MY OWN WAY.

(Concluded from page 179.)

PART II.

MEOW shall I describe to you, dear Jane, the terrors of that moment? I flew rather than ran, but my utmost exertions were of no avail, for the bull was fast gaining on us. I felt like one in a frightful dream; my breath failed; my limbs refused their office, and all I could do was to stand still as if spell-bound.

Just then it flashed into my mind that I had heard of time being gained by flinging some article of dress at an infuriated bull. So I untied my hat, and I threw it behind me. The light evening breeze, contrary to my expectation, blew it in the opposite direction; and suddenly changing my purpose, I fled to the gate with renewed energy. The stratagem was so far successful, that for a time the animal's attention was diverted from me. He followed the hat as it was wafted about in the wind, but when at length he had caught and torn it to pieces, he was again on my track. By this time I was but a short way from the gate, which was wide open, Ellen and I having forgotten to shut it on our entrance. The animal, now doubly infuriated by his recent disappointment, was close upon me once more; a last effort enabled me to pass through the gateway; then I sank exhausted on the ground. A moment more, and my fate would have been inevitable, when, as I lay expecting those cruel horns, my brother Louis, who was just then passing down the lane, dashed forward and shut the gate with a loud bang. I had indeed a narrow escape, for the iron bars as they closed were grazed by the creature's

horns; and there he stood baffled, and tearing up the ground in blind fury.

After that, I knew no more for some time, but when consciousness returned I found myself on a bed in a house to which I had been carried, with Louis leaning over me, and a kind woman trying the usual means to restore animation.

Suddenly remembering all, I started up exclaiming, Ellen! where is Ellen ?'

Was she with you?' whispered Louis, in much alarm.

I told the whole story as well as I could, and my brother, accompanied by the man of the cottage, set off at once to look for Ellen.

You may imagine what a time of anxious misery I endured while they were absent. Though now able to walk, I refused to return to my uncle's house, not having courage enough to witness the grief of the parents for their lost child, knowing as I did that the blame of all rested on me. Oh! why had I persuaded my little cousin to disobey her mother's directions, merely to gratify my own selfish obstinacy? for in that light it now appeared to me.

At length Louis returned without any tidings of Ellen, and all we had for it was to set off home, as bearers of the sad tale to her parents.

It was late in the evening when we arrived at the house, and my heart beat so fast that I was obliged to pause for a moment before entering. Surely my aunt and uncle must have returned, and yet there was no light in the sitting-room; my eyes scanned the front of the building. and from the high window of Ellen's own little room I perceived through the closel shutters a few rays of light. What coull it mean?

The servant who opened the door exclaimed on seeing us, 'Oh! Miss Bessie,

are you safe? the mistress has been fretting about you and Master Louis. Weren't you with poor Miss Ellen when she was horned by that dreadful bull?'

'Is she home, then?' asked Louis. 'Is she killed?' I cried.

'No, miss, but not far from it.'

I rushed upstairs and found my uncle and aunt in Ellen's room waiting for a a surgeon, who had been sent for: they were much relieved by seeing me unhurt, as my absence had been an additional source of anxiety. There was no time then for explanations; our thoughts were far too much engrossed by the poor sufferer, who lay on the bed bruised and bleeding, whilst now and then a moan of pain escaped from her pale lips.

Afterwards, I heard how one of the labourers, in passing to his home, was startled by hearing a faint cry, and climbing to the top of the fence, saw the form of a child lying in the hedge amongst the thorns, where she had been caught by her clothes. With some difficulty he raised her in his arms, and knowing her to be his master's daughter, he had carried her home.

It appears that after my escape the bull, turning from the gate, saw Ellen and purShe had almost reached the fence, but on a nearer view it seemed so broad and deep, and guarded at the other side by so thick a hedge, that she could not get across it. Just then the furious animal approached in mad career, and the terrified. child flung herself on the ground in help less despair.

The bull caught her up on his horns, and tossed her violently from him; but by God's care and mercy she alighted in the opposite hedge, beyond the bull's reach, who could only bellow, and tear up the ground in rage. There, stunned for a time,

and bleeding, poor Ellen lay in her thorny bed, until rescued as I have already told.

When the surgeon arrived, it was found that her arm was broken, and that she had also sustained other injuries; yet, thank God, there are hopes of her recovery.

I have indeed received a severe lesson, for, though no one here blames me, yet I can never forget all the suffering and misfortune which has been caused by my having taken my own way. S. T. A. R.

MRS.

MRS. BOYCE'S SON.

RS. BOYCE was a good woman, but good people have their faults we know, and one of hers was a certain restlessness of spirit, which led her to mistrust all her own actions even after she had done her best to frame them according to her rules of right. The fable of the man and his ass might have been written for her, so well did it describe her state of mind when this neighbour or that dropping in to talk over the widow's family matters differed in any way from her treatment of them. Widow Boyce was never angry with those who found fault with her plans, only very much vexed with herself and anxious to change her plans to those of the last speaker. This was a troublesome disposition to deal with, and one which sorely tried Amy, Mrs. Boyce's only daughter, a girl of nineteen, earning her living as daily governess in the small town of Fairelms. The widow had one other child, a son who would be eighteen if he were alive, as she would tell you weeping.

Geoffrey Boyce had suffered somewhat too in his youth from his mother's changeable turn of mind: he had been sent to this and that school, put to this and that trade, till the boy himself wearied of change, and begged his mother to let him go to