Then, when despondency was fast crushing her spirit, there would, perhaps, come a long hopeful letter from her brother, who was studying almost night and day, and a new ambition would rise in her heart, a fresh strength animate her, until at last, in the daily performance of her duties, in the knowledge of the happiness she was thus enabled to confer upon others, her mind became calm and contented, and her health fully restored. Thus passed the first year of her absence from home. She had become accustomed to the habits and manners of those around her; and though some of the girls called her a little Methodist, and sneered at her plain economical dress, even declaring she was parsimonious, because they knew that she rigidly limited her expenses to a very small portion of her earnings, there were others among her associates who fully appreciated the generous self-sacrificing spirit which animated her, and loved her for the gentleness and purity, which all noticed, pervaded her every thought and act. Then, too, Mrs. Hall was ever her steadfast friend. One evening in every week was spent in that happy family circle; and there she often met refined and agreeable society, from which she insensibly look a tone of mind and manner, that was far superior to that of her companions. Mrs. Hall directed her reading, and furnished many books Mary herself was unable to procure. Thus month after month slipped by, and our heroine had almost forgotten she was among strangers, until she began to look forward to a coming meeting with those she loved in her own dear home. [_To be concluded in our next._ REVOLUTION. "Anger is madness," said the sage of old; And 'tis with nations as it is with man, Their storms of passion scatter ills untold-- Thus 'tis, and has been, since the world began. Change, to be blessed, must be calm and clear, Thoughtful and pure, sinless, and sound of mind; Else power unchained and change are things of fear-- Let not the struggling to this truth be blind.--ARIAN. FAIR MARGARET. A LEGEND OF THOMAS THE RHYMER. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. Old yews in the church-yard are crumbled to dust Deep shade on her grave-mound once flinging; But oral tradition, still true to its trust, Her name by the hearth-stone is singing; For never enshrined by the bard in his lay Was a being more lovely than Margaret Gray. Her father, a faithful old tenant, had died On lands of Sir Thomas the Seer-- And the child who had sprung like a flower by his side, Sole mourner, had followed his bier; But Ereildoun's knight to the orphan was kind, And watched like a parent the growth of her mind.