Sara Woodvile got up sullenly from her work, and poured out her father's tea. He took it from her without any remark.

"Will you have some tea, Mr. Wilmott?" she asked, coldly, turning to an old man who sate by the fire with a book in his hand.

"Why weeps the Muse for England?" he repeated, as he hastily looked up from his book. "Did you speak, Miss Woodvile?"

"I asked you if you would have some tea.”

"Not any, I thank you. What appears,

999

in England's case, to move the Muse to tears.' And his lips still murmuring, he sunk again in his chair.

At that moment, Margaret Woodvile came back into the drawing-room.

"What is this, Margaret ?" said her father. "Where have you been, what have you been doing? Here have I been waiting, one, two, three, four, five minutes for my tea, and all your fault! What is to come to the world, if this goes on!"

“Oh, papa, I am so sorry!" said Margaret, blushing. "I just went to see if Jane could teach me a curious stitch in my knitting, and

I am afraid I forgot all about its being my week."

"Well, never mind, dear; learn your curious stitches as much as ever you like, for you're a good girl, and you don't forget about five times every day! Don't blush about it; there's no harm done."

66

Always the same, Margaret," said Sara,

as her sister sate down on the sofa beside her;

66

'you do wrong; I am blamed, and you are praised."

"Not praised, Sara, only excused.”

Loved, then!" said Sara, with bitter emphasis."

"Come, Margaret, and make me some more tea!" called her father.

night as-as-as-a chip.

and sweet; there's a good

"I am as dry to

Strong, and hot,

girl, for this was

rather sloppy.-Capital!" he continued, as she placed another cup before him.

tea as ever I drank."

"As good

"Whatever Margaret does, must be well done," said Sara, looking hastily up; "what I do is worthless."

"Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense!" said Sir

VOL. III.

E

Richard, angrily. "Go and sing; I like your singing. Have you learned that song I told you to learn?"

66

No," she said, coldly and sullenly.

Then, what on earth is the use of my speaking! I had better be dumb - much better be dumb! Don't sing at all, miss, if you won't sing what pleases me."

"Sara did send for the song, papa,” said Margaret. "Why can't you say so, Sara?" she said, turning rather impatiently to her sister. 66 Why do you let papa blame you for nothing? She wrote for it the very next day, but the man had not got it. Sara never for

"Why can't she speak, then? What am I to put myself into a passion for nothing for? I hate to be in a passion for nothing! Take my cup away, Margaret. The tea has scalded my throat, and I shall toss it on the floor, if you don't take it away directly. Wilmott, what do you sit reading there for? I hate the sight of your books! I hate......" Here his eyelids closed, and his momentary irritation evaporated in sleep.

The moment he fell asleep, Mr. Wilmott got up, took a little chair, and placed it on the opposite side of the table at which the two girls were sitting. Next to poring over old books, his chief delight was to watch the varying countenance of Margaret Woodvile.

The two sisters were strangely alike, yet strangely different. They had the same clear, dark skins, dark eyes, and rich, dark hair. In feature, though much alike, Sara's beauty, if beauty that could be called which gave no pleasure to the beholder, was far more perfect and regular than her sister's; but, sad and sullen, no glow of pleasure ever tinting her cheek, or lighting her eye, the impression left by her appearance on a casual observer was painful and repelling; while Margaret, with her sweet, expressive, and brilliant smile, kindled a feeling stronger than mere admiration for her beauty in the eyes of all who saw her.

And the expression of Sara's countenance, sullen, bitter, and melancholy as it was, was but the expression of her mind. Unloving, she was, therefore, unloved; and yet uncon

scious that the fault was her own, she allowed a deeper shade of despondency year by year to steal over her soul. Year by year, as Margaret grew up to be loved, and prized, and admired, a heavier weight of gloom and bitterness, darker thoughts of jealousy and despair, clouded over and oppressed the many noble qualities of her heart, and the uncommon talents of her mind.

"Hey-day!" said Mr. Wilmott, leaning on the table with both his arms, and looking up into Margaret's face. "What has been the matter to-night?-something gone wrong-eh?"

"Oh, no, nothing wrong!" said Margaret, smiling; "but you never will remember what I have so often told you, Mr. Wilmott, that all the Woodviles have hot tempers, and they can't help it."

"Remember! bless me, my dear, I don't choose to remember such a thing! What should all the Woodviles have hot tempers for?"

"I don't say they should, only that I am afraid they have, I am sure I have-nobody knows what a passion I am in sometimes!"