my own way, in the matter of talking and laughing, how should he in any other? And the truth is, he is as patient as Job with me, when I take to my funning ways."

"But I hope, Ruth, that is not your object in marrying Jerry, to have your own way. He may also like his way, and you will quarrel."

"We shall both have our own way, ma'am. It takes two to make a quarrel, and I never mean to be one. I guess we shall be peaceable enough. I always thought it was ridiculous for married folks to quarrel."

"Is Jerry a religious man, Ruth?"

"You may be sure enough of that, ma'am, or I should never have taken a shine to him. It's not a fair bargain between man and wife, when one lives for time, and the other for eternity."

"And you are sure, Ruth, that you have well considered what you are doing, in promising to marry Jerry?" asked Amy.

'My maxim, ma'am," said Ruth, "is, be slow in choosing a friend, but slower still in giving him up."

Amy perceived that Ruth's mind was made up; and as she believed Jerry was a good fellow, and as she saw that Ruth was really

attached to him, she not only expressed her approbation, which she knew was what Ruth desired, but the great pleasure she felt at the thought that she would have a faithful and affectionate friend, who would stand by her through life.

Amy and her husband and child arrived safely, at the appointed time, at New York; and the friends met with that indescribable, almost painful delight which we ever feel at meeting with one whom we have loved from our earliest childhood, and from whom we have fondly thought and hoped, in our childish faith, never to part.

"I shall call my baby Fanny," said Amy, as her friend pressed it to her heart.

"Heaven grant it may be wiser than her for whom she is called," answered Fanny.

Selmar and Roberts were rejoiced to meet again, after so long an absence. It was a general holiday in the house. Even Mrs. Hawkins said a great many things that, on another occasion, and upon further consideration, she would have called superfluous. And as for Willy, he was like a canary-bird at a dinner party, singing, dancing, clapping his hands, and chattering without heeding that no one answered. The baby he called his little sister, and its mother his own aunt.

The friends had a deal of talk about every thing, beginning, as friends are apt to, who

have much on their

cared the least for.

hearts, with what they

Fanny was anxious to know if Amy had brought her letters; and Amy was equally anxious to ascertain if Fanny was happier than when she last wrote to her; but neither spoke for some time. At last, Fanny began.

"I hope you have brought my foolish letters, Amy. I believe you must have thought I was crazed when I wrote them, or perhaps trying my hand at novel-writing."

"I have brought all your letters, dear. And now tell me, all jesting apart, are you happy?"

"O yes," replied Fanny; "happy as the day is long. But I must tell you all first.” And she went back, and, with much pain,' told Amy all that had passed till the present time. "And now," she continued, "I want to burn all those letters, and forget all that has passed."

"But, have you told your husband all that you felt, Fanny?”

"O no. Why should I? It would only give him pain."

"But do you not see that you are doing

now the very thing that caused the estrangement between you and Roberts?"

"How?" said Fanny.

"Do you think," said Amy, "that if you had been perfectly open and confiding to your husband, he would have been cold and reserved to you?"

"How could I be frank with him, when he was so silent to me? How could I tell him that his chilling, solemn reserve, when he was displeased, hurt me more than any censure, and that I would rather he would find fault with me every hour in the day? He would have thought me a fool."

"And yet," answered Amy, "if you do not tell him all this, you will never be happy."

"Yes I shall; for I shall be more careful not to do wrong, and then he will not be displeased; and he has promised that all shall be forgotten; and I am sure he does love me

as well or better than ever."

"And yet, believe me, Fanny, the same thing will take place again, unless a perfect understanding is established between you. The flame of discontent is smothered, not extinguished."

"O, I should die, he knows I should die, if he were to leave me, or if he ever were to

appear towards me again as he has this last winter. But I shall never give him occasion to find fault with me."

"Impossible," answered Amy. "Even now, I doubt not, he begins to wonder why you treated him as you say you did. You must be open as the day with your husband, Fanny, or your happiness is gone. You must tell him all that you thought and felt, said or did. You must not keep back your opinion of his faults; you must not extenuate your own. You must be perfectly true with

him."

"But you see, Amy, it is all over now; and we are so happy!"

66

"There is a root of bitterness in all your happiness," replied Amy, while anything remains between you unexplained, untold. There is a hidden wound in your love, if aught remains unspoken of; it can only be healed by being laid bare. If there exist anything between you too painful to be spoken of, think you that this tender spot will never be touched by accident, or by the same cause that first excited it?"

"He will blame me, when he knows all I have felt and said to you, Amy."

"No matter, my dear friend. You have