received a slice of cake and a glass of wine. It was always given with the same words, " come, Nanny, you must mother with us." The cake was always received with a curtesy, and the wine always taken with the same thankfulness; "Here's my duty to you, ma'am, and thank you." That last humble mothering gift given, we drew round the fire, and the mothering garrulity began. Old tales were told, and I must confess that I have often shuddered, yea, my blood has absolutely run cold as I have listened to the deeds of horror which good Mrs. Belin remembered to have been committed in the days of her youth. She was of opinion that however long guilt might be concealed, some how or other it was sure to be found out in the long run. She thought with Hamlet,

that

"Foul deeds will rise,

Tho' all the world o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes."

She ransacked her memory, and on Mothering Sunday recounted all she could recollect, not only to entertain her guests, but as a warning to me.

Among many tales, which all tended to justify her opinion, she more than once told me of a dream which had been dreamed by one of her aunts. A

mode to detect crimes in which the ancient Britons

have great faith.

She had an uncle, a man of large fortune, whose property was entailed on the male heir. As he was unhappily childless, he had brought up the son of his younger brother, who was looked up to by all the tenantry as the future squire. In the course of time the old gentleman died. He was found dead, and as there were no marks of violence on his body, he was supposed to have died in a fit. He died and was buried. On the night of the day of the funeral, his widow dreamed that her husband came to the foot of her bed, and undraw, ing the curtain stood before her in the dress of the grave. On his left breast was a drop of blood. While she gazed on the stain which sullied the whiteness of his shroud, he vanished. Her friends to whom she recounted her dream, strove to dissipate her terror, by saying it was only the effect of the great grief with which she deplored her loss. When night returned, again her husband appeared, again he stood before her, and again the spot of blood upon his shroud was visible. The same consolation was attempted by her friends, and she was a second time appeased. He came a third time. Nothing could then console or quiet her. She would have the grave of her husband opened,

"

she would burst the cerements of his coffin. When lo! on the crape which covered the moulder ing corse was seen the drop of blood. It was enough; the body was carried to the mansion whence it had been solemnly removed, and beneath the spot of blood on the breast of the dead was a small morbid wound. He was opened; through his breast had been driven the finest of all fine knitting needles. The aperture was so small that no blood had issued from the orifice: the bleeding had been within but it was the first place on which the ravages of death appeared. Must I go on with the tale?-His nephew, impatient for his inheritance, and thinking that the old man lived too long, had thus wickedly destroyed the kind kinsman who had reared his youth with fond

ness.

Struck by the strange, and as he had deemed, impossible discovery, he confessed his crime, and yielded life for life on the scaffold.

This tale told on Mothering Sunday, though often repeated always harrowed my terrified imagination, and may perhaps have had the good effect on me which induced the narrator to tell it so often. It may perhaps, added to my mother's good precepts, and better example, have been a warning to me.

She always concluded by saying that the murderer was not her cousin, for the old gentleman

was only her uncle in law, but his widow was her

own aunt.

ANECDOTES OF A COUNTRY VILLAGE

AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.

THERE certainly is nothing so delightful as a little English village when the great folks about the place do their duty among their poor neighbours, and behave with urbanity to each other. The seldom failing charm of verdure, and generally speaking, the luxuriant abundance of trees, make the scenery beautiful; and the cottagers who are kindly noticed always take a pride in making their humble dwellings, pretty: But contests for superiority too frequently destroy the pleasures of village delight; and people live unhappily because they cannot find the place where they might live happy.

One of the loveliest of the lovely is a little village in Devonshire, not far from the coast. Let the name be concealed; travellers will find the