have your

reward.

You shall see whether I am to be brow

beaten by a dependent child in my own house."

Jane had often seen her aunt angry, but she had never witnessed such passion as this, and she was for a moment confounded; but like a delicate plant that bends to the ground before a sudden gust of wind, and then is as erect as ever, she turned to Mrs. Wilson, and said, “Ma'am, I have never deceived, or aided others to deceive you."

"I verily believe you lie !" replied her aunt, in a tone of undiminished fury.

Jane looked to her cousin, who had recoiled from the cold body of Phillis, and sat in sullen silence on a trunk at the foot of the bed,- Elvira," said she, "you will do me the justice to tell your mother I had no part in your deception." But Elvira, well pleased to have any portion of the storm averted from her own head, had not generosity enough to interpose the truth. She therefore compromised with her conscience, and merely said, "Jane knew I was going."

"I was sure of it, I was sure of it; I always knew she was an artful jade; 'still waters run deep;' but she shall be exposed; the mask shall be stripped from the hypocrite."

"Aunt," said Jane, in a voice so sweet, so composed, that it sounded like the breath of music following the howlings of an enraged animal; "Aunt, we are in the chamber of death; and in a little time you, and I, and all of us, shall be as this poor creature; as you will then wish your soul to be lightened of all injustice-spare the innocent now; you know I never deceived you; Elvira knows it: I am willing to bear any thing it pleases God to lay upon me, but I cannot have my good name taken, it is all that remains to me."

This appeal checked Mrs. Wilson for a moment; she would have replied, but she was interrupted by two colored

women, whom she had sent for, to perform the last offices for Phillis. She restrained her passion, gave them the necessary directions, and withdrew to her own room, where, we doubt not, she was followed by the rebukes of her conscience; for however neglected and stifled, its still, small voice' will be heard in darkness and solitude.

It may seem strange, that Mrs. Wilson should have manifested such anxiety to throw the blame of this affair on Jane; but however a parent may seek, by every flattering unction vanity can devise, to evade the truth, the misconduct of a child will convey a reproach, and reflect dishonor on the author of its existence.

Jane and Elvira crept to their beds without exchanging a single word. Elvira felt some shame at her own meanness; but levity and selfishness always prevailed in her mind, and she soon lost all consciousness of realities, and visions of dances and music and moonlight floated in her brain; sometimes 'a change came o'er the spirit of her dream,' and she shrunk from a violent grasp, and felt the icy touch of death; and wherever she turned, a ray from her cousin's mild blue eye fell upon her, and she could not escape from its silent reproach. The mother and the daughter might both have envied the repose of the solitary abused orphan, who possessed 'a peace they could not trouble.' She soon lost all memory of her aunt's rage and her cousin's injustice, and sunk into quiet slumbers. In her dream she saw her mother tenderly smiling on her; and heard again and again the last words of the old woman: "the Lord bless you, Miss Jane! the Lord will bless you, for your kindness to old Phillis."

If Mrs. Wilson had not been blinded by self-love, she might have learnt an invaluable lesson from the melancholy results of her own mal-government; but she preferred incur

ring every evil, to the relinquishment of one of the prerogatives of power. Her children, denied the appropriate pleasures of youth, were driven to sins of a much deeper dye than those which Mrs. Wilson sought to avoid could have had, even in her eyes; for surely the very worst effects that ever were attributed to dancing, or to romance-reading, cannot equal the secret dislike of a parent's authority, the risings of the heart against a parent's tyranny, and the falsehood and meanness that weakness always will employ in the evasion of power; and than which nothing will more certainly taint every thing that is pure in the character.

The cool reflection of the morning pointed out to Mrs. Wilson, as the most discreet, the very line of conduct justice would have dictated. She knew she could not accuse Jane, without exposing Elvira, and besides, she did not care to have it known that her sagacity had been outwitted by these children. Therefore, though she appeared at breakfast more sulky and unreasonable than usual, she took no notice of the transactions of the preceding night, and they remained secret to all but the actors in them; except that we have reason to believe, from Mr. Lloyd's increased attention to Jane, shortly after, that they had been faithfully transmitted to him by Mary Hull, the balm of whose sympathy it cannot be deemed wonderful our little solitary should seek.

レ

L

CHAPTER VI.

These are fine feathers, but what bird were they plucked from?

ESOP.

THERE is nothing in New England so eagerly sought for, or so highly prized by all classes of people, as the advantages of education. A farmer and his wife will deny themselves all other benefits that might result from the gains that have accrued to them from a summer of self-denial and toil, to give their children the privilege of a grammar-school during the winter. The public, or as they are called, the town-schools, are open to the child of the poorest laborer. As knowledge is one of the best helps and most certain securities to virtue, we doubtless owe a great portion of the morality of this blessed region, where there are no dark corners of ignorance, to these wise institutions of our pious ancestors.

In the fall subsequent to the events we have recorded, a school had been opened in the village of, of a higher and more expensive order, than is common in a country town. Every mouth was filled with praises of the new teacher, and with promises and expectations of the knowledge to be derived from this newly opened fountain; all was bustle and preparation among the young companions of Martha and Elvira for the school; for Martha, though beyond the usual

school-going age, was to complete her education at the new seminary.

The dancing-school had passed without a sigh of regret from Jane; but now she felt severely her privation. Her watchful friend, Mary Hull, remarked the melancholy look that was unheeded at her aunt's; and she inquired of Jane, "Why she was so downcast ?"

Ah, Mary!" she replied, "it is a long time since I have felt the merry spirit which the wise man says, is 'medicine to the heart.'”

"That's true, Jane; but then there's nobody, that is, there's nobody that has so little reason for it as you have, that has a more cheerful look."

"I have great reason to be cheerful, Mary, in token of gratitude for my kind friends here; and," added she, taking Mr. Lloyd's infant, who playfully extended her arms to her,

you and I are too young, Rebecca, to be very sad." The child felt the tear that dewed the cheek to which she was pressed, and looking into Jane's face, with instinctive sympathy, burst into tears. Mr. Lloyd entered at this moment, and Jane hastily replacing the child in Mary Hull's lap, and tying on her hat, bade them farewell.

Mr. Lloyd asked for some explanation. Mary believed nothing particular had happened. "But," she said, "the poor girl's spirit wearies with the life she leads; it's a chore to live with Mrs. Wilson-a great change from a home and mother, to such a work-house and such a task-woman."

Mr. Lloyd had often regretted, that it was so little in his power to benefit Jane. The school occurred to him; and as nothing was more improbable than that Mrs. Wilson would, herself, incur the expense of Jane's attendance, he consulted with Mary as to the best mode of doing it himself, without