lowing the daughter to dress in such a way as is quite unsuitable, and for which they are ridiculed by high and low. Long ringlets, sandalled shoes, no covering to the neck, and no cap, are always symptoms of a light, trifling character—yes, always, in young persons in Martha's station.

For several days after her return home, Susan was unable to sit up for more than a few minutes, whilst her sister made her bed. She lay in a state of extreme weakness, and her cough at times was very fatiguing to her. She felt glad to be at home; and now that she was so very ill, both her father and sister were very kind, and seemed not to mind any trouble in waiting upon her. But this was 1 not all poor Susan wanted. During the long sleepless nights and wearisome days, her thoughts were of such things as could obtain no sympathy where she was. But there

were those to whom her heart turned, and she knew if they could be told how ill she was, they would not fail to feel for her; but she also knew the great dislike both her father and sister had to ask the clergyman to come; and though the request was ever on her tongue, she shrunk from hearing the answer she felt almost certain she should receive. But as her weakness increased, and there appeared small prospect of her being herself able to make the request that Mr.

Herbert would come to visit her, she determined at length to venture; and one morning, when Martha brought her breakfast up, she said, "Martha, do you think Mr. Herbert would come to see me if you were to ask him?"

Martha's countenance changed, for she disliked the thought of meeting the searching eye of Mr. Herbert; and though she regularly attended church every Sunday afternoon, she always avoided coming in his way at other times. Still she answered kindly and promised to go and ask him.

Susan felt greatly relieved when she had so far broken the ice; but hour after hour she listened, and hoped, and listened. No Mr. Herbert came, and the evening closed: and when Martha came to bed, Susan said. "Did you ask Mr. Herbert to come to me?'

Martha answered, "Did you want him to come to-day? I thought it would do any time."

How little did she know what poor Susan's feelings were! The night was long, but the moon shone in upon her, and she was soothed by its soft light: it seemed to shed a gentl influence over her, and to tell her there was sympathy and comfort for her, though all external aid might be denied her. "But I must see him," she thought to herself; "I must see him, I must ask him to do all he can for

me;

I must ask him to pray for me with the Church, and to teach me how to prepare myself. O, if I may but be spared a short time longer then! O, thought of joy too great!" And she fell asleep with this thought in her mind, and it mingled itself with her dreams. She seemed to be with a large company of young persons all dressed in white, and over them was a beautiful roof all shining, and they were waiting quite in silence, all kneeling on the pavement of the church-for it was a church, only larger and more beautiful than any she had ever seen— and presently there came a rustling sound, and there was an awfulness in the feeling, and they all at once hid their faces, and it seemed as if a slight pressure came on their heads, and a voice, such as she had never heard before, pronounced a blessing; and it thrilled through every nerve, and she trembled, and fell with her face to the ground; and the voice said, "Ye are sealed." Then she awoke; and still the moon was shining clearly on her, and she was quite calm and peaceful. Then she thought, "Was this only a dream? could a dream have been so very clear? and did I not really feel the pressure on my head, and hear the voice? Was it not really true?"

MAY came, and the children began to enjoy their walks to school, which through the cold winter months were toilsome along the dirty lanes and fields; but now they set out with happy hearts, gathering as they went handfuls of violets and daffodils, or cowslips, or blue-bells, just as might be in blossom; for they knew that their dear governess was always pleased to see them come in with their rosy faces, and posies, as she used to call them.

There is a delight to children in gathering flowers in the early spring mornings, with which nothing in after-life can be com

pared. Mary Wilson remembered what her own feelings used to be in the spring; and though a quantity of flowers brought into the school-room added a little to her trouble in the way of sweeping, still she never grudged it, knowing as she did the pleasure it gave the children to gather them, and then bring them to her. This kind-hearted woman is now gone to her rest; but she is not forgotten by her young friends, who may often be seen standing over her grave with feelings which they do not know how to define; but they know that it is the grave of one who was always kind to them, who was always pleased when they tried to do right, and grieved when they did wrong.

From her earliest childhood, Mary Wilson's sole delight was in what was good. She used to say in her last illness, "It was no goodness of mine that I was so fond of going into the fields by myself to learn the psalms and the chapters; for it was my pleasure. I was never so happy as when my mother gave me leave to go down into the fields by our house to learn my collect and the psalms, and any thing else I had to get ready for Sunday."

She was of a weak constitution, and unequal to any laborious employment, therefore her mother taught her to sew and knit well; and as soon as she was old enough she began