efinite character. She would be told
that she had a father and mother in a distant land, and be taught to
mention us daily in her prayers. But where would be the faith, the
endearing confidence, the holy love, with which a child, brought up
under the parental roof, regards the authors of its being. The love
which falls like dew from heaven upon the weary heart, which forms a
balm for every sorrow, a solace for every care,--without its refreshing
influence, what would the wealth of the world be to us?"

Flora's heart swelled, and her eyes filled with tears. The eloquence of
an angel at that moment would have failed in persuading her to part with
her child.

Never did these painful feelings press more heavily on Flora's mind,
than when all was done in the way of preparation; when her work was all
finished, her trunks all packed, her little bills in the town all paid,
her faithful domestics discharged, and nothing remained of active
employment to hinder her from perpetually brooding over the sad prospect
before her.

She went to spend a last day at the old Hall, to bid farewell to the old
familiar haunts, endeared to her from childhood.

"Flora, you must keep up your spirits," said her mother, kissing her
tenderly; "nor let this parting weigh too heavily upon your heart. We
shall all meet again."

"In heaven, I hope, Mother."

"Yes, and on earth."

"Oh, no; it is useless to hope for that. No, never again on earth."

"Always hope for the best, Flora; it is my plan. I have found it true
wisdom. Put on your bonnet, and take a ramble through the garden and
meadows; it will refresh you after so many harassing thoughts. Your
favourite trees are in full leaf, the hawthorn hedges in blossom, and
the nightingales sing every evening in the wood-lane. You cannot feel
miserable among such sights and sounds of beauty in this lovely month of
May, or you are not the same Flora I ever knew you."

"Ah, just the same faulty, impulsive, enthusiastic creature I ever was,
dear mother. No change of circumstances will, I fear, change my nature;
and the sight of these dear old haunts will only deepen the regret I
feel at bidding them adieu."

Flora put on her bonnet, and went forth to take a last look of home.

The Hall was an old-fashioned house, large, rambling, picturesque, and
cold. It had been built in the first year of good Queen Bess. The back
part of the mansion appeared to have belonged to a period still more
remote. The bu