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the better for his purpose, because it is so purely ideal. But, I am turning away from my subject, which was, the moral uses of quarrels among friends. I have changed my opinion upon this subject. I used to think that it was best to pass over slight offences; but I tell you, Amy, a little, short, well-bred, matrimonial quarrel, though somewhat disagreeable at first, is useful in the end. It is like a dose of cremor tartar; it sweetens the blood. Or, if you will have a more poetical comparison, it is like a slight thunder-storm; and the clearing up is so beautiful! and then comes the rainbow of reconciliation; and the air is so much purer and fresher afterwards! I am enamored of the very thought of a quarrel with my husband. But he never gives me an opportunity. He never speaks; and he is so civil, and so serious. If he would only box my ears, or whip me with a stick as big, or bigger, than the law allows, I should-be very angry," you will say. True; but this icy coldness would vanish; this death-like stillness, this portentous silence, would be broken, that seems to me to increase hourly, and as if it would finally turn me into stone.

Do you know I begin to think that the

housekeeper must have some strange influence? I never felt so till I came here; and she looks unlike any human thing I ever knew. The house is so still, that you hear her terrible tread, in the remotest part of it. My husband is with his father (whose health fails daily) nearly all the time; and I am obliged to keep Willy in his nursery, lest he should make a noise. When I can bear it no longer, I go out, or I should go mad; every thing is so dull, so solemn, so strange. My husband insists upon accepting every invitation; but when it is time to go, he says, Fanny, I hope you will go. I must stay with my father." If I object to leaving him, he urges me to go, and says, "There is no reason why you should stay at home. I wish you to have all the pleasure you can.

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I know it is very dull here.

You will oblige me by going;" and so I go; but I have no heart in it. Indeed, I have no heart in any thing. My beautiful, my precious boy, even he makes me cry. I cannot tell why, but so it is. He now runs alone, and begins to talk. The other day, when he was sitting in my lap, the tears were running fast (I cannot tell why) down my cheeks. He took up his little frock, and wiped them, and said,

said this, as if

Just then, my child ran and

"Mamma hurt? Don't cry, mamiua; I call papa to kiss the place, and make it well." O, Amy, it seemed, when he my silly heart would break. husband came in, and the pulled him towards me. I know not what evil spirit possessed me; but when he asked me what was the matter, I answered him in a reproachful tone, "O, nothing; only I am homesick and heart-sick," and hurried out of the room to hide my tears. I was ashamed and grieved at my unkindness to him, and came back, a minute afterwards, to tell him so; but he had gone into his father's room, and I did not see him again till dinner-time. When he met me then, it was with that frigid, silent politeness, which is worse to me than the rudest censure. If that bird of evil omen had not been present, perhaps I might have conquered my pride, and tried to melt the icy coldness that was so repulsive to me; but he kept her in conversation on purpose, I believe, after dinner, in order to avoid a tetea-tete with me. In the evening, I went to the opera with Mrs. (who is always delightful,) and forgot for a while, in the delicious music I heard there, the pain and folly of the morning. Now, if he had only

put me in the closet, as we do a naughty child, saying, too, with the true nursery tone, "Now you have something to cry for," and kept me there till I had promised to be good, how much easier it would have been to bear it! I always hated politeness, and now more than ever.

I tell you, Amy, that what is called good breeding and civility is the bane of all real happiness at home. If Roberts and I had both been brought up to the tailor's trade, we should enjoy ourselves as married people ought to. If I did wrong, my husband would shake the yard-measure at me, and I should take the press-board to defend myself, and then we should laugh at our own nonsense, and kiss and be friends. Whatever else you

and Edward may do, after you are married, avoid politeness more than you would a pestilence.

I ought, dear Amy, to close my letter after giving you such a piece of sage advice. You must not suppose I am insensible to, or have forgotten all that you have suffered during Edward's illness, or all you now enjoy. I have still a sort of traditionary recollection of something called happiness, by which I can

measure your present emotions; and my love for you is true and unchanged. Farewell. Ever yours,

FANNY ROBERTS.

As soon as the physician pronounced Edward to be so far well as that his recovery did not depend upon careful nursing, Amy thought it right to return home. A week after he was able to follow her. Even Mr. Weston received him with a cordial welcome, that seemed to have no reference to the opinion of the world, and that forgot to ask the sanction of the wisest and best.

Ruth was beside herself with joy, at seeing him again. "Really, Miss Amy," she said, "I was so glad to see him that I should have given him a good hug, if I had not thought it would look ridiculous."

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