of her movements proved that she was in perfect health.

In the autumn, the Squire received a long letter from Mrs. Whately, mentioning various reasons why she wished Beulah to come and pass a year with her. These reasons did not transpire, for the careful man, having the old-fashioned notion, that a woman cannot keep a secret, did not read the letter even to Mrs. Morris.

It was exceedingly trying to the whole family to part with the lamb of the flock. Beulah herself was at first unwilling to leave home. Where else could she be so happy? And how could mother do without her?

--

But then Mrs. Whately was so kind, so very kind,—and she was lonely, too, and a comfort she might be to her, and there were a great many things in the world that she would like to see and hear, and, with the hopefulness and vivacity of youth, she looked forward to the time when she should return and tell so many things to the loved ones at home.

Three whole days were spent by Mrs. Morris and Beulah in preparations for the city, and her simple wardrobe was considered in complete order.

How it would have amused a girl of her age, accustomed to think of dress as the most important thing in the world, to see the simple attire with which Beulah Morris felt perfectly satisfied.

Beulah took an affectionate leave of every body in the village, for she knew every man, woman, and child, and was a favorite with all. She lingered long at the beloved bower, which with girlish fondness she still kept in order for the sake of Zephina.

Medad," said the Squire, "you must go with Beulah, and take good care of her, and you may spend two or three days in Boston and see what's to be seen. 99

"I am delighted, perfectly delighted, with the chance," said Medad, and he whispered something in the ear of Beulah. "But shall we go in

our waggon ?" continued he.

"No, no; take to stages and railroads, and start to-morrow," replied Squire Morris. "And, Beulah, although cousin Whately is very kind to you, I don't want you to feel at all dependent upon her, for I 'm too thankful to say that I am well to do in the world and need n't ask favors of any one. You go to do her a favor by staying and keeping her company in

her lonely house. And here is one hundred dollars for your spending money. That will keep you as well dressed for the year as a farmer's daughter ought to be; for I don't want to have you get any grand notions in your head, and come home to despise your father and mother, because they don't care for show and only go for comfort. Be friendly with every one, but by no means too familiar. Remember the old proverb, Familiarity breeds contempt."

The tears were in Beulah's mild eyes.

"O, don't cry my child, I know you'll be a good, sensible Yankee girl, and not be carried away by all the novelties you chance to meet. Your grandmother was a good woman, not to say any thing of your mother, because praise to the face is open disgrace; at any rate, you come of a good stock, and you must keep up its character."

CHAPTER XII.

THE JOURNEY.

EARLY in the morning, the stagecoach, with its nine inside passengers and three outsides, was on the route to Boston. For several miles Beulah did not lower her handkerchief from her eyes, excepting once, and that was to catch a glimpse of their own dear village from the last high hill. Home! home! and the kind warm hearts there, what in the wide world could atone for their loss.

66

"Come, cheer up, Beulah," said Medad; our folks, though they did feel sadly, will be chirk again soon. And there are a great many pleasant things to be seen on the way.'

Medad's kind intentions towards his sister were aided by a sudden jolt, which sent a gentleman's hat directly into her face.

"I beg your pardon, Miss," said the owner of the hat, a young gentleman who sat directly opposite to Beulah.

"Not at all, Sir," the words were, of course, but the tone of voice made the stranger desire to hear it again. But there was something in the air and manner of the simply dressed country-girl before him, that prevented him from addressing her. Several times he was upon the point of doing so, but he could not. At length he turned to Medad, and said, "A very fine country this. It is better, however, for grazing than for grain, I should think."

"Perfectly correct, Sir," replied Medad; "it's a fine grass country; they say it's much better land, though, in that famous valley of the Connecticut."

"The valley of the Connecticut is very beautiful; its banks are quite a contrast to the bold banks of the Hudson. Have you ever been up the Hudson ?"

66

"Never, Sir," said Medad; never was twenty miles from Baxter in my life."

The stranger looked a little surprised at this frank avowal, but Medad was utterly unconscious of having said any thing remarkable. He did