"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 other's 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 poultryyard, 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 every thing 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 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 knew that you would 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.

"Mother," said little Fanny, "the baby looks like brother, and has the same name Edward." "You have no brother Edward," said Willy. "Yes, I have, Willy."

“Where is he? in Boston? Why did you not bring him?"

"Father and mother say that he is in heaven."

Willy was silent. He remembered what his mother had said to him of the death of his little cousin.

Tea was announced, and Willy ran to call the gentlemen.

Tea was over, the children were abed, and the birds were in their nests. The deep, full, pervading roar of the water-fall not far from the house, was the only sound that, like a low running bass, harmonized with the conversation of the four friends. "What do you think," said Fanny, "of my being the Goody of the village? I am the monitress, the Jack-at-a-pinch upon all occasions. If they have a quilting-match, they send for me to tell them stories and be agreeable to them; if a girl has an offer, the mother consults me; if any child is unruly, they ask my advice. of the best way to tame it. They come to me for recipes for making pickles, for curing beef, pork, disobedient children, and unruly horses. Only yesterday a good woman came here on horseback upon a man's saddle, on an old horse, and wanted me to get on and take a ride, and see if I could cure the wicked animal of tripping; another comes to ask me for something strengthening for her stomach; and since they have seen our nice medicine-chest, I should not be surprised

if they were to come to me for pills against thunder-storms and earthquakes."

"Stop, stop, Fanny, this is not fair," said her husband; "you are running away with all the honors of the place, and will have no breath even to relate mine. Am 1 not lawyer, doctor, and schoolmaster of the place? don't they call me Squire, Dr., Your Honor, Elder, Major, &c. &c. ? I mean to have a gold-headed cane, and a larger hat, and try to look more respectable in your eyes at least, so that I need not be overlooked entirely by you, my lady Bountiful.”

"Fear not that I should forget you," said Fanny. "You and your committee men, your Lyceum gentlemen, your politicians, and your tribe of boys, leave marks enough on my carpet to make it sure you will be remembered. When we go to walk, there is not a head of any description that does not nod to him as he passes, with a sort of hail-fellow-well-met look and manThe boys pull the tail of his coat, some of the men almost slap him on his shoulder, others hold him by the button-hole, and I doubt not they will send him for their representative to Congress, and then he will be the Honorable Mr. Roberts, and I Mrs. Honorable."

ner.

"I confess," said Mr. Roberts, "that my esti