task; and that the kind and talented friends who share her pleasant labours will do their part heartily and well she is fully persuaded.

For the next volume-commencing with the July number-many valuable and delightful articles are already received-others promised from reliable sources. The botanical papers will be continued-both the monthly Flora and "Our British Woodlands." Our subscribers will find nearly, if not quite all, their favourite Authors on the staff: "E. J. E. G." will still contribute poems, and the Editor will furnish the continuous tale, entitled "Sir Julian's Wife," to be complete in six months, terminating with the December magazine.

May the success which has so far happily attended the "FAMILY FRIEND" continue steadily to increase; and may God's blessing be fully and abidingly on contributors, readers, and Editor, so that the pleasure and profit of all may be secured, and the prosperity of the work settled on the only firm and never-failing basis.

June 1, 1865.

LABOUR AND WAIT; OR, EVELYN'S STORY.

PART II.

BY EMMA JANE WORBOISE.

AUTHOR OF "PHILIP AND EDITH," "MILLICENT KENDRICK," "THORNYCROFT HALL," &c., &c.

CHAPTER I.

CONFLICT AND CONQUEST.

ONCE more at Abbeylands-quiet, pleasant Abbeylands; but how much had passed since I had last lain down to rest under the shelter of that friendly roof! Yes, it was Abbeylands again! There was the broad, restless river-there were the mouldering ruins under the ancient trees, and there was the wide, old-fashioned garden, waking anew to Spring's fresh, verdurous beauty. I sought my own chamber; it was looking as it had looked two months ago, when, on St. Valentine's-eve, I had dressed there before going down to the drawing-room, where the Misses Capel and their friends were assembled; and yet everything was changed, and the whole scene without, and the familiar surroundings within, wore an air of unreality, such as one experiences in a dream that, in its most vivid and exciting moments, suggests itself to be only a dream that will presently melt away and be half forgotten. I looked out on the grey April day, greyer than ever, now that the neutral tints of evening were settling down on the lovely fields, and the unresisting river, and the long, shadowy shore beyond, and tried to recollect all that had passed during my afternoon's promenade on the pier. No! I had not betrayed myself, I felt sure of that. My woman's pride had nerved me to bear the blow unflinchingly. He would never know how I had cared for him; how with all visions of the future he had been in my foolish fancy so inextricably blended; how I had built many an airy castle, on foundations as aerial as the mirage-like edifices themselves, in all of which be, and only he, had been the sole idea!

I was so stunned at first that I really could not feel, still less think. I felt myself sinking into a sort of torpor; all my faculties were benumbed, and I could only lie on my sofa, while the evening shadows thickened around me, and the faint music of far-off church-bells came now and then across the water, from the opposite shore, where many a twinkling light was already shining through the deepening nightfall gloom. And I pitied myself as if it were another, and not I, who had entered into the cloud, and I felt sorry for Evelyn Charteris as for some

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near and dear friend, around whom the floods of tribulation had suddenly and irremediably gathered.

When it was quite dark, someone tapped at the door, and upon my answering, Miss Joanna Capel came in. She walked straight up to the fireplace, and stirred up the smouldering mass that was fast dying down for want of attention, and quickly evoked a flame that brightened up the whole room. Then she drew down the blind, and shut out the weird dark night, and the ship-lights, and town-lights, that showed like pallid stars through the cold, drear gloom; and last of all she took a chair, and seated herself by the sofa, from which, however, I was just intending to arise.

"My dear! what is all this about ?" she began, kindly, but rather curtly. That curtishness was her fashion, and very glad was I, then, that her tone conveyed no sympathetic softness of feeling, for I should certainly have broken down at the very first word. Now, it had not occurred to me that staying alone in my own room would probably excite some kind of remark, since, as I had not resumed my work, my withdrawal from the family circle certainly indicated some kind of malady, either mental or physical. I answered stupidly enough, perhaps a little sullenly, for I was vexed at being disturbed, that "nothing was the matter." The moment I had spoken my heart smote me for my untruthfulness and ungraciousness.

But Joanna Capel was not to be repelled; she perfectly understood my mood, and was not going to leave me a prey to my own miserable reflections. She continued

"When are you coming downstairs? My sister and I want to hear the latest accounts from Beechwood."

"I shall not come to-night," I replied, still irritably; "I am not quite well!"

And yet you said nothing was the matter! that was very naughty of you, Evelyn!" And Miss Joanna rose up and lighted the gas, and contemplated my face with a serious expression. Then, taking my hand, she said, "You are feverish, child; you have been taking cold."

"Taking cold?" Ah, yes: that was it, of course! What a blessed excuse is a cold, when you are wretched, and cross, and tortured in mind and want the plea of some slight indisposition to account for your dulness and paleness, and to justify your shutting yourself up a little away from prying eyes and troublesome inquiries! So I answered"Yes, I think I have a cold. I felt very chilly on the pier this afternoon, as well as in crossing the water."

"What did you do on the pier, my dear? It was far too cold to be promenading there. Besides, you must not walk there by yourself; the young ladies who take solitary rambles on the pier are not the kind of persons with whom you would like your name to be associated."

"I was not by myself," I replied abruptly; "but if I had been, it

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