the blessing which has been promised him, but his trial is yet to come: he may be tempted to do wrong, and forget God, and he may, therefore, lose it; but that poor man's trial will in all probability soon be over. I know that he has endeavoured to keep the vow made for him at his baptism, and trusts only to the merits of his Saviour for salvation, and therefore I have but little fear for him; but I do feel for your brother, because I know he is in the midst of great temptations.'

"These words sounded very strangely to me,—it seemed as if Miss Harwood were pitying Charles, instead of envying him, as I did; and I was going to ask her some more questions, when Edith and my other sisters came running towards us, telling us that they had gathered a most beautiful nosegay, and wished now to return home. They began laughing at me for running away from them; but they could not make me join in their merriment, for I could only think of all that Miss Harwood had been saying; and even when we reached the house, and were dressed for the evening, I still remembered it.

"The large saloon was lighted up when we entered, and there were a great many people assembled, all gaily dressed, and walking up and down whilst the band was playing. My brother was noticed by every one, and was evidently considered the chief person, and I felt that I should have been happy to be him; but then Miss Harwood's words recurred to my mind, and I became thoughtful; for I knew that although he might be the heir of earthly grandeur, yet that, if he were to do wrong, and lose the promise of heaven, he must be miserable. We were not allowed to stay very long, Amy, and therefore I cannot give you a great description of the ball. I only remember how very tired I was when I went to bed, and that my last thoughts were of my conversation with Miss Harwood, and of my brother and the poor man."

"Is that all, mamma?" said Amy.

"Yes, my dear," replied Airs Herbert; "you know I told you it was not a very interesting story."

"I did not mean that, mamma," said Amy; "for I have liked it very much; but I was thinking of the poor man. Did you never see him again?"

"Only once," replied Mrs Herbert; "for he was too ill, after that day, to leave his home. It was one afternoon when I had been with Miss Harwood into the village; and, as we were returning, we passed his cottage door; he was seated at it, supported by pillows, and looking even worse than on the day of the f?te. Miss Harwood had a basket of fruit for him, and she stopped and talked to him for some little time. I cannot tell you all that passed, Amy, for I did not entirely understand it myself, and some of it was too solemn to be repeated again; but I well remember the peaceful expression of the poor man's countenance, and that he said he would not exchange his prospect of happiness for anything earth could give; he also mentioned my brother, and seemed to feel a great interest for him. But there was nothing like envy at what appeared to me so much more desirable a lot: he looked, and indeed he was, perfectly contented; and a few days after, I was told by Miss Harwood that he was dead."

"And what became of his mother?" asked Amy.

"She is living still in the village, and in the same cottage; for although it is almost a hovel, she cannot afford anything more comfortable: and I hardly think she would change it if she could; for she has often said to me, that it was there her husband and her child died, and she should never love any place so well. But you have frequently seen her, my dear; do you not remember the little thatched cottage next the blacksmith's shop, and the old woman we often notice spinning at the door?"

"Oh yes," said Amy,—"old widow Watson; but she is very cheerful."

"She has the same cause for cheerfulness that her son had," replied Mrs Herbert. "But now, Amy, do you understand from my story why I said that the mother of the poor little ragged girl we saw just now has probably as great a prospect of future happiness as your uncle Harrington?"

"Yes, mamma, if she has been baptized: but we are not sure of that."

"We may hope that she has been," replied her mother; "but that which I am most desirous you should think of, is not so much the case of that poor child as your own. You can have no doubt of your baptism, and you may therefore feel quite certain of having had a promise made to you; and when you grow older, and begin to know what the troubles of life really are, you will be able to appreciate the blessing of having something to hope for and expect beyond the pleasures of the world."

"Everybody who is grown up talks of having had a great deal of sorrow, mamma," said Amy; "and so I suppose it is true: and sometimes I feel quite frightened, and wish I could be always young; for I am very happy now, and when my cousins come, I do not think I shall ever want anything more."

Mrs Herbert looked rather grave as she answered,—"I am afraid, my dear, that your cousins' arrival may make a great change in many of your ideas. They have been brought up very differently from you, and you will see them dressed in fine clothes, and with servants to wait on them, and carriages to drive about in; and then, perhaps, you will become envious and discontented."

"O mamma!" exclaimed Amy, "how can you think so, when I shall have you with me?"

"I wish I could teach you, my love, how much better it is to be the child of God than to be my child," replied Mrs Herbert. "I should have no fears for you then; for you would not care for the grandeur and riches which you will see your cousins possess, and you would always be happy whether I were with you or not."

"Mamma," said Amy, "you have often talked lately of my living without you; but it makes me so very miserable to think of it, I wish you would not mention it."

"You must not give way to this kind of feeling, my dear child," answered her mother; "for we must bear whatever God thinks fit to appoint. But I cannot talk any more now: you shall go into the garden till the carriage is ready, and leave me alone, for I am sadly tired."

"I do not like to leave you," said Amy, "you look so pale and ill; and you never used to do so. Oh, how I wish——," but here she stopped, fearing lest the mention of her father's name might increase her mother's grief.

"You need not be afraid," replied Mrs Herbert, with a half smile, though she well knew what was uppermost in her child's mind; "all that I require is rest and quiet."

Amy said no more, but placed a glass of water by her mother's side, and left the room.

When she was gone, Mrs Herbert closed her eyes, and seemed as if endeavouring to sleep; but the working of her forehead, and the pressure of her lips, showed that there was no repose of the mind. Solitude only brought before her more clearly the image of her husband in a distant land,—perhaps ill and unhappy, it might be dying; but it was necessary for her own health, and for Amy's happiness, that she should struggle against these sad forebodings; and although a few tears at first rolled slowly down her cheek, and she felt that it was almost impossible to prevent herself from giving way to her grief, she did at length succeed in turning her mind to the consideration of the watchful providence and mercy of God; and by the time Amy returned with the announcement that the carriage was ready, she had quite regained her tranquillity.

Stephen was at the door as they drove off, and bade them good-bye with a happier look than was his wont; though, when Amy asked him if he were not delighted at the thought of all the carriages and horses he should soon see, he scarcely smiled as he answered, "Ah! yes, Miss Amy, 'twill be very