One, who saw all clearly where we but blindly and feebly catch a ray of light, prayed for His executioners in these remarkable words--“Father, forgive them, _they know not what they do!_” Ideas such as the foregoing are calculated to inspire feelings of awe; but, if they are true, they should not be put aside because they give a solemn view of our responsibilities; when, moreover, rightly considered, they teach an important practical lesson--namely, never to neglect what appear to be little duties, or carelessly to fall into little sins. It seems but a little duty to extinguish a fallen spark; yet that spark may kindle a fire which may consume a city, which, save for that accident, might have endured for centuries. It seems but a little sin to utter a playful jest on some serious subject; but that jest may inspire a doubt which may injure a wavering faith, and endanger a soul’s salvation. Some may deem these remarks misplaced in a work of fiction; but if it be a novelist’s endeavour to depict truly the various phases of human life, nought that truly affects the springs of human action can be foreign to his subject. The evening of Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s party was not the first occasion on which Harry Coverdale had bestowed good and sound advice on Arabella Crawford, but never before had it produced the desired effect. Now, however, a new impulse sprang up within her--she would conquer her hopeless, selfish, sinful love for him, and strive to render herself worthy of his friendship, and win at least his esteem; but how should she begin practically to work out his advice--how attempt to render herself independent--what duty lay most directly in her path? Her intention was honest and sincere, and that morning’s post brought an answer to her question. A female relation whom she had hitherto neglected, was taken seriously ill, and wrote wishing, but scarcely expecting, her to come to her immediately. This lady was old, uninteresting, and in straitened circumstances; to go to her was an act of unmitigated self-sacrifice, and in Arabella’s then frame of mind this was its great attraction. Kate Crane was sorry to part with her, although the short time they had passed together had sufficed to convince her of the disagreeable fact that her dear friend no longer suited her as she had done in her schoolgirl days. There was a very simple reason for this, although Kate did not at once perceive it: Arabella Crofton was at an age when the mind and body having reached maturity, if they do not remain stationary, yet alter so gradually, that the change is almost imperceptible; she was, therefore, much what she had been four years previously. Kate, on the contrary, had advanced from a girl into a woman; and her intellectual powers had not only developed until they were now in every respect superior to those of her _ci-devant_ governess, but her taste had been formed on a better and purer model, and her natural instincts were of a higher and more refined