lilies of the field.  Depend upon it, there is more wisdom without doors than we can find within,—more wisdom there than in books.”

“I believe it,” said Frances; “all nature speaks of the Creator,—of the one great Mind which formed this endless variety, and can give life to the most insignificant flower that grows by the way-side.”

“I should like to know what flower you call insignificant,” said Charlotte; “not this little houstonia, I hope; that has a perfection of organization in which many of your splendid green-house flowers are deficient.  But that is the way with us: we call those things sublime which are on a large scale, because they are magnified to our narrow minds, and we can comprehend them without any trouble.—But I must not display all my wisdom to you at once—how, like Solomon of old, I can speak of trees, from ‘the cedar-tree that is in Lebanon

even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall.’—And now, fair sister,

‘Up, up, and quit your books,’

and come with me to one of my studios—namely, my poultry-yard.  I hear the bipeds clamorous for their supper.”

“This is the woman,” thought Frances, “that I have sometimes wondered Howard, with his reflecting mind, could select as his partner for life!  Because I saw her, like the Deity she worships, attending to the most minute affairs, I foolishly imagined she comprehended no others.”

From this time the two sisters resembled in union Shakspeare’s twin cherries growing on one stem.

CHAPTER III.

The furniture arrived, and the country residence was very soon in order.  Howard took the direction of the farming part.  But it was no object to Frances to have much ploughing or planting.  She loved the “green pastures and still waters,” and often repeated those beautiful lines of the hymn—

“To dewy vales and flowery meads,
My weary, fainting steps he leads,
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.”

Clyde Farm was a singularly retired spot, notwithstanding its vicinity to a country village, which, on a straight line, was about two miles from it.  But there was a high hill between, that belonged to the farm, and was crowned with oak and chestnut trees; while here and there was an opening which gave a perfect view of the village, with its church, academy, and square four-story tavern, with windows

enough to give it the appearance of a huge lantern.  The high road was a mile from the house, and no dwelling was nearer.  The hill overlooked one of those New England landscapes that could not be wrought into a well-composed picture; objects were too abundant; it was dotted with farms and sheets of water; and beyond, the beautiful Merrimac wound its way.  On this spot, Frances had a little open pavilion erected, and it was her resort at sunset.  As her health improved, her mind opened to the impressions of happiness, and she grew almost gay.  “There is but one thing more,” said she to her brother and sister, “that I now desire in this world.”

“Always one thing wanting for us poor mortals!” said Charlotte; “but let us hear what it is.”

“That my husband, who is the liberal donor of my enjoyment, should partake of it.”

“Pray be contented,” replied she, “and let him enjoy himself in his own way.”

“I have a letter for you,” said Howard, “that came enclosed in one to me;” and, with an air of hesitation, he gave it to her.

Frances hastily took it; her color came and went as she read.  It informed her, that the offers her husband had received for his estate in town had not only opened his eyes to its value, but had convinced him that, as a patriotic citizen, he had no right to retain it for his private use; he had therefore come to the conclusion to reap the benefit himself which other speculators had proposed to do.  He should take down the house, make a street through the land, divide it into small lots, and erect a number of houses upon it, one of which he meant to reserve for himself.  “I should regret what I conceive to be the necessity of this thing,” he added, “if you were not so perfectly satisfied with your Clyde residence.  As you will always repair to it early in the spring, it matters little if you return to walls of brick and mortar in the autumn.”

We pass over the involuntary tears that followed this communication, as speculators would pronounce them unreasonable.  It now became necessary for Frances to visit the city to make arrangements, and take a last leave of her pleasant mansion.  In justice, it must be

said, she thought less of her own deprivation than of the new accession of care and toil that her husband was bringing upon himself.—When she returned to Clyde, she had lost by fatigue nearly all the health she had previously gained.

Most people have witnessed the rapidity with which the work of destruction goes on in modern days.  In a very short time the splendid mansion was a pile of ruins, a street laid open, and buildings erecting on the spot.

Mr. Draper’s visits to Clyde had been hitherto confined to the Sabbath, and generally terminated with it: but he now wrote to his wife that he intended to “pass a month with her.  It was a comparative season of leisure; his vessels had sailed, his buildings were going on well, and he should be able to enjoy the quiet of the country.”

Frances received this intelligence with new-born hope.  She felt certain, that one month, passed amidst the tranquil pleasures of the country, would regenerate his early tastes.  She talked eloquently of the corrupting atmosphere of the city, and was sanguine that now all would go well; that his inordinate engrossment in

business would yield to the influences by which he would find himself surrounded.  And so it turned out, for a few days.  Mr. Draper was as happy as an affectionate husband and father must naturally be, reunited to the objects of his tenderness.  He said that “he felt uncommonly well, had much less of the dyspepsy than he had experienced for years,” followed his little girls to their favorite haunts, and seemed to realize the blessing of leisure.  Howard, with his family, passed the third day with them.  Towards evening, they all ascended the hill.  Mr. Draper was struck with the extensive view, and the beauty of his wife’s domain, for he scrupulously called it her own.  “What a waste of water!” he exclaimed.  “What a noble run for mills and manufactories!”  Poor Frances actually turned pale; but, collecting her spirits, she said, “It is hardly right to call it a waste of water.”

“Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature’s hand.”

In the mean time, Mr. Draper had taken his pencil, and on the back of a letter was making lines and dashes.  “Look here,” said he to Howard.  “See how perfectly this natural ledge

of rocks may be converted into a dam: it seems precisely made for it: then, by digging a canal to conduct the water a little to the left, there is a fine site for a cotton-manufactory, which, built of granite, would add much to the beauty of the prospect.  Just here, where that old tree is thrown across the stream, a bridge may be