When Fanny became a mother, Amy said to her one day, as she was caressing her infant, “What a new and precious bond of union this dear baby must be, Fanny, between you and your husband! Here your hearts will always meet, I am sure; and it will make you both love Him who gave it, better and more truly than ever."

"I pray that you may not be disappointed in your faith in us, Amy,” replied Fanny; and the tears flowed fast down her cheeks, as she spoke.

Amy's heart was troubled.

After rather a long and oppressive silence, Fanny resumed the conversation.

"Do you know, Amy, that we shall soon leave Boston?" and her tears began again to flow.

"Dear Fanny, no! I thought you loved Boston too well to think it possible that you should live elsewhere."

"And so I do, Amy," answered Fanny, with vehemence. "I love the very clumsy old broken paving-stones of Boston better than all the splendors of any other city in the world. I love its crooked lanes-its ugly churches-its narrow sidewalks. I love all the stiff, prudish people of Boston

their odd, narrow, aristocratic notions - their solemn self-conceit. All its follies are dear to me."

"You have given a queer set of reasons for loving Boston, Fanny."

"This is the best proof that I am a true lover. Any person of common sense and good taste must love Boston for what all acknowledge to be excellent in it. But as for its intellectual and moral tastes, and all its nameless attractions - there is no merit in

loving these. But I love it for its very faults, especially now that I am going to leave it. This puts me in mind of poor aunt Hetty, who was very tiresome to me while she was alive, trotting about, finding fault with every thing and every body, especially with me, whom she probably thought the chief of sinners. Then I saw all her defects, personal and mental; but when the dear old soul came to die, when she so meekly resigned herself to the will of God, and so humbly confessed all her sins (which, after all, were so few) when she even put her hand on my head, and prayed so fervently for a blessing upon me, which, I am sure, I did not deserve, and when I heard her calm and Christian farewell, and knew that

then how

it was her last my heart prayed that she might live, and that I might be blessed, for many years, with her faithful love her kind, because just reproofs ! Even her homely face became beautiful to me; the great wart on the tip of her nose lost its deformity; and I have, ever since, felt rather a peculiar regard for such excrescences upon that respectable, yet so often comical and much-abused, feature of the human face."

Fanny burst into a sort of hysterical laugh, at her own strange fancies.

"Why," said Amy, who could not resist joining in Fanny's tearful laugh, "Why do you leave Boston, if you feel so badly about it? and where are you going?"

"My husband's father," replied Fanny, "has lately had a stroke of the palsy. He is very infirm, and has sent on an urgent request to his son, that he would come and live with him for the remainder of his days. He is rich, lives in a house sufficiently large to accommodate us all, and there we are going as soon as we can make the neces

sary arrangements. Now tell me if you don't pity me, Amy."

"I cannot think any one is a fit subject for compassion," said Amy, "who can call

such a sweet baby as you have in your lap her own; to say nothing of all your other blessings, Fanny."

"Yes, I know all that can be said of that sort of thing, Amy. Mrs. Lovell has been here, talking good to me, and giving me a vast deal of information with regard to the extraordinary character of my husband, and telling me that I was the most favored woman in the world that it was my own fault, if I was not perfectly happy; in short, she made out a list of my blessings, sufficiently accurate for an auctioneer, if, alas! happiness could be purchased. You see,

Amy, I know all about my blessings beforehand."

"My dear Fanny, I must, nevertheless," replied Amy, "ask you to look in that sweet baby's face, that is now actually smiling upon you, and see if you do not find the spirit of complaint die away, and a brighter, happier feeling take its place. A heart so loving as yours must make its own home. What matter is it where you are, if those you love are with you?"

"But, Amy, I must part from you. How can I live without you?"

You are less dependent upon me, Fanny,

than you suppose. Besides, I do not intend that you shall live without me. We will be good and faithful correspondents, and our love shall still be a mutual blessing to us. Come, Fanny, cheer up; by to-morrow you will begin to see the bright side of the picture. I shall, after all, be the greatest loser. You have a husband and child; but whom have I here to take your place?"

For the short time that they remained in Boston, Fanny persisted in speaking of their removal to New York as if it were a banishment from all that was desirable in life. The evening before their departure they passed with Amy.

"Remember us in your prayers, Amy," said Fanny, as she bade her farewell. "We not only (at least, I may speak for myself) partake largely of the weakness and sins of our first parents, but we are also receiving a similar punishment. I, the Eve of the play, am, of course, the greatest sinner. Come, spouse adored," she said to her husband, "I suppose that you, like father Adam, are punished more for the sins of your wife than for your own.'

Amy, who had been intimate with Fanny from a child, knew that this levity was as