It was a rainy day No riding, no walking, (for pleasure, we mean), no calling, no shopping; nothing to be seen in the street but mud, mud,muddy carriages and dripping umbrellas,-a negative kind of a day, truly, and one that called forth a deep yawn from Clara Morton, as she closed the novel with which she had been seeking to amuse herself for the last hour, while reclining listlessly upon the sofa.

The yawn attracted the attention of her brother, who was seated by the window, not looking out upon the mud and rain, but so deeply engaged in the attempt to solve a knotty problem in mathematics, that had the question been put to him whether it rained or the sun shone, it is not improbable that he would have been obliged to "take observations" before he could have given a correct reply.

"What is the matter, Clara," said he; "is your book so terribly dull ?"

"If the book is not, the weather is," was the reply. "What a dull world we live in !"

"You did not seem to think so last week, Clara, when you were so animated about Mrs. Day's party."

"The parties are pleasant, but they don't happen every day, or even every week. Making calls and shopping help to fill up the intervening space, it is true; still there is plenty of time left to hang heavy on one's hands, and these rainy days are the worst of all. I wish something would happen, just for a change, and to give one something to think and talk about."

"Then just come to the window a moment, for a change. Here is something in the street for you to see."

be glad enough to have one. Come, Clara, come quickly!"

Clara left the sofa, and came and stood by her brother's side. Henry directed her attention to a woman who was passing on the opposite side of the street, dressed in tattered garments, and bearing along, with weak and tottering steps, a heavy basket, filled with chips.

"What a miserable looking object!" exclaimed Clara. Where did she get those chips; and is she going to burn them?"

"Burn them! No, Clara. You are greatly mistaken if you think the poor creature can afford the luxury of a fire on such a day as this. She has gleaned them from the streets, and she will sell them for four or five cents, which sum, small as it is, will be her only means of living through the day."

Living! I should hardly call it living, such a miserable existence as that."

"If you could go with her to her home, you would better realize the truth of what you are saying. Just imagine a room, eight feet by ten, reeking with filth, with crumbling ceiling, too low to permit of standing upright, and windows stuffed with rags. Again, suppose this room to be occupied by some ten or twelve individuals, of whom this poor woman is one, and when you have filled out the picture to the best of your ability, you will have some faint conception of the home to which this miserable object will return, after she has sold her basket of chips."

"What do you know of such places? Did you ever visit them ?"

"No. Father thinks I am too young, safely, to explore such haunts, not only of suffering, but also of vice; but I have listened to the descriptions given of them by those who do visit them, and I know that hundreds of those miserable objects, whom we see in our streets, have little or no better place which they can call home."

"What a wretched picture you have drawn,—

and what cheering objects for contemplation you present, to raise one's spirits this dull and rainy day!"

"You have been coveting almost any thing for a change, to give you something to think and talk about. Supposing you should change places with this woman, just for one day. To be in your place, for one day, would be something as rare and novel to her, as it would be to you to visit the moon, or spend a day in Jupiter or Saturn. What do you think she would say to that luxurious sofa, to the carpet, chairs, and mirrors, and the glowing coals in the grate; and, still more, what would she say if told that the young lady, who this morning is enjoying all these, is quite wretched, and disgusted with this dull, tiresome world?"

"I own that I cannot feel full sympathy with these poor creatures, or even imagine how I should feel if I were in their place. It never seems as if we could have any thoughts or feelings in common, or even partake of a common nature."

"We are all brothers and sisters in the one human family, and if we differ so widely from them, who has made us to differ? If we had been placed in their circumstances, we should have been what they now are. But if this is too great a change for you even to think of, or conceive, how would you like to exchange places with Fanny Miller this morning?"

"Poor Fanny!" said Clara; "how I pity her, when I think of her leaving that luxurious home of hers, for such a common-looking place as they now occupy. I am sure if such a thing should happen to me, I should be perfectly wretched."

"You are that now quite frequently, according to your own account," said Henry, smiling, "so, perhaps you would not be much worse off, if you were in her place."

"But in that case I should be perfectly wretched all the time. I am sure I should."

"Are you then wholly dependent on outward circumstances for all your happiness, Clara?” said Henry, more seriously. "If you are, I am sorry for you, for you are dependent on that which is very uncertain and changeable. Fanny Miller, one year ago, no more expected the changes which have befallen her, than you now expect similar changes."

"Why not? What would you do?"

"Do! I would do what other poor boys have done, who are now among the wealthiest men in our land. But few of our rich men were rich men's sons. If we should take a tumble to the foot of the hill, I would pick myself up, as well as I could, and commence ascending again on my own feet. It might be a slow process at first, but with God's blessing on my diligent efforts, it would be a sure one."

"I wish I had your courage and resolution," Clara replied; "but I am not at all like you. I am sure that such an event would crush me to the earth, and that I never could hold up my head again."

"I think you are not so very much unlike me, naturally, but your courage and resolution have never been called into action. There is more in you, sister, dear, than you imagine," added Henry, affectionately. "I trust that it would take more than one blow of misfortune to quite make an end of you."

Henry had said the truth, in saying that Clara was not naturally so very unlike himself. The difference between them was the result of training and of circumstances, rather than of difference in natural disposition. The father of Henry, though a man of wealth, had acquired his property by his own prudence and industry. He felt the importance of these traits of character, and had embraced every opportunity to instil into his son a spirit of self-reliance and self-exertion. Henry had profited by these lessons, and though surrounded with wealth and luxury, had early imbibed the feeling that he must be the architect of his own fortune. He spurned the idea of weakly depending on the wealth he expected to inherit from his father, and thus becoming a mere parasite, living and growing upon that which was the fruit of another's toil and self-denial.

But Clara had been left to her mother's guidance, whose principles and feelings, on this subject, were much less correct than those of her husband. Her indulgent love for her daughters, of whom Clara was the elder, led her to shield them from every thing which looked like toil or self-sacrifice, blindly shutting her eyes to the fact that the time might come when they would need the lessons she failed to teach them. Moulded by the influence of this mistaken indulgence, Clara had grown up indolent, weak, and irreso lute.

Henry dearly loved his sister, and deeply regretted these traits in her character, which he believed to be more the result of circumstances than of natural disposition, for the very wretch

edness which accompanied her indolence and listlessness, convinced him that they were repulsive to her better nature. The conversation just related is a specimen of the efforts which Henry often made to lead his sister to take more just views of life, its uncertainties and responsibilities. He had also his own private reasons for intruding this subject more frequently than formerly. There were some things, overlooked by Clara, which, to Henry's thoughtful and observing mind, portended a coming storm. He knew that his father had recently met with some very heavy losses, and from the anxious and troubled expression of his countenance, when he thought he was unobserved, he feared that he was in trouble. Should he fail, as his friend Miller had done, he feared the effects of the blow upon his sister, for he felt that she was wholly unprepared for it. Without imparting his fears, he tried to rouse the dormant energies of her mind, that she might, in some degree, be prepared for the shock, should it come; but his efforts were wholly unsuccessful, and he resolved, as the cloud that portended danger seemed to thicken, to speak more plainly than he had ever yet done.

Entering the family sitting-room one afternoon, he found Clara lounging upon the sofa. She had attended a large party the night before, and was, as usual, giving way to the listlessness and disinclination to all exertion which inevitably succeed such periods of unnatural excitement.

"Clara," said he, "I have just met Fanny Miller in the street, and so far from looking perfectly wretched, I thought she looked quite cheerful and happy. She told me that she was giving lessons in music, and seemed pleased that in this way she could help to bear the burden of their altered circumstances."

"I am glad if she is not quite wretched, for I am sure that I should be, if I were in her place." "Don't say so, Clara. I do not like to hear you speak in this way," said Henry, earnestly.

Why not?" asked Clara, more startled by the earnestness of Henry's manner than by his

words.

"But it is foolish to worry one's self about possibilities; so please to come a little nearer to the point, and tell me if you think there is any probability of such an event."

"Yes, Clara, I do. You know that father has met with some very heavy losses; and have yon not observed that, of late, he often appears sober, and as if he were anxious and perplexed?"

"I have observed that he is not as cheerful as usual, but I never thought of attributing it to so serious a cause. You really alarm me, Henry; and, after all, is it kind in you thus to awaken my fears, when there may be no foundation for them, and so, perhaps, make me miserable when there is no occasion for being so?"

"I do not wish to make you miserable, my dear sister, far from it; but I cannot bear to see you cherish the feeling that you must necessarily be quite wretched, if deprived of the wealth and luxuries you now enjoy. Rather seek to find sources of enjoyment within yourself, in the faithful discharge of every duty, and then no external changes will have power to deprive you of happiness. It is only this view of life which can prepare you for the sorrows and changes to which all are exposed."

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Morton. It could hardly be said that Clara was forewarned by this conversation, so quickly did the sad reality succeed the first intimation of danger. Early in the evening of the same day, the family were all gathered together, with the exception of the husband and father. The circle comprised Mrs. Morton, Henry and Clara, and a son and daughter some years younger than they; for death had entered that family circle, and made a vacancy there.

They were conversing cheerfully, with the ex ception of Clara, whose spirits had been oppress ed with a vague apprehension of coming evil, ever since the conversation she had held with Henry a few hours before. Emeline, the youngest, checked herself while relating to Henry some occurrence which had happened that day, as she heard the street door open, and her far ther's well-known step in the hall. Clara whose observation, perhaps, was quickened by her own peculiar state of mind, was the first to notice that there was something quite unusual in her father's appearance.

"Why, father!" she exclaimed, "what is the matter? what has happened?"

This unexpected question only served to increase her father's agitation, and to render it more apparent to the other members of the family,

who united with Clara in entreating him to tell them the cause.

Mr. Morton seemed quite overcome by these anxious inquiries, and for a time incapable of the use of language; but by a strong effort of self-command he regained his composure sufficiently to reply-"I could have wished that I might have exercised more self-command, or that you had been less observing, but perhaps it is as well as it is. I could have concealed the truth but a short time longer, and it may be as well that you should know it now. You are aware that I have met with heavy losses of late, but

you are not aware of the extent of the evil, and that these losses have been so heavy that they have "-ruined me-he would have said, but there was a choking in his throat that prevented the utterance of another syllable.

The effect of this intelligence, on that evening, seemed to be the same on each member of Mr. Morton's family. The sufferings of the husband and father were obviously so great, not for himself but for his family, that each one forgot every thing else in the effort to comfort and cheer him, who, on their account, was suffering so intensely. Henry, amid all the excitement of the scene, could but look on Clara with wonder and admiration, to see how entirely she seemed to forget her own share in the misfortune, in her attempts to cheer and console the father to whom she was fondly attached; and he was strengthened in the belief that there was much more of firmness and strength in Clara's character than had ever been made apparent.

But there are some minds which can bear up bravely under the first rude shock of some great misfortune, who are yet unable to contend with those long, long after-days of suffering, which follow in its train. To withstand the first shock by a vigorous effort of self-control, is far less dif ficult than patiently to bear, week after week, and month after month, all the disappointed hopes, the chagrin, and the heart-aches that follow. Clara belonged to this class. She could summon resolution for a brief, though, it might be, a terrible conflict, but she lacked the strength of mind and self-discipline necessary to bear the long-continued struggle; yet Henry was right when he felt that this was the result of education, rather than of constitutional weakness of character.

Mrs. Morton who lived only in her children, and who had shown more weakness of character in her blind indulgence of them, than she had ever shown in any other way, felt the change

principally for their sakes. Henry showed that the lessons which his father had so carefully taught him, had not been in vain. Now, in this hour of trial they brought forth precious fruit. George and Emeline were too young to realize and feel the change. All instinctively felt that Clara would be the greatest sufferer by it,

"I have a letter from my sister," said Mr. Morton to his wife, some weeks after the evening in which he had disclosed to his family the extent of his misfortunes.

"What does she write?"

"She writes just like herself, so unobtrusive in her benevolence, so delicate in her sympathy. She begs us to send as many of the children as we can spare to spend the summer with them, urging that it will tend to divert their minds from the painful change which has come so suddenly upon them."

"Your sister is kind, but she has quite a charge with her own family, and I think it would hardly be right to add to her cares."

"I do not know that it would, still I am inclined to accept of the invitation so far as to send Clara there. You know the trying scenes through which we must soon pass, in parting with our furniture, and leaving this dear home for one very humble indeed in comparison. I would save Clara the trial of being witness to all this. Though my sister's family live in an humble and unpretending way, they are certainly a happy family, and I cherish the hope that Clara will there learn that splendor and luxury are not essential to happiness, and when she returns will fall more naturally into our altered mode of living. I think we have reason to blame ourselves, that we have not taught Clara the same lessons of self-denial and self-dependence that we have tried-I think successfully-to teach Henry. I somehow felt that it was more important that my sons should be taught these lessons, than that my daughters should; but I now see my error. I have no fears for Henry. It will prove a good school for him in the end, for he is prepared to profit by its lessons. If the same is not true of Clara, I fear it is our own fault."

It was decided that Clara should spend the summer with her uncle and aunt Harris, who lived in a pleasant country village. The evening before she was to go, Henry sought his sister, to have one more affectionate conversation with her before they parted. He found her weeping bitterly upon the same sofa on which she was reclining when first introduced to the reader.