speak for the children for a walk," said Edward Selmar, "I wish to have them to myself; Willy can show me the wonders of the place."

"That I can," said Willy, and began to tell beforehand of all there was to see.

"I speak for your company, Amy, for a walk such as we used to have when we were girls," said Fanny.

"Who 'll speak for me?" said Mr. Roberts.

"If you will not come too soon," said Fanny, "you may meet us upon the bridge below the falls, on our return; but we shall chat and lounge, and stroll along slowly. You are too consequential a person now to pass the whole morning among the rocks and trees; so we will not invite you."

"I do 'nt believe you want me, Fanny," said her husband.

"I don't believe I do," said his wife sportively, but with a look of such confiding affection that the most jealous lover could not be hurt. "Amy and I shall have a long talk about everything, and among other things of course discuss our husbands; and rely upon it you will have your turn, and you—"

"Will not be much edified with your remarks," interrupted Mr. Roberts. "So fare

well, ladies; I leave my character to your mercy; three hours hence I will walk to the old bridge to meet you."

"Follow me, Amy," said Fanny, “and I will show you my favorite spot, where I have passed many a joyful hour, and which to be perfect only wants the blessed idea of your presence to be added to its other charms. Often have I brought you here in the spirit, but I confess I do enjoy the visible appearance of those I love; and it is a precious pleasure to me to sit by you, Amy, and have my arm around your waist as it used to be when we were school-mates. Those were happy days were they not?"

"Not so happy as the present," said Amy. "No! no! indeed. Then I dreamed and talked of joy; now I feel it too deeply to speak of it to any one that I do not love as I love you, Amy."

"So you have told me in your letters very often; but no words could be so eloquent as your every look, Fanny. It makes me very happy to see you, and, if possible, more so, to see your husband. He is a new creature." "It does, indeed, seem like a new life to both of us. But here is the spot, and this is the seat, where I love to sit in silence, or talk

with my husband, or sometimes sing all alone, for hours together."

It was on the smooth, pebbly shore, where they seated themselves upon an old, mossgrown tree, that had fallen partly into the

stream.

"See this fairy bay," said Fanny. "Its happy waters seem to have stopped here while the rest of the stream hurries on like loving hearts, that turn aside from the great current, to reflect in their glad bosoms the beauty of earth and the peace of heaven."

With their arms interlocked, the friends contemplated, in silence, the lovely scene around them.

"The wind was hushed,

And to the beach, each slowly lifted wave,
Creeping with silver curl, just kissed the shore,
And slept in silence."

Directly back of this little, sheltered nook rose a tall, rocky bank, shelving over it, as if to protect it from the storms. From its crevices dangled the bright, gay blossoms of the columbine, heavy with the morning dew. On the top grew a graceful young hemlock, waving its pliant branches and small, brown cones with every breath of wind, looking like a feather in the crest of a giant. Oppo

site, arose steep, thickly-wooded banks; the trees just putting forth their tender leaves and green tassels, were ringing with the song of birds building their nests. Far up,

they had a glimpse of the fall, gleaming like silver in the early sun, while its unceasing sound fell in softened murmurs upon the ear. Amy looked up at the spring-flowers drooping over her head, and remembered

"The fair creature from her bosom gone,

With life's first flowers just opening in its hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,
Which in its clear eye shone,

Like the spring's wakening."

Amy wept, but not as without hope. Never was her conviction stronger, her faith more real, that her child lived, than at that moment of tender remembrance.

After a long silence, Fanny said to her, "You see, dear Amy, how happy we are; and you must rejoice to think that you were the means of saving us from misery."

"No, no," said Amy; "no one can do such a work for another. I helped you, perhaps; I pointed out the way, at the time; but, had you not been determined to do right, my help would have been in vain."

"I do believe," replied Fanny, "that, but

for the decision I made that morning, in consequence of your advice and entreaty to be simple, and true, and open-hearted to my husband, to have no disguises whatever with him, we should now be as miserable as we are happy. It was a long while before we formed those habits of perfect, transparent confidence and truth which now are no longer an effort. We had both to put aside our peculiar faults. I had to be willing to confess I was wrong, to bear to be blamed, and to see myself, often, in a very ugly glass. He had to conquer his pride, to subdue his sensitiveness, and to put away his reserve. In short, we have both felt the importance and duty of loving excellence better than self; and now we are growing more and more in love with each other every day. All we want to make us perfectly happy is, to have you and Edward with us. Mrs. Hawkins is one of my best friends. I have made her promise never to wear green, and to add a quarter of a yard to the length of her gown."

Amy and Fanny related to each other their various experiences for the last three years. During that time, Amy's father had died. One of his last requests was, that he might