"Now then, Amy," said Mabel,

prepare

yourself for a difficult duty-come and tell

John all you have done."

Amy hesitated and trembled.

"He will be so cross," said she, entreatingly.

Very likely; but you are not a coward now-you are not afraid to do right. It is difficult, I know, for John will not understand what you feel, and may remember it for a long time; but still you will come."

Amy gave her trembling hand to her sister, and, with a very blank countenance, accompanied her in search of John.

They had to go all over the garden; but found him, at length, standing disconsolate by the peach-tree.

"John," said Amy.

"Yes, miss," replied the old man, gloomily, and half angrily.

"John," she continued, "I touched the peach, and that was why it fell down."

He looked too amazed to answer.

"I am very, very sorry-will you forgive me for telling a falsehood ?" murmured Amy, beseechingly.

John looked still very surprised and angry. "Miss Amy," he began, "I could not have thought you-"}

"But forgive her this time," interposed Mabel, "she is very sorry, and it has been a hard struggle to come and tell you how very wrong she has been."

"Bless you, miss," answered the old gardener, quickly, "you are your own father's child, and I know how much you must have suffered when you found any kindred of your'n a telling lies. But I forgive you, Miss Amy, and never you do wrong like that again. Bless you, Miss Mabel, for you be leading the dear young lady in the right path, as well as walking in it yourself."

CHAPTER III.

Love not, love not, the thing you love may change.

WHAT general interest is excited by the arrival of the post. Who ever settled himself in a new place, for the shortest time, without making himself acquainted with its details, the time when it arrives and leaves? And who ever entirely loses this interest, spite of its often more than daily occurrence? There is no sameness in it, because there is no certainty.

Letters only came to Aston twice in a week, and then they were brought by a man-who

could hardly be dignified by the title of postman-at some uncertain time in the middle of the day.

On these days the road by which he came was an object of interest to Mabel and her sister, and they often walked in that direction to secure any letters there might be for them, without waiting for their tardy delivery. They were often joined by Mr. Ware on the same errand, and that afternoon they overtook him. as he was leisurely mounting the first hill on the road.

"Well, young ladies," said he, greeting them with a smile, "we are all going to meet the postman as usual I suppose ?"

"Yes, sir,” replied Mabel, "the post always seems to have sufficient interest to make even you choose this road on Tuesdays and Fridays."

"Well, I confess," he replied, "I always have great pleasure in seeing the man turn the

corner, besides, as he is so uncertain, one is tempted to take a longer walk, expecting to see him every moment."

"Yes," said Mabel, "we almost always meet him, and yet there is seldom more than the possibility of a letter after all."

My hopes are not quite so indefinite," said Mr. Ware, "I am always certain of a paper, which is often worth more to me than a letter. I used to think when a person took great interest in the post it was a sign that they were not quite happy at home or in themselves."

"And do you not think so still?" said Mabel.

"Not so much, certainly," he replied, "I think it often arises from the feeling that we are not quite independent of the outer world till the letters of the day have been read. Good and bad news must frequently come by letter, and, therefore, as long as we have any friends separated from us, we must feel a little anxious to know if there be any news at all."

VOL. I.

D