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was the most favored woman in the worldthat 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.

I live without you?"

How can

"You are less dependent upon me, Fanny, Besides, I do not intend

than you suppose.

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 assumed, in order to hide feelings which she did not dare to indulge; but she saw that Mr. Roberts was deeply pained by it; and in the shade of sadness on his brow, which was not for a moment chased away by Fanny's forced merriment, she discerned a dark foreboding of future sorrow and trial to them both.

About a week after Fanny's arrival at New York, Amy received the following letter from her:

Dear Amy,

Can it be only a week since I left Bostonthe blessed place where I first drew the breath of life, where I first became conscious of this craving thirst for happiness, still unsatisfied the place where you and I have been playmates and friends as long as I can remember any thing-the place where I first learned to love all that I have loved, all that I do love? Do you wonder, when all these recollections of Boston cluster around my heart, that I should feel so sad at leaving it? "No," you will say; "but it is your duty to try to like New York; that is that must be your home." What a task you have set me! I cannot like any thing because it is my duty to like it. But I will give you some of my first impressions, and then you will see that I have duty enough on hand. I pass over the impression made on my mind, at our arrival in the city, by the forests of masts—the multitudinous houses the unceasing movement of human beings, rushing, in perpetual streams, through the streets and lanes of the city, like the blood through the veins and arteries of the human body. My husband asked me, as the steam-boat stopped at the wharf, if it was not a grand sight. "Yes," I said; "but it makes me feel very lonely, to see so many strangers." "It shall,"

he replied, "be the purpose of my life, dear Fanny, to make you happy. I hope you will become reconciled to New York." "O, yes," I answered, "I shall be happy;" and I really felt, at that moment, Amy, as if I could have lived with him in the black hole of Calcutta.

But you want to know about my home, and about my husband's father, whom I never saw before. He is a kind, simple-hearted, quiet old man. As he folded his arms around his son, he said, "Thank Heaven, who has given me back my son! You will be here, William, to close your old father's eyes." He received me very affectionately, and said, "You must remember, my dear, that you are in your father's house." I felt quite happy, considering I was not in Boston. The tears came into the old man's eyes, when my husband presented him our baby. "God bless the boy," he said, "and make him as great a comfort to his parents as my son has been to me!" Presently he rang the bell. When the servant came, he desired him to go and tell Mrs. Hawkins that Mr. and Mrs. Roberts had arrived. "Your housekeeper, father, is it not?" said my husband. "Yes," he replied; "and a very useful and faithful person she is. I could not live without her."

In a few minutes, this important personage

entered. She is a short, spare figure, with a head long and large enough for a tall woman. She has a long, hooked nose, and scarcely any chin, with a large mouth; but her lips are so thin, and they are so firmly compressed, that, when she is silent, you would hardly know she had any. Her piercing, black eyes are perfectly round. Her complexion is very yellow, and she dresses in green; so that the idea of a bilious parrot was immediately brought to my mind by her appearance; and I should not have been much surprised, if I had said "poor Poll" to her. Then she takes very short steps, and moves very fast; so of course she must trot; and as her petticoats are short, and her feet unusually long, when your attention is not arrested by her nose, you see nothing but her feet.

Imagine, dear Amy, what I must have endured, at being introduced to such a figure, with the knowledge, too, that I was to live with her, nobody knows how long.

scene first in our new life.

But I will go on with
When she heard our

names, she darted a glance at us, and, quick as thought, she ran up to my husband first, and gave his hand a sort of swing, and afterwards performed the same operation upon me, but with less cordiality. I see you shake your head, Amy, and say, "Fanny, this is naughty in you; it is

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