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for happiness. What I wished to hide from you, William, was a postscript to my letter to Amy, asking her to bring me all the letters I had written to her since our marriage. There they are, and Amy's answers. I meant to burn them; but Amy has convinced me that I had better tell you every thing, and show them to you first ; take them, and read them all.”

Fanny then gave her husband the letters. While he was reading, she was perfectly silent. When he had finished, she told him calmly all she had endured from his silence, his reserve, and finally, from the conviction that he did not love her. She told him of every thing she had thought and felt. Her husband heard her in profound silence; but his rising color and his quivering lip showed how deeply he was moved. At last, as she spoke of her sufferings, he bowed his head, and covered his face with his hands, and groaned out, “O, Fanny, can you indeed forgive me?

I have been unfaithful to my marriage vow; I have sinned against my own heart, and against you in the sight of God."

“We have both sinned,” sobbed out Fanny; “but the future is before us; let us do so no more."

“ Had I been open, and trustful, and true

270

SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE.

had my love been what it ought to have been, Fanny, all this misery would have been saved."

“Let us be true and faithful for the future,” said Fanny, as her head fell like that of a wearied and repentant child on her husband's bosom.

“ Henceforward," he said, and pressed her to his heart, “we will do better; henceforward we will be true to each other. We cannot have perfection; but we may have truth; we may have real love.

“What a load is off my heart !” said Fanny, as she finished telling Amy of what had passed between her and her husband. "I feel so calm, so fearless, so sweetly peaceful. Bless you, dear Amy, for your truly faithful and wise counsel ; you have saved me from misery, from worse than death.”

Mr. Selmar's business allowed of only a short stay, and he and Amy returned with their hearts overflowing with joy, at having witnessed the return of health and peace to the abode of their friends.

CHAPTER XX.

''Tis summer, glorious summer
Look to the glad green earth,
How from her grateful bosom
The herb and flower spring forth.
These are her rich thanksgivings;
Their incense floats above;
Father! what may we offer?
Thy chosen flower is -- love."

LOUISA SIMES.

It was near sunset, on a fine day, in the latter part of spring, when some travellers slowly ascended a long steep hill. The party consisted of a gentleman, and his wife, and a little girl of about three years of age. They were walking, in order to relieve the horse of their weight, while he was slowly dragging up their light travelling carriage.

“Poor old Robinette is so tired ; let him rest on the top of the hill,” said the father of the little girl who was impatient to get in, and find herself going again.

“ But Willy is waiting for me," said the child,

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as she threw back her golden ringlets, 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 — O, 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 chat

tering 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-nath on the side of the hill, so glad to go home.”

“ That is Willy running up the hill, mother; is it not? O 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 don'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.”

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