of whom have risen from the ranks of labour, and have achieved a competence by honourable industry, by patient application, by a valorous and successful conflict with difficulties, and by the exercise of not a little selfdenial. They are men and women of whom a new country may be justly proud. They are never heard of outside the district which is undergoing a daily transformation at their hands. They are engaged, year in and year out, in the noble employment of subduing the earth, and in rendering it fruitful. Living in daily intercourse with Nature, the benignant mother of us all, the visible image of Creative Wisdom, Omnipotent Power, and never-ceasing Love, it is impossible but that they should be touched by something of her kindly, generous spirit, while constant familiarity with her processes and phenomena give them that sort of practical wisdom and that intuition of her mysteries which we, who are book-learned only, fail to grasp. To them the duties of a country life are also its pleasures, and their occupations and enjoyments recall

-

Conrade

those described by old Heresback, in his "Whole Art of Husbandry," which was Englished by Barnaby Googe, a Lincolnshire farmer and poet who was contemporary with Shakspeare. What a pleasant picture does the august councillor of the Duke of Cleves give us of his rural life, and what a fine spirit of natural devotion breathes through a passage like the following "In the meanwhile I behold the wonderfull wisdome of Nature and the incomprehensible working of the most Mighty God in his creatures. Here waigh I with myselfe the benefits and wonderfull works of He who bringeth forth grasse for the cattel and green hearbe for the use of man. With these sights do I recreate my minde and give thanks unto God the creator and conserver of all things, singing the song, 'Praise thou the Lord, oh my soule."" One must go into the more sequestered country districts in order to feel the truth of Varro's declaration, Quod Divina natura dedit agros, ars humana ædificavit urbes.”

302

It is not many years ago since there lived in the little township of Onehunga a widow, whom we will call Mrs. Strange. She was a stranger, indeed; yet in her narrow circle of acquaintances she was highly esteemed, and had gained the reputation of being a "born lady" from the top of her well-shaped head to the tip of her bewitchingly

pretty foot. Yes, most undeniably, Mrs. Strange was a lady.

Whatever

her circumstances might be, or her surroundings, at the time of our story, it was quite evident to all who comprised the little world in which she moved that Mrs. Strange was a person who had "seen better times," and had received the higher culture of mind and the refining influences of education that would have fitted her to grace the most select circle in which true lady might move. Yet, by some strange freak of fortune, Mrs. Strange was placed in a much humbler position than her capabilities accorded with, and in her case most decidedly society had lost a star.

a

It was often remarked by those who knew her best that there were times of mental abstraction in her busy, yet quiet life-times when she seemed to

retire within the sanctum of a frigid reserve, and live only in the memory of the past, which was veiled from all would-be intruders by a gentle though dignified manner, that formed a barrier over which none might presume to pass. At such times she would seem almost to shun all companionship, and wrap herself in a vesture of self-consciousness and retrospection. Her friends often said, "She had a story written in her face "—a silent record of

a life that must have been both eventful and adventurous. It was indeed a face at which you could not look without being impressed by its deep expression of hidden feeling, of power to endure, of wealth of love, of pride and self-control, of innate beauty of character, and grand unselfishness of purpose. These traits, and many more, were written on her face, which could scarce be called beautiful, yet at which one could not gaze unmoved. Little children smiled up into the depth of those dark eyes; weary women found strength and comfort in their soft light; and those who were not worthy could not meet their full, clear, searching gaze, that seemed at once to discover evil and yet to encourage renewed effort for attaining good, without feeling abashed, convicted, yet strangely drawn nearer to something purer

some

higher conception of what life is, why we live, and what we live for. It was a face to be remembered a face to be respected, loved, and almost reverenced, in its pure womanliness. It bore the stamp of an innate purity and strength, that marked its every outline with a beauty not of the world, worldly, but as though the soul that gleamed there had arrived at the very centre of its being, realised its divine origin, and entered into the experience of a higher life. There was something, too, in the walk, in the general bearing, in the conversation, whatever the subject, that attracted one towards the widow Strange, and held one, as it were, fascinated by the consciousness of superior worth, nobler attainment, more sublime self-sacrifice than one

ordinarily meets with in the narrow limits of work-a-day life. She was everyone's friend in need; though she seldom sought anyone's friendship, she was everyone's willing counsellor, consoler, or confidante; but she never asked for others' sympathy, never spoke of her own sorrows, or in any way confided the secrets of her past history even to her most intimate friend. All that was known of her was that she was the widow of a naval officer who had fallen in the service of his country; that she had retired from society for the purpose of benefiting her young niece, whom she had come to New Zealand to adopt and educate; that she had a small private income, which she further augmented by receiving music pupils; and that she was a person of high intellectual abilities, and firm Christian virtue.

This was quite sufficient, however, to ensure Mrs. Strange the ready sympathy and patronage of the ladies of the pleasant township whose natural beauties had won the choice of her quiet presence.

Here, in a pretty little cottage near the waterside, lived the widow and her niece, of whom we shall often have cause to speak in this brief record of a woman's life. Here, in quiet seclusion and useful labour, she strove to educate the gentle soul whose love was the one bright spot in her present existence, whose welfare was the one fond hope

of her future years. Eunice Strange had been left alone in the world, orphaned at a blow, bereft of all parental love or care by the cruel hand of carnage that had ravaged many happy homesteads during the native war. In the pretty village of R-- there had been industry, prosperity, and happiness, till the outbreak of that deadly passion, revenge, had incited the native chiefs to retaliate some European aggressions upon the innocent settlers of this quiet spot; and among the victims had been the parents of little Eunice, whose life had been saved by a young soldier, who had gallantly braved the shower of bullets from friend and foe to rescue the little helpless child from the burning homestead. Owen Cardiff had been generously rewarded for his bravery in the acknow

ledgment he received from his colonel, who wrote to the nearest relatives of the family, and related the direful tragedy that had rendered Eunice friendless, save for the sheltering care of Owen's aged mother. Then it was that Mrs. Strange had come from her far-away home in Sicily to give the little orphan a warm reception in her loving heart, and handsomely reward those who had rescued her from her parents' untimely fate.

To Mrs. Strange the child speedily became deeply attached, and at the time of our story Eunice Strange had become the reflection, so to speak, of the beautiful spirit which breathed in and throughout her beloved fostermother's daily life.

She had now attained the age of seventeen; and as in each succeeding year Owen Cardiff had paid a passing visit to Lentil Wold, as Mrs. Strange's house was called, he found the child whose life he had saved developing into sweet girlhood and gentle maidenhood. Now, as she stood with "reluctant feet, where womanhood and girlhood meet," his heart grew warm with a deeper feeling than that of mere friendly interest; he realised that in Eunice he had found his soul's ideal, the co-partner of his spirit's life, and awoke from his listless dream of mere friendship to a sense of the sublime beauty of love in its purest, highest, noblest incarnation, a pureminded, sweet-souled, tenderly sensitive woman.

CHAPTER II.

EUNICE.

"Down by the deep, sad sea," sang a sweet young voice, that seemed to thrill through the silent soul of the listener, with its deep, tender pathosthe soft, low refrain dying away like the distant murmur of the retreating tide, as the evening shadows gathered, and Eunice rose from her piano to seat herself in her favourite position, at the feet of her beloved relative.

"Eunice," said Mrs. Strange, as the young girl laid her head upon her lap,