In one of the squares at the extremity of Liverpool, some sixty years ago, there resided a young orphan, called Elizabeth Woodville. She had no relations surviving; her parents had long been dead, and an only brother, a few weeks previous, had, by youthful excesses, been brought to an untimely end. The latter event preyed upon her spirits and constitution, not only from the mere fact itself of his death, but also from the horrible circumstances connected with it. He had been conveyed home a corpse, after his nightly revel; and at the moment when Elizabeth was dreaming of her parents, in the far off happy land, she was awoke to listen to the awful tidings, and view their confirmation in the ghastly features of one who, whatever, and how many his faults and crimes were, had always loved her. She seemed now to be alone in the world, with no acquaintances save the flowers which her fair hands fostered every morning, and the toys of her brother, when a boy, which were all collected and arranged before her. There was the pencil, with which he and Arthur Govenloch alternately sketched her own features, in puerile art; and along with it were the silken cords which bound her to a seat, when she was refractory. That seat was still there, with the green faded cushion, and in it, for hours, she often sat, held by the illusions of memory. His fishing rod and basket kept their old places, fixed to the ceiling. Even the marbles of the boy had been preserved, and she thought of their sports in the garden, and remembered a long and successful chase, through amidst the trees and over the grass plot, into the arbour, which Arthur, followed by her brother, had after her, when she stole away their marbles. His Holy Bible, too, with the three names inscribed on the fly leaf, lay with its gilt edges; and she pictured once more to her fancy, the beautiful and happy sabbath eves, in summer, out on the flowery lawn, when their young minds drank in the holy words of peace and life. She fondly hoped that the solemn, yet sweet truths of mercy therein contained, would have been so strongly impressed upon her brother’s heart, that all the infidel thoughts which had latterly sprung up, and effected his temporal ruin, must have failed to uproot them. It had never been conned by them as a task book, but had always been opened by them as a holy romance of truth from heaven, pointing to Eden as the cradle, and the skies as the home, of our race; with the lovely and the wise Jesus as the hero of every scene, reflected above or below. Her whole heart was among these objects of remembrance, and her happiness was in the past. She played delightfully, and her sweet voice accompanied the harp, but only the songs and hymns which had pleased her brother, and his friend. She often thought of that friend. There was only one of the dead who engrossed all her thoughts, and that one was her brother, even to the entire exclusion of her parents; and there was only one of