic, determined, and invincible. A big, stalwart man, his ruffled shirt and his signet ring contrasting with the maud which at home he wore strapped across his broad breast, like his hinds and shepherds; a rugged, thoughtful face, with a wild gleam in the eye, answering to the fervour and the eloquence of his preaching and his prayers; in his temporal affairs, sensible, patient, and painstaking; in his personal behaviour, modest to bashfulness; the quiet laird of Ormeslaw walked through life with a still, pondering, reverent tread, and his foot had acquired its soft, prolonged fall, like a deep key-note, played gently, but which could clang with a hoarse thunder, where, after their direct fashion, many good men spent hours of their leisure, and realised what was richest, most profound, and most divine in their spiritual experience, either in their literal closetsdark, narrow dens for devotion, in Presbyterian houses specially provided for masters of families, where mighty prayers were prayed in extremities, or out in the open fields where Isaac went forth to meditate at eventide. Still, questionless, the laird of Ormeslaw had his taint of the sins of his generation. Master George, the laird's son, was another man from his father--not a bad lad at heart, but, woe's me! he was of weaker thews and sinews, as well as of different metal; he had been in London, had seen the court, the clubs, the wits, had cultivated the pungent, half-melancholy literature of the era, and the town's foppery and affectation, and had grown ashamed of the plain profession of the Presbyterianism of his country and his youth-only of the profession, mind, he was not ashamed of his father, he had a private envy of him as well as a secret reverence for him, a longing and pining for the old laird's rod and staff, even when the Laird of Ormeslaw looked around him in trouble and distress, as if it had been they which |