and unreasonableness of her father's temper, and often turn away his wrath with a soft answer.

The law of imitation is deeply impressed on our nature. Jane had insensibly fallen into her mother's ways, and had, thus early, acquired a habit of self-command. Mrs. Elton, though, alas, negligent of some of her duties, watched over the expanding character of her child with Christian fidelity. "There she had garnered up her heart." She knew that amiable dispositions were not to be trusted, and she sought to fortify her child's mind with Christian principles. She sowed the seed, and looked with undoubting faith for the promised blessing.

"I must soon sleep," she would say to Mary, "but the seed is already springing up. I am sure it will not lack the dews of Heaven; and you, Mary, may live to see, though I shall not, 'first the blade, then the ear, and after that the full corn in the ear.'"

Mary had seconded Mrs. Elton's efforts. She looked upon herself as an humble instrument; but she was a most efficient one. She had a rare and remarkable knack at applying rules, so that her life might be called a commentary on the precepts of the Gospel. Mary's practical religion had, sometimes, conveyed a reproach (the only reproach a Christian may indulge in) to Mrs. Wilson, who revenged herself by remarking, that "Mary was indulging in that soul-destroying doctrine of the Methodists-perfection;" and then she would add (jogging her foot, a motion that, with her, always indicated a mental parallel, the result of which was, 'I am holier than thou"), "there is no error so fatal, as resting in Mrs. Wilson had not learned

the duties of the second table." that the duties of the second table cannot be done, if the others are left undone; the branches must be sustained by

the trunk; for He, from whose wisdom there is no appeal, has said, "If ye love me, ye will keep my commandments."

Happily for our little friend, Mary was not to be removed far from her; an agreeable situation was, unexpectedly, offered to her grateful acceptance.

CHAPTER III.

Now Spring returns, but not to me returns

The vernal year my better days have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,

And all the joys of life with health are flown.

BRUCE.

A FEW weeks before the death of Mrs. Elton, a Mr. Lloyd, a Quaker, who was travelling with his wife and infant child, for the benefit of Mrs. Lloyd's health, had stopped at the inn in Mrs. Lloyd was rapidly declining with consumption. On this day she had, as is not unfrequent in the fluctuation of this disease, felt unusually well. Her cough was lulled by the motion of the carriage, and she had requested her husband to permit her to ride further than his prudence would have dictated.

The heat and unusual exertion proved too much for her. In the evening she was seized with a hemorrhage, which reduced her so much as to render it unsafe to move her. She faded away quietly, and fell into the arms of death as gently as a leaf falleth from its stem, resigning her spirit in faith to Him who gave it.

An extraordinary attachment subsisted between Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, which had its foundation in the similarity of

their characters, education, views, and pursuits; and had been nourished by the circumstances that had drawn and kept them together.

Three years after their marriage, Mrs. Lloyd gave birth to a girl. This event filled up the measure of their joy. A few weeks after its birth, as Mr. Lloyd took the infant from its mother's bosom, and pressed it fondly to his own, he said, "Rebecca, the promise is to us and our children; the Lord grant that we may train His gift in His nurture and admonition."

"Thou mayest, dear Robert; God grant it," Rebecca mournfully replied; "but the way is closed up to me. Do not shudder thus, but prepare thy mind for the will of the Lord.' I could have wished to have lived, for thy sake and my little one; but I will not rebel, for I know all is right."

Mr. Lloyd hoped his wife was needlessly alarmed; but he found from her physician, that immediately after the birth of the child, some alarming symptoms had appeared, which indicated a hectic. Mrs. Lloyd had begged they might be concealed from her husband, from the generous purpose of saving him, as long as possible, useless anxiety. The disease, however, had taken certain hold, and that morning, after a conversation with her physician, during which her courage had surprised him, she resolved to begin the difficult task of fortifying her husband for the approaching calamity.

Spring came on, and its sweet influences penetrated to the sick room of Rebecca. Her health seemed amended, and her spirits refreshed; and when Mr. Lloyd proposed that they should travel, she cheerfully consented. But she cautioned her husband not to be flattered by an apparent amendment, for, said she, "though my wayward disease may be coaxed into a little clemency, it will not spare me."

As she prophesied, her sufferings were mitigated; but it was but too manifest that no permanent amendment was to be expected. The disease made very slow progress; one would have thought it shrunk from marring so young and so fair a work. Her spirit, too, enjoyed the freedom and beauty of the country. As they passed up the fertile shores of the Connecticut, Rebecca's benevolent heart glowed with gratitude to the Father of all, at the spectacle of so many of her fellow-creatures enjoying the rich treasures of Providence; cast into a state of society the happiest for their moral improvement, where they had neither the miseries of poverty, nor the temptations of riches. She would raise her eyes to the clear heaven, would look on the "misty mountain's top," and then on the rich meadows through which they were passing, and which were now teeming with the summer's fulness, and would say, "Dear Robert, is there any heart so cold, that it does not melt in this vision of the power and the bounty of the Lord of heaven and earth? Do not sorrow for me, when I am going to a more perfect communion with Him, for I shall see him as he is."

From the Connecticut they passed by the romantic road that leads through the plains of West Springfield, Westfield, &c. There is no part of our country, abundant as it is in the charms of nature, more lavishly adorned with romantic scenery. The carriage slowly traced its way on the side of a mountain, from which the imprisoned road had with difficulty been won; a noisy stream dashed impetuously along at their left, and as they ascended the mountain, they still heard it before them, leaping from rock to rock, now almost losing itself in the deep pathway it had made, and then rushing with increased violence over its stony bed.

"This young stream," said Mr. Lloyd,

"reminds one of

V