had occurred—for the first time. I knew that
my dear little Jenny must sooner or later be
taken from us for ever, and it made me sad.
With those proud artificial parents of hers—
although it was plain they loved her—I
doubted if she would be so happy as beneath
our roof. I thought of Hartley, too, and
how his union with my ward would now
perhaps meet with obstacles. He seemed,
poor fellow, to expect as much himself, but
he did not dwell upon it, perceiving I had so
great a sorrow of my own. Everybody, I
think, saw that; and, then and since, all have
forborne to give me any unnecessary pain—
I feel it, and I thank them. Words have
dropped involuntarily sometimes from those
most dear to me, of anger and uncharity
against my little Jenny. They did not know
her as I knew her, or they would feel how
deeply they have therein wronged her. The
girls are very hard upon her that she has not
taken notice of young Hartley since, (we are
all at home together again, and this is the
only subject that we disagree upon); but how
can we tell to what harsh discipline she may
be subjected; how this and that, which
seems to us quite right and natural, may
have been forbidden by her high-born foreign
parents!

It does seem sad and strange never to have
seen dear Jenny more; not once to have
kissed my little Ward again, and wished her
God speed on her new and lofty way. I read
that the three went back to Paris on the
ensuing day to that wherein I saw them last;
this time how many, many years! I read
some few months back, that the Count
Delamotte was made a minister of the Emperor.
That is all I know. We are very happy
at home, thank heaven,—all of us; but
I should like this strange neglect to be
explained to satisfy others; and how I
still miss, and how I long to see, My little
Ward!

PLURALITY OF MITES.

I FELL asleep the other evening after
dinner. I had been dining alone, and the
more serious business of meat and pudding
having been disposed of, I had sat for some
time idly playing with the cheese, some loose
dry crumbly bits of which were lying about
my plate. I fell asleep and had a dream.

I dreamt that in some strange unexplained
manner (when was ever anything explained
in dreams?) my eyes became all at once
endowed with microscopic power, and happening
to light upon a crumb of cheese, beheld a
goodly colony of mites. I watched their
movements. As I looked, they seemed to
increase in size, until I could distinctly single
out individuals from the mass. I saw them
striving and struggling with each other,
some of the weaker getting most cruelly
trampled under foot by others who marched
over them; I saw them toiling with difficulty
up the caseous mountains, or resting
quietly in the deep shady valleys into which
the inequalities on the surface of the cheese
were magnified. I saw some of the larger
plumper-looking mites hoarding up heaps of
the rich matter that formed at once their
food and dwelling-place; and I saw other
leaner ones who, dig as deeply as they would
into its substance, never seemed able to
get food enough to eat.

Then, as I looked, I thought I heard a
sound, like voices in the distance, and, by
degrees, my ears partaking of the supernatural
powers already enjoyed by my eyes,
I caught their accents, found that I could
understand the language of the mites.

"What a brave world is this of ours!"
cried an old fat mite whom I was watching (he
spoke louder than the others, and so his were
the first words that I caught). "How bountiful
has nature been in placing us upon it!
Here, have we all we want—our food provided
for us, and to be had simply for the picking
up. Had we been cast upon the dreary void
that separates us from the nearest world to
this, we must have died from hunger. Look
over yonder: what now appears to you a
tiny spot in the distance, once formed portion
of this world of ours. Now, it is millions of
our longest measure from us."

On hearing this, I could not for the life of
me refrain from laughing, asleep though I
was. The distant object that he pointed out
was one of the crumbs of cheese that I had
scattered with my knife some half an hour
before; the dreary void that intervened was
about two inches of the plate which chanced
to be uncovered.

I listened again. The old mite was discoursing
learnedly about the atoms that made
up their universe. "Look where we will,"
he said, "we find on every side, far,
immeasurably far from us, small specks to all
appearance, but supposed to be in reality
worlds like our own. It has been said, indeed,
that they possess inhabitants like ours;
but that we cannot know. Convulsions do
occur sometimes that bring two worlds
together; but, when this happens, those
residing near the spot where the phenomenon
occurs seldom survive the shock. Whole
nations have been sometimes known to perish
in the collision: some being crushed to death,
and others thrown far from any habitable
spot by the concussion."

Then came a mite, apparently much older
than he who had already spoken, and
declared he knew of his own knowledge, that
the worlds around must, to a great extent,
resemble this. Long, long ago, he recollected
that the whole formed one enormous mass,
vast beyond all conception; that by degrees,
with fearful shocks, the worlds they saw in
the far distance were, one by one, detached
and flew off into space. He was too young
when these disruptions happened, to know
much about it; but, he had pondered on it