done the work of the idle, and concealed the
faults of the careless too often, not to be loved.
The school has been her home for years and
years, and she feels that her forthcoming
engagement as governess in Lady Bab Fitz-bassoon's
family—although it may contribute to
support her weakly sister, and even educate
little Frity, who is just seven years old—will
be a trial fit for harder natures than Clara's.

She and Georgina are close friends, and
true friends; and young ladies, even in
fashionable life, do not always forget their
friends. Georgina insists on Clara being her
bridesmaid; and young George Clavering
once said that Clara was the sweetest girl
in the world. George is a generous fellow;
but we will not pretend to pry into futurity.
Perhaps Quarter-day has a smile in store for
the "articled pupil."

Little, dark-eyed, laughing Fanny Mauprat,
who talks French like a Frenchwoman, and
is never still except when she is waltzing or
playing the pianoforte, is musing over a
similar fate in prospect. Will that "dear old
John," as she styles her affianced, give up
reading so much, and run about with her all
day, as they used to do, when making hay
was so much more delightful than practising
"La Violette? " A happier couple will not
be found. The steady curate of St. Deverex
wants enlivening, and Fanny can do that, if
anybody can; Fanny wants a little—a very
little—calling to order, and "dear old John"
holds the reins tightly enough over her little
heart to pull up short whenever it is needed.
It is a paradox to say so; but they are so
unlike one another now, that they must
agree. Quarter-day smiles at the very
notion; but Fanny has a little money, and
John has a little learning and application,
and we believe Quarter-day will call
on them a good many times, and go away
satisfied.

Quarter-day has got into a scrape. The
Dean and Chapter of St. Rochford have been
too stupid to hold their tongues; and the
tumble-down schoolhouse and the defrauded
scholars of the foundation have "a heavy sum
to make up." "We thought these old nightmares
had paid their debts, and purchased a
little honesty. We thought they would have
taken care of the small amount of credit
which remained to them. But, alas!—such
is the infatuation of getting into debt—so
far from trying to meet Quarter-day with a
clean breast, they are absolutely spending the
money in going to law. May the next Quarter-day
sign their warrant.

Quarter-day comes round, and finds thousands,
and tens of thousands of people, no
richer, wiser, or better than they were last
Quarter-day. Quarter-day finds people equally
bigotted or stupid. Quarter-day cannot teach
the advantage of being "a little beforehand;"
but Quarter-day praises the conduct of the
clergyman, who doles out the offertory-money
to poor, hard-working people, as a quarterly
assistance towards paying their rent, instead of
frittering it upon those who run after seven
o'clock services, and neglect work, because
alms are forthcoming.

But there is a class of persons to whom
Quarter-day comes as an almost unqualified
blessing. The city clerk, the banker's clerk, the
foreman,—if they do not receive their salaries
by the week or the month—all, hail Quarter-day.
Living, for the most part, in a regular
irregularity (we speak of the unmarried party,
of course), they "run short," "borrow five
shillings," time has just set in, when Quarter-day
appears; the quarter's salary dispels
doubts and anxieties, and the Adelphi
half-price becomes as attractive as ever. Perhaps
one clerk has got a brief leave of absence,
and Quarter-day comes to him with delightful
visions of Margate, Brighton, excursion
trains to Jersey, and that enlarged
experience of men and things learnt in a week's
visit to the sea-side. Some clerks are gay;
and the al-fresco dancing at Rosherville or
Cremorne, with the combined attractions of
fireworks, fountains, and the chase homeward
in quest of a steamer or an omnibus, totally
discompose the brain that has been in a
continued state of calculation for weeks past.
Cheap tailors hail Quarter-day, and put
forward fresh puffs. The literature of Schneider
and Company is more perseveringly thrown
through the windows of the Great Western
omnibuses; and our city clerk's appearance
at an evening party at Peckham or Islington
becomes wondrous, if his salary be
considered.

Quarter-day cuts up the year into small
pieces, and is a quieter informant as to the
progress of time than New-Year's-Day. Yet,
three months is a long time to think of. How
many books may be read by the student, how
many schemes brought into effect, and how
much profit realised, in three months, is only
known by practice and experience. Yet, to
how many does the three months run round,
and present a barren account of nothing
done? Term after term does the collegian,
put off those studies which are to be the
groundwork of his whole fortunes; time after
time does Quarter-day remind the idle boy at
school that he is three months older, and not
three weeks more accomplished; and yet both
go on—the one with extravagance, the other
with idleness; and each passing Quarter-day
cuts off something of fair fame and profit from,
their future life.

Quarter-day has no terrors for those who
have the prudence to prepare for it. It does
not frighten people for the sake of frightening
them, but often for their own good. It does
not make certain pecuniary demands on its
own account; nor does life come down upon
moveable property, or personal liberty, for
its own satisfaction. Quarter-day is only a
representative tyrant—a sort of "reminder;"
but woe be to those who, time after time,
forget its admonitions!