then of the pain that he gives to you by his

reserve.

What is it you love in him? It is his soul; O, can you bear to be a stranger to that? and can you be happy when he is a stranger to yours? No! your heart answers, No! This is the secret of your discontent, dear Fanny. Do not heed the little cares, the little vexations, the little faults, that every day brings with it. The little and the great troubles of life are excellent exercises of our faith and patience, if we will only so view them; and the mutual errors and failings of friends, if instead of trying to hide, there is a determined purpose to cure them, will bind them more closely together. If our

hearts are perfectly united in one holy desire beyond and above all those paltry trials and vexations, then the real and the unreal things of life become distinctly understood, and take their right place in our affections, and have only their just influence upon our happiness. But if, on the contrary, the thoughts and affections dwell in the transient circumstances of life, then all the imperfections, within and without, acquire a power if it were only from their number, that becomes at last irresistible, and when the soul awakes it finds itself a

prisoner. I have for some time, dear Fanny, feared that these enemies to your peace were gaining a dangerous power over your happiness, and that thus, instead of finding in your husband as you might, a helper to your virtue, a true friend of your soul, you will make him another cause of evil, and eventually of almost hopeless misery to you.

Dearest Fanny, I well know I give you pain. I know that to a common and uninterested observer all that I have said would seem superfluous and not warranted by the occasion; but I think I can read your soul better than any one else, and I know that it is only faithful love that bids me speak as I do. For some time past I have perceived, as I thought, that your happiness wanted the foundation which only perfect truth and religious trust can give. Love between married! people must be like St. Paul's description of charity, bearing, believing, hoping, and enduring all things, it must never fail; like charity too, it must be built on faith and hope, and thus become the greatest of the three, because it is the full expression and perfect manifestation of all.

I fear you will say,

"Oh what a sermon;

116

SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE.

she promised me a letter!" But I know you will forgive me, even if you think I am tiresome and disagreeable, and that you will continue to love me; so I will set you a good example, and be not faithless but believing. Ever your faithful and loving friend,

AMY.

CHAPTER IX.

"I have touched the highest point of all my greatness." HENRY EIGHTH.

A FEW days after Amy had written to Fanny, she noticed that when her father returned from the counting-house, he looked much agitated, and immediately retired, saying he should not take any dinner.

"Are you not well, father?" asked Amy, anxiously, as she followed him to his room. "Does your head ache?"

"Something worse than the head-ache is the matter."

"What is it, father?" said Amy, tenderly. "Have you any other pain?

"Yes, child, I have; and, what is worse, it is a pain that will go to the grave with me, and help to carry me there."

"Father! dear father! what is it? I did not know of anything to make you unhappy. Why did not you tell me of it before? What can it be?"

"A hopeless disease- an incurable sorrow, when it seizes on an old man."

Mr. Weston's voice became tremulous; he even wept. Amy was alarmed; she had never seen her father so moved.

"Tell me, father, what is the matter? What calamity has befallen you?"

"The worst calamity that can befal a man; that from which I have so fervently prayed to be spared; that from which I have labored and toiled to escape; that from which I thought I was secure; that misery which comprehends all others."

"What what is it? O, dear father, speak! tell me!" cried Amy, almost breathless with fear; "tell me, I beseech you!"

"Poverty in my old age!" groaned out the old man.

“And is that all, father?" exclaimed Amy. "Thank God, if that is all! I feared something much worse."

"And what worse than that could happen to your father, Amy? Is there any greater misery than poverty, which could befal a man of my standing in society?"

"Yes, father; disgrace is worse. I did fear, from what you said, that some evil suspicion of wrong doing had fallen on your old age."