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The. Hein af Usk Wayland Sos al Myithng Public Libra THE HEIR OF WAST-WAYLAND. CHAPTER I, As travellers from” disthnt- points, wseonscions of excl ofhers existonco, set forth in. the morning with ons com- object in view-—the reiching a certain hostel at night, or the visiting some spot of interest, so occurs it daily in the great journey of life. At one and the annie moment variousdadividasls, as yet unknown to.ach other, are drawn togailygr by aircumstance, or deatiny, towards ‘ong eotmon meeting point, __ These meeting*points aresurious: wa advance towards them us if with our eyer abut; wo seldom know when they will occur, and stil less how much they may involve, From them arise the moat monfintous incidents of our livos; ften sad enough, often strange enough; aften com- pletely altering the after Gouree of our existence, and ex~ areising an influence skh extends beyond timo—into, cternity. Tam about to-make you clairooyant ith regard ‘to threo uch unconscious. groups of pilgrinia om the evory-- day jouroy of Hife, You shall see thom all in heir yarious places of abode, on ono particular erening ‘April and you will thea bre how thoy'are alf advaaie-a ooh uneoniciously tora f other,sand towards ‘one. object, literally and, metaphorically, towards a ‘certaitt” 2B sus me o WER WEAR Janded estate, called Wast-Wayland dn the North Foglnd. Hero, hawing onco amfyed, Wke the travellers , at the hostel, they shall remain tog. her for a period, and svthen, as hy an irrosistible fate, bo again aepurated, an if to the four winds of heaven} for there are separations | phich divide more'templotely taal half the glohe—while ‘the influences which broughi, them thither shail remein in their effects for ever. Our first little group consists but of two women, Mry 1 ‘Midway, and her daughter Honour They aro sitting in | ‘8 amall but neat room looking updh tho sea at 2 the tide is out, the dlant rays of the sotting sun Light up tho beach, und the soa, andthe Jow groy rocks which rise above the level of the low-water sands, with a golden | radinnee. It is o lovely evening, warm and balmy as Fune, and many people ard out picking up shells and pebbles, and enjoying the finest sunset of what has hither. $o boen a late and ungenial senso. Even the poor inva- lid, with his close wrappings and his anzious attendants, ind vontured forth, either to pace slowly, or to be drawn “ jn his wheeled chair along the sun-dilumined explanade, ‘The two ladies, however, of whom I have spoken, hoth of whese eountenaneen wore the quict ahd subdued ex- pression of sickness and sorrow scemed indisposod t¢ Jeave their little room this evening, fino though it was Tho mother sat on the cofe at her ‘theedlework; th, daughter’ in her little how window spparently gazing fho lovely naset end the groupe of pepe on the Beach low, . ‘The foslingy of both mother and daughter wero much alika at this moment; each hed a communication to make, fend cach felt reluctant to make it; wo fear eo much to distress those wo love; we avoid to¥ehing upon painful subjects even when tho poignaney of the pain is pet; co sacred to the affectionate heart are the feelings of the be- Tho daughter's eyes were fixed on the objects without, Cut her thoughts were not employed by them. The * wother glanced up from her werk from time to time, with that siek, sinking sensation which every unsious sun mom op WAR gpinit knows so well. A, writing-detk stood opéal da he table before her, and she thought painfully-of certain papers within,st, th® contents of which must be bom’ nidated; and now the time was come when that communication could be no longer delayed. She had 20 often put off this paiaful duty, she musk put it of do Ygeger. She fhought ovor the vary words she would uae; how she would try to soften that which was hard, how she would endeavour to cast a cheerful colouring over what she too ell hadw was dark.and dispicitings and aboro all, how she would never rovanl to what an exient she herself had suffered. Nhe made two or throe attempts to peak, tut her stongne ot her heart failed het, and perhaps she might ave defdrred her communication till the marrow——till the mornmng, that her daughter might st least hays one moro qmet nigit’s rest, as she bad 20 often done bofore, had ot, Honour herrolf risen from her sent, and placing hor. self by her mother’s side, said in alow, but dinn tone of owe — have long wished to have nome talk with you about things, dearest, mother, I wish you roally to miderstand and to beliova that there is a0 longer aay need for apvigly on any account. I have heen now for some thne quite reconeiled to things as they aro. I acknowledge tat it requires great offort, perhaps alga a great argount of suffaiug, before we can submit fo adverse cirenmstances, but the affort is not beygnd eur strength; and. then, when ond® wo apy wubuti coy 8 eowes great peace of mind, and nefipaths are opened to us, and new sources of plesaure which ‘jeg sates for what we have lost. When ones, dearent mother, owe attain to thivstate of submission and, fisth, ve are not only contented, but wo aoa that everything is ordained forthe best, and that If wo had the oftering of ver oma destiny we should make blandermg work of it, anid bev ‘ut little enuse to rejoice after all. “ Live game to 00 ‘this, dear nother, very clearly, and uow I beseash of ygu 0 have confidence in gro. fo nat wear that rad, texiows, Jook which is notmatura) to your counteniigahy eae wicks ” a pt nome or Waliewartasn. distresses mo much more thaa any of those old troubles, which wt one time ao completaly oooupied me, and worse thea tint, made mo apparently forgetkyou, , Pardon mo, * dear mother, for all this] ‘The worst of such trials ns ming, ig, that they are so self-sbaorbing. And now I want roally to contice you that Imes a) these things ‘vety differently to whot { did. I am no longer unkippy. T ehall no longer be eelfish,”” “My donr ohild,”” said her mother, interrupting her, | “do not be so unjust to yourself, You hava dot boot” selfich; you have behaved heroveall You lave bad great trial to boat, and thank God!" he las enabled you 40 boar it.” ‘Yes, indeed ho has," continued Honour, who was « anzicous ta resume the conversation which it had required, a grest effort to commence, “‘aad your goodaess also, and your patience with me, have done much—have many a time strengthened me when otherwise [ must have sunk, And thero 15 no ono in this world so truo and kind as yourself, aud ao worthy of mj living for. Igoe this, 1 Know this now; and now I feel it as my greaient blessing and privitego t0 be a life-long companion to you, to be aule to devote myself ontirely to you, and. to any dutics as & daughter—io making you happy: and I Know, dewest maother, that in so doing I shall be hoppier than 1 ever ‘havo been, or aver should have been. _L¢ppy in another way—ia a way that God has appointed for me, and not myself; and that is much better, for God ie wiser—oh, 60 vory much wiser thon wa! eWill it not be eo, dear mother; abgil wo not be very Lappy togethor"* ‘Honour pansed and gased into hor mother's face with ‘hor largo, Goantifal eyes fall of emotion, though not ot tears, “Tears, however, wore ia the mother's eyes as he lifted the trembling band which she prossed to her pa, and Honour éontinusd:— ‘ “But, mother dear, you ust promise me one or two things: Tip, yp inns eenso t be anziovn about me, fop, indeed, a8 I told you before, there is no canso for anziotf on my account. It is oly while tho mind is wavering and tossed about that w6 apo unkappy; only > re Poe, ae ewhilst a single reghot remains, a single Jonging after fiat which God bas fogbidden to us, are wo 3 but when the mind is Galm, is eubmissiva, when we can can- weientiously say, (I here given up all; thy will and not mine be done,” thea that which was dark becomes ight, the Giftigalt becomes wabyy and tho wnéortain assuredy then ‘there is nothing left but to advance straight forward in posoa, and even perhaps in great joy. ‘This is what 1 ser] nt protons, and you, dsrert‘mother, must feel i “with mé, and you aust still strengthen mo #8 you havo hithorto dono; and nore than thie, you must cease to be ansious for me, for thet you are G0 I can seo plainly enough, Yes, doar mother, you press my hand; you confors if; you bave not faith in sae; you have seen #0 auch weakness in me that you cannot believe in ay strength, Ah! what eat! do to prove to you that ami contented, that T am happy! Belicre this, my mother, ‘There is," thersforo, no need for anxiety; nothing bat happiness lieg before ue—happiness in our imited sffection, in our friendship, in our love for each other, for there is nothing in this world 10 compare with, the affectionate, confiding intercourse of mothor and daughter; thtre is uo frieudehips no love like it. Yee, of this I feel sure: amew life lies before us, a better life than the old ome, because it will be so much tener; and if Team only aoe "you Jooking ns care-freo as you used to do, then, indeed, T shall be happy; very, very happy! ‘But then, desr mother,” gontinued she, in a tone of Jess exultation, ““F have to sik from you a sscrifioss perhaps it ie selfish, but I hope not—Tthink not. Do not let us return to Northbridge, ‘There is something very Painfol to me in the thought of returning thither ‘Thero wa should afein fall into the old routino; and neeing the game people, and living among the,same old seanes, would recall daily and hourly old associations to keep alive old habits; habits of mind, traing of thought J mean, trom which I must dissever myself if Jrould live up to ‘the new and hotter knowledge which I have scqpired’ ‘The triala which God ordains for us we must bear, po they over so painfal, but those of which I apeak are not ad .