Mary lost her balance, and trying to recover it—both her hands occupied in carrying the flower-pot which held the geranium-her foot struck against a stone and she fell. She was instantly lifted up, her face as pale as that of the dead, and covered with blood. She had fainted. She was laid by the bystanders on some turf close at hand, and in a few seconds she recovered her senses. Meantime, Rhoda, in a new passion of remorse and penitence, had thrown herself down beside her. 'Take her away, the wicked thing she has done it!' cried some among the crowd who had gathered round. But Mary raising herself, said: 'No, no; let her stay. You are sorry, Rhoda—are you not? You were only a little bit angry just at the time, you know.' Now, Mary at first had been somewhat incensed against Rhoda, but her fall, instead of further irritating her, had calmed her at once. It is a remarkable truth, that a little provocation will sometimes make us angry, when a real injury makes us nagnanimous, perhaps because the latter calls out our deeper principles and feelings, while the former acts only upon our superficial impulses.

A medical gentleman, who had been present as one of the spectators, now arrived from the rectory. Mary complained much of having hurt her arm, and on examining it, he pronounced it to be broken. Rhoda's terror and distress were now extreme; but even in the midst of them, she displayed her superior presence of mind and readiness of resource. Mary was carried home, and laid in bed previous to her arm being set. While this operation was being performed, Rhoda held the patient, who had the magnanimity not to utter a complaint.

เ And now, Rhoda,' said the aunt of Mary, with whom the latter lived, for her own parents were both dead, 'you may go away-I am glad you seem to be a little sorry.' The tears started into Rhoda's dark eyes.

'No, Rhoda,' said Mary: 'I should like you to stay, if you would; for I shall not be well for a day or two, and nobody would nurse me, I know, like you.'

'O Mary, you are really good!' was Rhoda's sole response; but she stayed; and never had invalid a more zealous attendant.

Mary's illness was, however, of short duration; and the fracture being simple, the bone speedily knit together again. But from the day on which Rhoda had acknowledged the formerly hated Mary to be really good, she never wavered from her conviction, and did not seem to be able to do enough to atone for her former unkindness. And Mary's perseverance in well-doing was rewarded at last. But good always produces more good. Rhoda now began to ask herself, if Mary had been 'really good,' what she herself had been? Her heart had been turned by Mary's goodness. Might not the hearts of others be turned in the same manner? Some had been unkind to her: she would be kind to them, as Mary had been to her. Whether or not it would have the same effect in their case, she felt at least that it would make herself happier. She now began to perceive the force of much she had heard her good pastor both preach and say, that had hitherto fallen on her ear as mere meaningless words.

She put in practice her good intentions. She worked for, nursed, helped, comforted everybody. At first, people began by doubting her, and by saying she would change; but at last they were forced to be convinced that she was sincere and constant. A great revulsion in popular feeling was the consequence. Everybody began to see that every one but the rector, his lady, and Mary had been wrong. Rhoda was now a public blessing; and was it not everybody's own fault that she had not always been so?

But these pleasant changes had hardly taken place at than an event occurred which saddened all the little community. Mary caught cold one chill spring night, and the cold seized on her lungs. Erelong, it became evident to all-even to Rhoda, who hoped till hope was impossible-that her end was at hand. Such was the substance of my friend's narrative.

The day before the eventful one of the fête was pouring wet-not a break in the clouds, not one gleam of sunshine the whole day. Still, the gardener said: 'It will be fine to-morrow.' And it was fine on the morrow. It was one of those bright days one occasionally sees in the 137

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midst of unsettled weather, when the sun seems even brighter than usual, when the earth wears her gayest green, and the trees, even in the summer's decline, seem to renew the freshness of spring. Mary was still alive. How busy we were all the early morning decorating the barn with green branches, receiving the contributions of the candidates, and arranging them all on the benches, covered with white cotton for the purpose! I was standing near the door when Rhoda handed in the geranium I had noticed in the window of Mary's cottage, Is this yours, Rhoda?' I asked.

She looked down as she answered, while the dark eyes filled with tears: 'No, miss-it is poor Mary's. O miss, I do so hope she may get the prize!'

My friend, who was near me, said as soon as Rhoda was gone: The geranium was Rhoda's, but it has been Mary's ever since her own was destroyed by the fall the day her arm was broken. It is far finer now than it was then, for Mary, till she was confined to bed, spared no pains in tending it, and Rhoda has taken care of it for her since.'

And now all is ready, and the guests are beginning to assemble in the rectory drawing-room; and soon it was full, and then, by half a dozen at a time, we go to inspect the exhibition; and then the judges inspect it likewise, and hold their important deliberations; and then we all go in a body to see the prizes distributed. The geranium prize was awarded to Mary. Never shall I forget Rhoda's look of satisfaction. 'Oh!' she cried, 'I did so wish her to get this once more, and she is a little easier to-day.'

'May I go with you, Rhoda, to tell her?' I asked.

Permission was granted, and we went. On arriving, we found that the invalid, who had seemed better all the morning, had suddenly sunk into a very low state. Rhoda's countenance fell. She won't care for prizes now,' whispered the aunt.

เ

The dying girl heard the whisper, and looked up. 'O yes, I do!' she cried. Thank you, my kind Rhoda: I care for any proof of your kindness.' Then, after a pause, and with some difficulty: 'Dear Rhoda! take back the geranium, and keep it in memory of our having forgiven

one another. There is nothing so blessed as forgiveness; but I cannot speak now.'

Ready to weep, I was obliged to return to the gay scene, and leave those humble friends, who were truly of earth's noblest. Rhoda I saw no more that day: I guessed how she was occupied.

The guests are now wandering on the lawn; here, a group of clergymen, discussing weighty affairs no doubt; there, a knot of married ladies, discussing affairs also weighty of course; there, one or two squires, coursing their matches o'er again; there, some young persons talking nonsense, as young persons will; and there, a sentimental couple, who have retreated into a moss-house-'to be out of the sun,' they say; but I have an inward suspicion, to escape me-I, in my stupidity, or pre-occupation of mind, having been quite unconscious till that moment that I had been one too many. And now, I stand alone by the window, and a neighboring squire's wife approaches me, politely entering into conversation with the stranger, and saying what a pleasant sight it has been, and how she wishes there was a Mrs. - in every parish; and I heartily respond to the wish. And then we go to luncheon; and then the villagers assemble to dinner in the barn; then the guests, small and great, all disperse by degrees. It is all over. The great day of the year at little has gone off brilliantly. We have tea quietly, and I go up to my own room to rest, and to think of Mary and Rhoda.

My room looks out on the lawn, and on the little church. It is dusk: the gay company are all gone; softly night steals over the scene, so sweet and so still: the stars shine peacefully down on the little church, and its dark, overshadowing trees: the calm is almost preternatural: suddenly, a sound breaks on the silence—a slow, solemn sound from the bell in the church-tower; and I know well what that sound means-I know that the spirit of the gentle Mary has passed away from forgiveness on earth to forgiveness beyond the earth.

I am far away now from that quiet village in the great Wiltshire Plain; but amid the fever of busy life, to think of it is, to my mind, like a soothing anodyne.

The

memory of the garden-show, with its innocent gaiety, the noble feelings of the two peasant girls, and the end of the whole, so sad yet so touching, spring up in my heart evermore like a fountain shedding around it freshness and repose.

CAVE-TEMPLES IN THE EAST.

AMONGST the remarkable objects which are scattered profusely over the vast continent of Asia, few have more frequently arrested the attention and excited the admiration of the traveller, than those cave-temples which are situated on the islands of Salsette and Elephanta, near Bombay, in the East Indies. They are calculated to astonish not only by their vast size, but also by the singularity of their conformation; for they are not, like other temples, composed of small parts put regularly together, and reared from a foundation upwards, but have been hewn out of the living rock with infinite labor and care. We propose to give an account of these works, drawn up from the writings of various travellers who have visited and described them.

Salsette was formerly separated from Bombay by a strait 200 yards wide, across which in the year 1805, a causeway was carried, thus uniting it with the larger island. It is 18 miles long, by 14 broad; and the comparatively small area comprised within these limits, is remarkably rich in mythological antiquities, and the remains of reservoirs, with flights of stone-steps round them. But by far the most splendid remains of former grandeur, are the temple-caves of Canara, or Kennery, on account of their number, their beautiful situation, their elaborate carving, and their marked connection with the religion of Buddha. The caves are scattered at different elevations over the sides of a high rocky hill, and literally perforate it like a honeycomb. They differ considerably in form, size, and accommodation; and if we suppose the