and looked up in her father's face; "Willy wants to see his little Fanny."

"You will soon see him," replied her mother. "Look Fanny at that pretty blue smoke curling up out of that green wood in the valley; and see that pretty white house. At the window, shining like gold with the light of the setting sun, I think I see a little boy about Willy's age."

"Yes! yes! it is he oh now he is gone. Mother, mother," continued the child, "the water looks as if it was on fire; and see how many flowers are on the trees: will not Willy give me as many as I want? he has so many."

It was the time of the apple-blossoms, and the whole country looked like a flower-garden; the air was loaded with their delicious perfume. At the foot of the hill upon which the travellers stood, contemplating the scene below, ran a wild mountain stream, through a narrow valley. Scattered along its beautifully wooded banks were the villagers' houses, and rising up from the midst of them was a small white church; the glittering weather-cock on its spire caught the last rays of the sun, as it seemed to bid a reluctant farewell to the quiet scene below.

"Hark! Fanny, hear the water-fall!" said the father of the little girl, whose incessant chattering made it almost impossible to hear any thing else; "and hear the birds singing their go-to-bed-songs; and hark! that is the bell from the factory, calling the workmen and women and children all to their suppers, and telling them that their labor is done."

"See all the factory people," said the mother, see them, Fanny, through the trees running along by the little foot-path on the side of the hill, so glad to go home."

"That is Willy running up the hill, mother; is it not? Oh let me get out again," said little Fanny, as they began to descend.

"We will take him in, if it is he," said her father. In a minute they came up to him. "What is your name, my little fellow?" said the gentleman.

"Willy Roberts; and are not you uncle Edward, and aunt Amy Selmar, and little Fanny?"

"Yes, we are ;

" and in another moment

the child was in their arms.

"Go fast," said the boy; "father and mother do n't know you have come. I saw you on the top of the hill from the upper chamber window, and thought I would come

and see if it was you, and run and tell them first. They are in the piazza on the other side of the house, that looks out on the river."

"Father! mother! here is my little sister Fanny, and uncle, and aunt Selmar, and Robinette;" screamed out Willy, as they stopped at the door; and in an instant the friends were clasped in each others' arms. "Dear Amy!" "Dear Fanny!" was all the two cousins could say for some time. At last Fanny looked round for her little namesake. She was no where to be seen; Willy had appropriated her to himself, and had gone to show her the pigs, and the poultry-yard, the old dog, and his new wagon and hoe, the cow-yard, and the garden. Little Fanny, to whom all these were novelties, was in an ecstasy at everything she saw. Willy, who was so familiar with them all, and who always said our pigs, our chickens, our cow, was in her estimation as great a hero as ever was the most valiant and successful knight in the days of yore, in the eyes of his admiring mistress. When the mothers found the children, Fanny was standing with her bosom stuck full of dandelions, apple-blossoms and violets, and a bunch of lilacs dangling from her belt, looking up into Willy's face with

her great laughing blue eyes wide open, and full of solemn wonder, and almost oppressive delight, listening to a grand story Willy was telling her of a battle between the turkey cock and himself, in which Willy was of course the brave and triumphant conqueror.

"Come and speak to your aunt Fanny," said Amy to her little girl; the child turned, and after one look held up her face for a kiss.

"Call her mother, as I do," said Willy; "because you know you are my little sister; but come and see my little brother; he shall be your brother too." And away they ran into the house and up to the nursery to see the baby. Tears came into Amy's eyes. Fanny observed them, and said, "Come and see my flower-garden; it is not quite dark." She wished to divert Amy's thoughts; but they were precious thoughts to Amy that had brought tears into her eyes, and she said to her friend, "I wish, Fanny, you had seen our little Edward; he was a lovely thing, and the remembrance of him is very dear to us; for worlds I would not part with it."

"This is what I expected from you, Amy; your faith I know is a reality. How did your husband bear the loss of his little boy?"

"Do not say lost. Our little Fanny, with all

the visible signs of life, hardly seems a more real an existence to us both, than does our sweet angel baby."

"But how could you bear the parting?"

"It was very hard, Fanny; and we wept as parents must weep. My heart was very lonely for a while, when my vacant arms found no infant to press to it; and now when I hear the words little brother, and think of my little girl left without her natural friend and playmate, I sorrow for her sake even more than our own; for to us the child lives, and is still a blessing to us."

Amy spoke with the same trustful serenity upon this subject as she did upon others. Fanny felt that her religion was a truth, and therefore a source of joy; not a mournful refuge from sorrow when no other happiness is within reach. It was to her the vital principle of peace and gladness, the daily bread of a satisfied heart.

"It does me good," said Fanny, "to hear you speak so; I know that you think it right and wish to feel so; but to see that you really do, now that the trial has come, that strengthens my faith, Amy, more than all arguments."

"Let us follow the children, and see the baby;" said Amy.