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grape vine, reaching almost to the top of the tall kitchen chimney, on the sides of which the finest clusters of grapes were always to be found. At the front of the house was the lawn, laid out very prettily, with gravel walks and beds of flowers; at the back were the small kitchen garden and the poultry yard.

Such was the home of Mrs. Shirley and her little niece, Margaret Craven. Here it was that Margaret's life had been spent ever since she could remember; for, though not an orphan, she had never known her parents. They had left England for India when she was very young, leaving her under the care of Mrs. Shirley, who was a widowed sister of Mr. Craven's. They did not then expect that their absence would exceed two or three years, but, from one cause or other, it had been so much extended, that Margaret, though she often talked of them, had from being repeatedly told that they were coming, and being then disappointed, at length almost ceased to expect that she should ever have any other home than the Thatched Cottage.

Mrs. Shirley had no children of her own, but faithfully did she fulfil a mother's duties towards her brother's child, at the same time lavishing upon her an affection which a mother's love could hardly have surpassed; and Margaret, in return, loved her with all the warmth and devotion of an affectionate and confiding nature, hidden, though it was, from those who did not know her well, by manners timid, reserved, and retiring. She loved her parents, too, but it was in a different way; it was as we love those whom we feel we ought to love, but whom we have never seen, and of whom we know but little. Mrs. Shirley herself conducted her education, carefully instilling into her young heart lessons of faith, truth, and holiness, and early leading her to the feet of that Saviour in whom she herself trusted, and whose example it was her own daily endeavour humbly to follow. The more ornamental parts of education were not neglected, but they were esteemed by Mrs. Shirley at their proper value; and, while pursuing them, Margaret was taught

never to forget that they would adorn her only for a time, while the love and favour of God, which, conscious of her own unworthiness, she must seek, by a true faith in Christ, with constant denial of self, and a daily endeavour, by the aid of the Holy Spirit, to walk in the way of his commandments, would be her portion for ever. Thus instructed, it was no wonder that Margaret's was a happy childhood, her home a happy home.

She had, it is true, no

companions of her own age beyond the few young people who were occasional visitors at Mrs. Shirley's house, but she needed them not, for in her aunt she ever found a ready sharer in all her little sorrows, a glad companion in all her joys, and she wished for no other. Things had gone on in this way until the time when our story commences, at which period Margaret had just entered her eleventh year.

It was one bright morning in early spring, Mrs. Shirley was preparing breakfast, and Margaret was standing at the window, scattering crumbs for the robins, and re

gretting that they were now growing too independent to care for them, when the postman made his appearance, walking quickly up the gravel walk which led to the house.

"Aunt Ellen," exclaimed Margaret, "there's the postman; shall I go and get the letter?" and, without waiting for a reply, she ran to the door, and quickly returned with a letter in her hand. "It's an Indian letter, aunt Ellen," said she; "I wonder if there's a little one inside for me."

But Margaret soon saw that there was not, and that she must consequently be contented to take her news second-hand. She was well accustomed to read her aunt's countenance, and soon saw, by the change in it, ere she had read the first page, that the letter contained some unexpected intelligence.

papa

"Margaret, my love," said she, "here is good news for you in this letter, your and mamma are coming home at last.” "Coming home, aunt Ellen?" exclaimed Margaret, and for some reason, quite unknown to herself, she burst into tears.

"Yes, dear, your papa says that they will be here in a few months; but why do you weep, Margaret; you are glad, are you not?"

"Yes," said Margaret, " I am glad, at least I think I am; I ought to be glad, ought I not, aunt Ellen?"

"Yes, dear, certainly you ought; you ought to love your papa and mamma better than any one else."

"Not better than you, aunty dear, ought I?" said Margaret, twining her arms round her aunt's neck and affectionately kissing her; 66 at least, not till I have seen them; I don't think I can, aunt Ellen, love them better than I do you."

"We shall see when they come," said Mrs. Shirley, smiling and kissing her again; "at all events, I do not think they will mind your loving me too, though they mean to take you away from me."

"Take me away from you?" repeated Margaret, "I never thought of that; could not they and Ada come and live here too?"

"I do not think it is very likely that they could, Margaret; but you are not going yet,

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