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you've been, and that you've got me all these, and the rushes."

“I will ask her, my little Mary; you had better not trouble her with such things; when you are with her, you should be doing all she tells you, and not thinking too much of all the pretty things you see in the room.— But here we are near 'the WishingGate,' Mary. Do you ever wish there? and have you nothing to wish to-day? I think you must. I am going on to Sir Herbert's, but suppose you stop and make a wish-and let it be a good wish,-one that you can think of after you have said your prayers at night, and feel the happier for; mind that, Mary,-And now good bye; I will not go away again without bidding good bye to you and your grandfather."

Mary was left alone; she stood still before the Gate-(I wish I could draw her); she looked at it; she looked at her bunch of grass and flowers; she saw one little bird hopping near her: "I wished for the Lady to give me some chickens, but I don't think that's a good wish. I wish old Martha was always dear old Martha, and never spoke angry to me; but that's not quite the goodest wish. Oh, I know what must be a good wish! I wish I may always be a good child, and do all grandfather and Lady tell me, and never make him look sad at me. This shall be my wish, and I won't mind the chickens; and I'll be kind to old Martha when she does speak sharp, for I know she loves me and grandfather. I'll KISS the Gate! and leave the prettiest pop-py, and the pret-ti-est blue flower (thus she sung it out as she selected them), and some of the grass; I'll tie them to the bar in a nosegay, and tell the Gate, for that and the kiss it must let my wish come true." And this she did, after a pretty fashion, and I took care those flowers should not wither for that day; she then hastened to the cottage in the lane, and opened the gate where old Michael had entered so many hours before.

Medora had passed two hours of musing-melancholy musing, we fear -since we left her with her father, who soon left her for his own study, where he passed most of his mornings. She could not read as usual— she found her thoughts wandering

far, far away from the subject. One only thought was with her; it was a troubled stream, and yet it had much of loveliness; fair and enchanting were its scenes and prospects in some of the windings that it took endearing spots of peacefulness and joy would the sunshine of her heart sometimes shew her, as she traced that deep-flowing current ; and then again all would be overclouded, and she felt the rain-drops of those clouds of her bosom's happiness come dropping on her hands as she sat working, mechanically, for she knew not what she did. She was aroused by this gentle shower of feeling-she felt it was wrong to continue such an indulgence-she had duties to attend to, and, Desdemona like, she must draw herself off from the story that was calling forth her sighs, and all her dearest sympathies, and attend to the comforts of others. She did arouse herself, and bestir herself, and then she went to her own little sitting-room, which young Mary had lauded so highly, and there she felt that her best occupation would be drawing; she arranged it all, and then she looked out at the window at the silver bell, almost hidden by the jessamine that twined itself around and within the little casement,-she saw little Mary close the gate, and she called her to come up to her. "Why, Mary, what a pretty basket! Oh, and what beautiful grasses and corn poppies! But how did you get the rushes, Mary? I hope you did not get them yourself?"

"No, indeed, lady; the gentleman got them for me, and he did not go in the water for them; and will you please to have the basket and flowers, lady ?"

"That I will, Mary, and thank you too, my dear child. I like them very much; but what gentleman was it who reached the rushes for you?"

"Oh! you know him, lady; 'twas the gentleman what is so like that man that grandfather's leaning on in the picture!"

"Indeed, Mary! It was very kind of him ;" and Medora blushed deeply, as the little girl pointed to the picture. "And where did you find these corn flowers?"

"Oh, they were growing so beauti

ful on that high bank, lady, very near the Wishing-Gate;' I could never have reached them!"

"Then how did you get them, my dear ?"

"He was there, too, when I got them, and saw me longing for them, and then he scrambled, and took his hat off, and then I knew he was like

the picture !"

"And then what did you do? make the basket ?"

"Oh no, that I'd made, lady, when I was with father up in the hill-fields; then I went to the Gate, 'cause the gentleman told me to go and wish. think HE'D been wishing, for he looked very solemn, and something sad, when I first saw it was him; and he told me to make a good wish, that I should not be sorry for at prayer time; so I tried, but grandfather says we ought not to tell those wishes, only to the Gate."

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No, don't tell me, Mary; I hope it was a good wish, and if you thought first of what your friend said to you, I daresay it was a good wish, so I will wish it may come to pass. And now, Mary, as 'tis very late, you must sit down at once to your work, and see if you cannot finish making your grandfather's stockings, and hemming Martha's handkerchiefs, because I wish you to give them to them this evening when you go home."

Mary soon established herself on her little stool by the window. Her dear lady did not talk to her so much as she often did, or ask her questions on what she had learnt, for she was busy with many thinkings. "How strange that three so dear to me should have been to the Gate already this morning! Methinks I would like to read their wishes," said she inwardly. "Now, Mary, dear, let me look how you get on with the R. There's a wrong stitch here. Mary, Mary, why don't you look at it ?"

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Oh, he is so very pretty, I must look at him! Please, lady, do let me. And I think I know who it is-I think ?"

The ecstasy into which the little cottager was thrown, was by having turned her eye to the drawing her kind mistress had nearly finished. Medora looked pleased at the child's raptures. "And who do you think it is, Mary ?"

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It certainly is, Mary; but how came you to think so?"

"Because it looks just like what I used to see inside my head, or somewhere, where no one else could see it, when grandfather first used to tell me the story when I was a VERY little girl; and I never hear of him but I think of him as I saw him then -and that's quite like."

"It is meant for Samuel, Mary; and now, my love, work steadily and finish this, as there are many dead roses that want cutting off."

The work was soon done, and then they went into the garden, and Mary was set to cut the roses. Medora passed in to her father's study, but he was not there; so she went again to her own room, and then went on with little Samuel, till Mary came up and shewed how many beautiful roses had lived and had died. When this was done, Mary was allowed to go and feed the chickens; her kind Lady came to her, to enjoy her little ecstasies with her feathered favourites.

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Now, Mary, you've been a good child for many weeks, and as I hope you will do your best always, I will give you three chickens, and your grandfather will tell you how to manage them."

Three chickens, lady!" and poor Mary seemed almost dumbfoundered with delight. "Oh how very kind of you-how can I be ever good enough at my lessons and work! -and that was one of the things that I wanted to wish for, but did not dare. Oh you dear little creatures! how I shall love you !"

"Yes; but, Mary, you must take care and not kill them with kindness!"

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for ever; this young man, whom I so trusted might be settled near to usbecome to me even more than a friend -but why is not my heart hardened to meet my destiny? Why, even as age draws on, am I still to feel these things, even as in youth I felt them? -But not for myself, my loved Medora! surely that brow, which is truth and openness, and all sincerity, was shaded by sorrow this morning! and yet those words she spoke to me! The consolation she drew from his going, if go he must-I would her consolations were mine! and how deeply she seems to wish it; surely she is an angel!"

By this time he found himself beside my temple-this my "Wishing Gate." He thought of the drawing that had pleased him so much; he went and rested his arms on the gate; he looked, and smiled at the pretty nosegay tied to the bar; he was lost in a deep and painful memory of days gone by, that never could be recalled; he looked through the postern of time long elapsed, with a melancholy not unmingled with remorse and sincere penitence. He thought, "What might not I have been, if Frederic de Lacey had been my equal in age and my companion in India; and what might I not now be, might I, by God's blessing, in some sort redeem the time that I have lost; oh, more than lost; were I to be led by one like unto him? Oh, could I part with all that pride, that keeps me from being taught in these high things by those who are not among the most gifted in intellect, or my own equals in other things! but could I have a pastor here whom I loved, this heart which has ever ruled me, would turn unto him and ask his aid to lead me to those waters of comfort which I find, but too late, can alone refresh and soothe us in this life of pain and sorrow; and then do I not see that the daughter of my own loved treasure; my sun of happiness that brightened on me for so short a day; do I not see that she desires I should tread, as she does, the heavenward path?

Oh! that this might be! What blessings hast thou given me, great God! But where has been my gratitude? scarcely on my lips in thanksgiving and prayer, and never shewn forth in my life, and therefore hast thou only given me to taste of

them. A little while thou didst wait for my acknowledging them, yea, more than a little while; but then thou, in thy mercy, no doubt, withdrew them, that then I might humble myself before thee. One blessing remains to me. Grant that from this hour I may indeed be grateful for it; and may I become a blessing unto my angel child, even as thou wouldst have me to be. Grant, too, that she may not need all the consolation a father's love can yield to a bereaved and forsaken heart. It would seem I, too, had been breathing my wishes at the gate of mystery and tradition, and why should I not?" He turned from the spot with a more cheerful temper than he had reached it, and he then went on towards the Priory, in the hope of finding his young friend, and hearing the result of his interview with Sir Herbert. We will leave him; the solitary walk in the beautiful woods that led to that fine old residence will cherish and nurture all those high and holy aspirings, all those humble feelings and pious hopes, that have been with him at our Gate.

"Come, Mary," said Medora, "it is four o'clock, and I am quite ready; we shall but just be in time for old Martha before she makes her tea, and I wish her to have a nice cup of tea this afternoon, so I've got a little cannister here, and some sugar, and this nice little milk-loaf; so come, put them in your basket and let us go."

"But the chickens, lady?"

"Oh, I will send them by Nanny this evening, and you must be very patient, as you will not see them till you get up to-morrow, I dare say."

"That I will, lady; for how many things I've got the handkerchief and the stockings, and the rushes and flowers for Martha's basket-Oh! so many."

They walked to Violet Hut; and Me dora spoke kindly to old Martha, and pleased her with the presents; and then she went to see old sick Donald, and read to him; and then, after bidding Mary good bye, and telling her when to come the next day, she went towards home alone.

"I will go now to the WishingGate," thought she; "and then, if my father walks in the evening, I shall not be vexed, and wishing to go else

where; so she turned that way, and felt thankful that she was so much more cheerful than in the morning. Oh! if indeed all the joys of one's own heart were lost to us for ever in this world, yet still what content ment, and almost gladness, might one not derive from doing kindnesses to others!" This she strove to make herself believe; but it was only a striving, for she soon felt the sadness coming over all her heart, at the thought of parting with one in whom, thus in life's early morning, (when the soul requires so much, and pictures so highly, the one only friend that it desires to rest on, for time and for eternity,) she had found ALLyes, quite and more than all. "What then is thy wISH ?" seemed to be said solemnly to her as she came in sight of the Gate. What could it be, but for the confirmation of her heart's happiness? If she could but know that she was loved, this would be consolation; and yet, surely, she could not quite mistake a manner that thrilled her with its tenderness and kindness. But stop; she had not touched the Gate. Again, a voice from within her, or around her, seemed to say-" Medora is not selfish another desire lies buried in the recesses of her heart-a wish of ten thousand prayers—a wish that is with her at sunrise and sunset, and parts not from her through all the day.""Yes, yes; oh did I for one instant let another take its place? Oh! how closely twined must he be with my whole being, that I should have let the agony of thinking of this parting put from me the wish that ought to be first-that is first-that ever shall be first! Could I ever be happy, if all my selfishness were listened toand I became the loved companion of? How could I be happy if I thought that my dear father was not treading a path that would lead him to everlasting blessedness? Grant, then, my wish, thou pure spirit of this place! Grant that he may be led to cling to that Cross, and to trust in that Saviour, who alone can save us!"

Many tears did she shed ere she turned towards home. She noticed the pretty bunch of flowers, and knew it to be the fancy of her dear little Mary. She then prepared herself for

dinner, and met her father with smiles. He was particularly lively, indeed quite gladsome and happy. His daughter asked him how he had spent his morning, as she had missed him from his study since one o'clock.

"I have had a chequered day of it, my dear love," said he; " but the brightest colours came at last to delight me, after the sombre hues that had something shaded the first part of my morning. I really don't know when I have felt so much joyousness as I now feel; and you, my beloved Medora, seem all the better for your rest after your fatiguing early walk; you must not let that old beau of yours-that venerable old Michaelbeguile you into such rambles."

"Oh, you must not blame him, dear father, for he only beguiled me to the bench on the common; but I have not been resting, for I went home with Mary, and then I came home by the Wishing-Gate."

"What! have you been to speak with the gentle spirit of the Gate? Then are thy good looks accounted for; she can spread a ray of sweet serenity over the features as well as the hearts of her votaries. It may be she has wrought in me the change I have undergone since the morning

it may be I owe to her mysterious enchantment the peaceful calm I feel within me-for I too, dear Medora, found myself, some few hours since, in deep reflection at her shrine; there were lamentations for the past; there were wishes, yea, even hopes, for the future, all mingling in my busy thinkings; and I know not but that even I asked her to shed, upon what of good feeling was aroused at those moments, a few drops of that dew from Heaven, so pure and peacegiving, that would nurture into good fruit those desires after a better and a holier life."

"My dear, dear father!" said Medora; but she could say no more,— her heart was full, and the thought of what her own wish had been, and the prospect of its fulfilment, was too, too much for words; the tears would fall, and her kind father kept silence, and in no way disturbed her. She soon recovered her composure, and accepted, with the loveliest of smiles through her glistening eyes, the fruit her father offered her, and then she

said, "Have you not been to the Priory, sir?-have you seen nothing of Mr de Lacey ?".

"Yes, my dear, I have; oh, yes! I was some time with Sir Herbert, and after that walked down to the vicarage with our young friend, who wished to call there before he again left us. But talking of the WishingGate-Medora, who was it adorned it with that nosegay of wild flowers? Was it you, or was it your little protegée, Mary, who has more native rustic taste than is to be found in many of the pastoral poems that attempt to describe it? Your little jewel of a sketch gives not the adornment, so how came it to be there ?" "Oh, you are quite right in thinking it was Mary's taste-it is just like her; and though she did not tell me, I feel sure no other little lass in the village, or miles round, would have thought of such a thing. This is a treasure of a child, so very affectionate, and really so good. I wish, my dear father, you could have seen her young raptures when I gave her three chickens! I must, some day, take her with us to Rydal. I am quite sure our friend would make a volume of poetry out of her; for she has none of that shy ness that would make her silent and dull among strangers. She is at that happy age, that with such an ardent mind as hers thinks not of restraining her delighted feelings, or curbing her restless curiosity. Don't you think he would like her ?"

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Assuredly he would, my dear; the very sight of the child would call forth a sonnet at least,-for no sunbeam on the lake ever looked more the picture of bright happiness than does little Mary Glenthorn, as she passes over on the hill side, with her looks of love, and her laughing gladsomeness. I often think, when looking at her, that instead of saying to her, Who made you?' as the catechists do, one should speak poetry, and say, Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?" You shall take her, my dearest, and that before many days are gone by; but where is the volume in which you wrote out The WishingGate?" I was looking for it this morning, and could not find it on the Wordsworth shelf."

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"I'm sorry to say, my dear father," said Medora, blushing deeply," that I was careless enough to leave it

somewhere in my walk; but it cannot be lost."

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Why, I don't know, my love. I think it's a chance if you find it, and I own I should be grieved to lose the copy Wordsworth himself gave you. I never knew you so careless before; cannot you remember at all where you last had it? Do think!”

There was a strange look-a sly or saucy curl at the corner of his lip, as with an affected seriousness her father said this, which puzzled, whilst it pleased Medora. "I certainly do remember where I last had it, or knew that I had it," said she; "but there is my writing in it-my own name too. Oh, I am sure, no one who found it would keep it, they would see whose it was, and bring it."

"I don't know that," said her father, with the same expression ;—“ your writing in it may be the very reason for their choosing to keep it. But I would advise you to go this very evening to the spot where you remember holding it, and perhaps the Kelpie of the Lake may tell you if she has taken it, and placed it in her library of liquid poetry; or, perhaps, she may tell you, if you dropped it on the land, whether it was caught up by an adoring swain who chanced to be passing at the time."

Medora was quite at a loss to understand her father, and yet she felt a consciousness that made her cheeks tingle, and she knew she must be looking very confused.

"I will go at once, my dear father, and retrace my steps of the morning, and I doubt not, in a short time, I shall return with the volume untouched and uninjured; and it will be all the dearer to us from our having feared losing it; and besides, perhaps it will have gained a few more pages of poetry from having passed this lovely day among the mountain daisies, or near the grateful broad leaves of the water-lily, that teaches us all, as Coleridge tells us, how to delight and rejoice in Heaven's gifts the more and the more, as the more abundantly they are showered upon us."

"Yes, that is a pretty idea, though you have mored it, my dear. You speak not with your usual correctness and elegance-But you are vexed about the volume, so go, and

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