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. Opposite 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;

66 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 our joy perfect 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 be laid in the tomb of a rich though distant relation of his wife's, where she had been interred. "If," said he, "I had not lost my property, I intended to have had a tomb of my own at Mount Auburn. All the first people are buried there. One does not wish, even in the grave, to be confounded with the mass." Amy did not herself relate to Fanny this proof of the strength of her father's ruling passion; but the sad expression that came over her face, when she spoke of his death, showed that there was a deeper sorrow connected with the memory of it than she was willing to confess.

The three hours passed rapidly with the friends, as they strolled along, chatting by the way, just as when they were girls; with this difference, that what was then a fancy or a golden dream, was real now; and that joys, which were then unthought of, formed the groundwork of their hopes.

Before they came to the old bridge, they met

Mr. Roberts. His face beamed with pleasure at the sight of his wife with the beloved friend of her childhood.

"Do you want me now, Fanny?" said he, gayly.

Yes, we do," said she. "We have nothing more to say about you."

Soon the merry voices of the children rang through the woods; they bounded, like fawns, at the sight of their mothers, Selmar running after them, gay and light-hearted as they.

When they met at dinner, all were full of glowing accounts of the pleasures of the morning.

"I love uncle Selmar," said Willy; "he tells so many funny stories, and is so kind."

"You have not, Amy," said Fanny, "told me any thing of my friend Ruth. How is she? and where is she? and what sort of a husband does Jerry make her?”

"A very good one," replied Amy. "They live in a small house in the neighborhood of Boston. I went to see her, not long since, and she told me that she had a better husband than she or any other sinner deserved."

"Is she still as fond as ever of old proverbs?"

"Quite. I had not been in the house ten

minutes, before I heard her say, 'You know, ma'am, that it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. The poor old sexton is dead, and Jerry is chosen in his room; and what he gets by the business helps us on, though it is not much to speak of. But many a little makes a mickle.' I asked her if she was happy; and her eyes sparkled as she answered, Happy, maʼam, as the day is long. Jerry is one of that sort that can turn his hand to any thing; nothing shiftless about him. All is grist that comes to his mill. There is no kind of chore but what he can do so much better than any one else, that every body employs him. He buries the dead, and waits upon the living; keeps a singing-school. cobbles and blacks shoes. I call him jack at all trades, and good at none; but, though I say it that should not say it, he is a real good husband, and provides well for his family.''

When the time arrived for the Selmars to return, their friends urged them to promise that, at some future day, when Selmar's property would allow him to leave business, they would come and join them in the country.

"This would be a great indulgence," answered Selmar; "but, with my present habits, and our views of duty, I doubt whether it would be so good for us. Nature is indeed beautiful, as you