"Oh! was that Amelia Slater?" asked Mary; "I saw her father yesterday, but all the rest were out, he said."

"Yes, that's one of them. I dare say you knew them at Kingsford-that is why Fanny has taken up with them so; but somehow I don't much fancy them, and yet it seems hard to forbid her seeing them." Mary Cooper did not reply, and Mrs. Dale, rightly conjecturing the cause of her silence, continued, "You do not like them, my dear, I'm sure-now, do you?"

"Well, I cannot say I do very much; but then you know it is some years since I was acquainted with them, and they may be different now."

"But what did not you like?" asked Mrs. Dale anxiously; "do tell me, because of Fanny."

"It was more the general tone of the family than anything in particular. I always liked Mr. Slater (he was uncle Martin's friend when they were quite boys, you know), but there was such a want of order and obedience amongst the children, and so much made of dress and nonsense, and, worst of all, there was such a carelessness about speaking the truth. I don't mean that they told positive falsehoods, but they were allowed to make false excuses, and I have known Mrs. Slater say " we must not let father know,' and then laugh, and hustle things out of sight when he was coming, and of course the children soon learnt the lesson."

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Dale, "what can possess Fanny to like such people?"

"Oh! I'm not much surprised," 'replied Mary; "I took rather a fancy to them at first. They are very good-natured people, and used to notice Fanny a good deal formerly; but I hope she will not get very intimate with them, for I do not think some of their acquaintances are such as you would like for your girls."

"I wish they had never come here," said Mrs. Dale.

"I dare say Fanny will not like their ways any better than I did," said Mary, "when she has seen a little more of them."

"You see, my dear, what makes me so anxious about it is, that Fanny is so changeable; she just does the same as those she is with. I don't mean to say that she would do anything very wrong if she thought about it, but she is so desirous to be friends with

everybody, that I am afraid she does not care much whether their ways are good ones or not; and so, rather than 'make a fuss,' as she calls it, she gets led on to do and say things that she ought not."

"And yet there seems to be more right feeling and good principle in Fanny than you very often see in girls of her age."

"Yes, my dear, indeed there is, and I do hope in time she will be steadier to do what she knows is right, for a better-disposed girl cannot be. You should have seen her, Mary, after her poor father's death-dear girl! so thoughtful and attentive, and so ready at seeing how she could help me. And dear Bessie too-I will say that, but one does not notice her quiet ways so much; but I don't think she has ever caused me an anxious thought, she is so good and steady. Fanny's lively ways and being such a favourite put her off her guard, I dare say; but when anything sobers her a little, like her losing little Harry two-and-a-half years ago, she is as good and tractable a girl as you would wish to see.

They had almost reached the church by this time, and Mary was not sorry to drop the conversation. However, on their way home Mrs. Dale remarked "that that was Mrs. Slater who was just before them as they came out of church, and she wondered Mrs. Cooper had not spoken to her."

"I mean to go and see her to-morrow," replied Mary; "but I do not think she has ever quite forgotten or forgiven my conduct to her daughter Matilda, so I did not like to speak to her till I had called."

"She is lady's-maid to some one in London, I think," said Mrs. Dale; "but I didn't know that you were acquainted."

"Oh yes; she was at Miss Sims's when I went there, and very kind she was to me; and I, feeling very forlorn, and not accustomed to strangers, was naturally attracted by her good-nature, and was more friendly than was quite wise with a stranger. One or two visits to their house soon convinced me that they were not the sort of people that my father and mother would like; and then I had to draw back, which is always an awkward business, especially when people have been kind to you. But I believe my crowning offence was on the occasion of a certain quiet Sunday walk which Matilda asked me to take with her."

"You don't think a walk on Sunday

evening is wrong, my dear, do you? We generally have one all together."

"Oh no, not at all; we always used to at home-it was the only day father could go with us. But after Matilda and I had gone a little way we were joined by ever so many others, young men and women, a very noisy set. I soon found from their conversation that Matilda had agreed to meet them, and that they were to join another party a little further on; and they went on in such a way, that when we came to a lane that led across to the back of uncle Martin's I left them and went home by myself."

"And quite right too, Mary."

"Yes, I think I was right to leave them, but I was wrong to speak as I did; but I certainly was very angry, for Matilda had as good as told me that we should go by ourselves, and when she ran after me to try to persuade me to go on with them, I spoke out very sharply. I don't wonder she was offended, especially as her father was angry with her for coming home alone rather late, for she took care to part with all her friends before she met him."

"Did they ever know how it really was?" "Not Mr. Slater, but I think she told her mother something of what had occurred; for I went a day or two after and told Mrs. Slater I was sorry I had spoken as I had, and she drew up and said 'her daughter had informed her of the facts, and perhaps we had better not walk again together, as it couldn't be agreeable to such a religious young woman as me to have such an unedifying companion.' I felt so hurt, and began to say so, but she 'begged I would say no more-no apologies were necessary- but perhaps I would oblige her by not naming it to Mr. Slater;' to which I of course agreed. But we were never so friendly afterwards, and I certainly did not see any cause to regret that the intimacy dropped."

CHAPTER XIII.

Losg before the expiration of the three months of trial, both Mrs. Dale and Mrs. Cooper had quite decided that they should wish the present arrangement to continue. Mrs. Dale was only too glad to have so pleasant a lodger, and one who in many ways was likely to prove a help and comfort to her. Both the girls had a desire to learn dressmaking, but Mrs. Dale had always refused

Fanny's entreaties to allow her to be an indoor apprentice at Miss Sims's, or some other milliner's at Kingsford; but now that so favourable an opportunity presented itself, Mrs. Dale agreed that as soon as Mrs. Cooper had sufficient employment to require constant assistance, which it appeared likely would be soon the case, Fanny was first to be apprenticed to her, and Bessie in the course of a year or two. Country air, and rest, had much improved Mary's health, and little Charlie's rosy cheeks and boisterous spirits, so different from the pale, quiet little London boy that he was three months ago, were a still further inducement to Mary to remain where she already felt at home and comfortable.

"Mother, mother!" exclaimed Harry, racing up the garden with Charlie one fine July evening on their return from school, " see what we've got, and it's all coming to Kingsford; and he's to drive twelve horses all through the street-only think, mother! like that ;" and the child held up a long bill of Batty's Royal Circus, headed by a picture of a man striding over three or four horses, and driving a crowd of others before him.

"And a band of music!" shouted Charlie. "Fireworks and 'luminations in the evening!" chimed in Harry. "O mother, shouldn't you like to go?"

"Well, my dear,” replied his mother, smiling at his eagerness, "I dare say I should have liked it once, but I don't care for such things now-I suppose I'm too old."

"O mother, you ain't old! George Stokes is going-I wish I was; and he's going with his grandmother, and you're not a grandmother. Won't you go, mother?"

"No! indeed I shall not, Harry, nor you either; so you need not think of it."

"It's something like riding though, isn't it?" he said, turning again to his picture with renewed admiration. "I must show it to the girls where are they, mother?"

"Gone up to Mrs. Price's for me an hour ago. I wonder what keeps them."

"Girls are so slow," remarked Harry contemptuously; "but they're coming now at any rate," he added a few minutes after, as Fanny and Bessie were seen running across the meadow as fast as their basket of bread would let them. In they came, laughing and out of breath, but both talking at once.

"O mother! there's to be such grand doings at Kingsford the week after next," began Fanny.

"An agricultural show, mother," said Bessie, "cattle and poultry and all sorts of things!"

"And everybody is going to be there-all the ladies and gentlemen for miles and miles round, and perhaps Prince Albert, and ever so many great lords and ladies!" said Fanny.

"And lots of fine carriages and flags, and arches all over the town, and a band of music!"

"Yes, mother, a real band-soldiers I mean, in beautiful uniform," added Fanny; "and all in front of the market is to be set out like a fair."

"And the Circus is coming too, with all the horses and the beautiful ladies; and it is all to go on for three days," said Bessie.

"But Thursday will be the best day," said Fanny, because there are to be illuminations all over the town, and fireworks in the evening."

"O mother, won't it be beautiful?" they both exclaimed.

"Why, bless the children!" said Mrs. Dale, "you are all come home crazy, I think; the show isn't at Alstead. What does it all matter to us? I'm not going to take you all to Kingsford in such a crowd and fuss, I promise you."

"O mother! but that's just what We were coming to," said Fanny; "you go on, Bessie."

"I don't see why I'm to tell your messages, Fanny; but I don't mind. Mrs. Slater and Amelia came into Mrs. Price's, mother, while we were waiting for the change, and she said

"I was sure you'd been gossiping somewhere," said Mrs. Dale; "well, go on."

"And they told us about this show, mother. There was a bill, like Harry has got, in the window, and we were reading it when Mrs. Slater and Amelia came in; and she said they were going, on the Thursday most likely, and she sent her compliments to you, and she hoped you would allow us all three to go in their cart, and she would take great care of us and bring us home in the evening."

"O my-how jolly!" shouted Harry.

"I don't like it at all, my dear," said Mrs. Dale, "not at all. I cannot bear disappointing you"--and certainly her kind face looked nearly as sorrowful as her three children's “but indeed I cannot let you go like that. It is very kind of Mrs. Slater, I'm sure, and I dare say she would bring you home safe enough; but I shouldn't be easy about you.

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It would be different if I was going, or your uncle and aunt Martin were living there; but no, my dears, you must give it up this time. I'll speak to Mrs. Slater myself."

But Fanny had no intention of “giving it up," at least not without a struggle.

'Suppose they could make room for you in the cart, mother," she suggested, "would you let us go then? We couldn't come to any harm then."

"I shouldn't like to ask a favour, my dear, and be crowding up the cart."

"Oh! but the Slaters are so good-natured, mother, they wouldn't mind."

"But I should, Fanny, so don't keep on about it; and besides I do not feel equal to such a day. It is not as if I could go and be quiet at your aunt's, as I used to do; but standing about in the heat all day would be more than I can bear now-don't you think so- Mary?"

"Indeed I do,' replied Mrs. Cooper, who had been listening rather anxiously to the whole dialogue, knowing full well the sort of company with which the Slaters would mix on such an occasion, and yet not liking to interfere until her opinion was asked. "I'm sure, Mrs. Dale, after what Dr. Paine said to you about the importance of your not getting over-tired or excited, it would be quite wrong of you to go, unless, as you say, you had some friend's house where you could go and be quiet as much as you liked. If it was a year later I would take the girls myself rather than they should be disappointed, but indeed I cannot yet."

"Oh no! Mary, I should never have thought of such a thing. I am sorry for it, but they must learn to bear disappointment. And now make haste, my dears, and get the tea it's more than half-past five."

"You could go to the Rectory," muttered Fanny sulkily.

"I'll not have another word said about | it, Fanny," said Mrs. Dale sharply; “you know I do not go there unless I'm asked, and so don't let me hear any more on the subject. There, take your bonnet upstairs, and make | a little more haste about it; and please to come down looking a little pleasanter if you

a visitation as a mark of the saint's displeasure, they were obliged to desist, and allow his remains to continue in their humble resting-place. This is the origin of the popular belief relative to rain on St. Swithun's Day. It is not, however, borne out by historic record, for in 971 his relics were translated on this day, by St. Athelwold, to a shrine of gold and silver inside the church. In 1094 they were re-translated to the Cathedral of Winchester, which had just been erected by Bishop Walkelin.

"If on St. Swithin's Day it proves fair, a temperate winter will follow; but if rainy, stormy, or windy, then the contrary." So says Mr. Thos. Passenger in his "Shepherd's Kalendar;" and every one has been told, at some time or other, that if it be wet on the 15th of July, forty rainy days will succeed, but vice versa if the weather be propitious. This belief is of no modern origin: it has probably prevailed since the year 868, when the good Bishop of Winchester, Swithin or Swithun, departed this life, and was buried, according to his express desire, in the open churchyard instead of within the walls of the minster. Upon his canonization, the monks thought that it redounded to their disgrace that they should allow a saint's remains to repose without the sacred fane; so they resolved that on the 15th of July they would exhume the body of Swithin, and re-inter it with due pomp and ceremony in the chancel of the minster. This intention was, however, never carried out, for the rain which fell on the 15th and on the forty succeeding days was so powerful that it convinced the monks of the impropriety of their design, and they left the bones of St. Swithin in peace. "Poor Robin'Almanack" for 1697 has some lines on this subject which are curious, but which do not say much for the poetical talent of the author:"In this month is St. Swithin's Day, On which that if it rain, they say, Full forty days after it will Or more or less some rain distill. This Swithin was a saint, I trow, And Winchester's Bishop also, Who in his time did many a feat, As Popish legends do repeat :A woman having broke her eggs, By stumbling at another's legs, For which she made a woful cry, St. Swithin chanced for to come by, Who made them all as sound or more Than ever that they were before! But whether this were so or no, "Tis more than you or I do know. Better it is to rise betime,

And to make hay while sun doth shine,
Than to believe in tales or lies
Which idle monks and friars devise."
"ST. SWITHIN."

There are several rhymes on St. Swithin's Day. One runs thus:

"St. Swithin's Day, if thou dost rain,

For forty days it will remain:

St. Swithin's Day, if thou be fair,

For forty days 'twill rain no mair." B.

There is an old saying, that when it rains on St. Swithin's Day, it is the saint christening the apples.-B.

July 20. St. Margaret.-She was a native of Antioch, and daughter of a heathen priest. She was converted by her Christian nurse, and died a martyr A.D. 278.

F. W. P.

The legend of St. Margaret is probably one of the oldest, as it was one of the most popular, of the Middle Ages. She was the daughter of Theodosius, a pagan priest of Antioch, and when very young, on account of her weakly state, was sent to be brought up in the country, and her nurse being a Christian educated her young charge in the same faith. Olybrius, the Roman governor of the district, being captivated by her beauty, wished to marry her, but Margaret resolutely rejected his offers, and declared herself a Christian, to the horror of all her relatives. In order to overcome this determination Olybrius submitted her to the most dreadful tortures, but she still continuing inflexible, was thrown into a deep dungeon.