one living, had, at the time of which I write, been a few months married to a young farmer, about thirty miles distant. For some time previous to her leaving her father's house she had acted as his housekeeper, assisted by a widow woman, of the name of Thomson; who after her departure, became sole-manager. Mrs. Thomson was an active, bustling kind of a person, evidently partaking more of the animal than the poetic character; and, therefore, having little or no imagination, her mind was seldom absent from her present business, and when employed in setting the house in order, or in attending to her master's visiters, she was at the height of her ambition, and consequently did every thing in the most satisfactory manner. She, like her master, had been left with one child, a daughter, who had, up to the time of her taking the solemanagement of the house, continued at school; but then, as it was necessary she should have

some one to assist her Susan, instead of being apprenticed, as had been proposed, was taken home for that purpose. She was then a fine girl, with pleasing manners, and beautiful to look upon; and had been but a short time a resident in our little town, before her loveliness became the general talk, and many young fellows there were whose ambition would have been completely gratified, at least for a time, if they could have had her company for their Sunday afternoon walk. But her mother had not passed that dangerous period of life herself, without some little trouble and anxiety, and remembering that, resolved to have her child, for the future, as completely as possible under her own eye; so that few had the pleasure of which all were so eager to obtain possession.

From living in the same house, and being much respected, Edward Smith became her constant companion. He was young as herself,

and of course no harm was thought of their being together; although a partiality immediately began to shew itself between them, and which, as they advanced in years became, as it were, a part of their growth. I was well acquainted with both of them, and felt assured, with many other persons, more experienced than myself, that (although they were not spoken of as lovers,) they would, at some future time, be happily united together. Nothing occurred, in the slightest degree, to oppose itself to this opinion, until they had attained their eighteenth year, or were within a few days of it, when I was told that their intimacy had been suddenly and effectually interrupted by Mrs. Thomson. I was then, as my friends know, confined to my bed, but, from what I had before seen and heard, I found myself bold enough to tell my informant that it could not be, in short, that I did not believe it; nor indeed did I, although, as it afterwards proved, it was quite-nay, sadly true.

For the information of my friends, I need scarce say, that Sunday, with us, is not only employed as a day of religious rest, but also of innocent recreation. Who has not seen on its fine sum mer evenings each house sending forth its little family party, to inhale the healthful breezes that dwell upon the hills around. Then it is that the happy couple taste the blessings of life, while forgetful of their daily toil, and surrounded with their cherub offspring, they witness them free from all restraint, gamble in the sun as light and joyous as its brightest beam. Then is it, likewise, that the aged with a kindly eye, look on a generation which will be gay, when they are still and cold beneath the flowery turf. Then, too, the lovers, linked arm in arm, pass fondly on, recounting in mutual confidence the little troubles that beset their sphere. On such a day as this, and in such a manner, might be seen Edward and Susan leaving the town, to

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take, what proved to be, the last evening's walk they should ever indulge in together. Mrs. Thomson had intended to accompany them, but she had been kept at home by her master, who just as she was going out, told her he had some business to transact which would require her presence at home. What that business was I shall shortly have to relate, but my present object is to accompany my young friends in their walk. Passing to the eastward the whole length of the principal street, they turned to the left by a small public-house, which is situated but a few yards from the commencement of a hill, that rises far above that on which the church is built, and is parted from it by a very picturesque little valley, in days of yore occupied by the sea, and no doubt forming, if there was then occasion for such a thing, a fine and safe harbour; but now laying, at least, a mile from its former occupant, and having no other