was spread, and his evening repast prepared and set before him, with all the attention to his wishes that a kind and tender female is ever ready to show. In this calm and happy manner time glided on, the old people, by slow decay, sunk gradually into the arms of death, within a few days of each other. Full of resignation and pious hope, they had now no more anxious wishes for their daughter; she was the happy wife of Martin; the last object that their eyes rested upon in this world; and when she knelt by the bedside of her dying parents, and received with them the Sacrament, administered by the kind vicar with that holy devotion which the solemnity of the rite inspired, her beautiful and expressive countenance would have formed a fine subject for the skill of the painter. During the illness of Fanny's parents, she was naturally much occupied in nursing them, and for the last ten days of their lives she did not leave them. During this interval Martin renewed his acquaintance with his former vicious friends; they laughed at his scruples at not meeting them at the Swan, and spending a social evening with them; talked of the folly of men being ruled by their wives, and not having a will of their own. Piqued by these taunts, he was determined to prove the contrary, and promised to take a pipe and a pint with them that very evening: he would call at the cottage to see his wife, and hear how the old people were going on, and then, as he must pass the Swan in his way to his own home, he assured them he would prove that his wife had no control over his inclinations. He kept his word, and was received with no little exultation by the party at the Swan; the sober pint was soon doubled and trebled, and Martin, for the first time since his marriage, went reeling home. Luckily Fanny was with her parents, and she had not then the misery of knowing that the intimacy with these idle and vicious characters was again renewed.

When Martin awoke the next morning, his conscience smote him at having broken through all the good resolutions he had formed; and when he paid his daily visit at the cottage of his dying parents he was thoughtful and disturbed, and poor Fanny fancied it was the melancholy sight of approaching death that caused this alteration in him. Martin was standing by the bedside the old man made an effort to raise himself; and taking Martin by the hand, he told him he died happy and contented, since he had lived to see him reclaimed from his bad habits; he earnestly besought him never to renew his intimacy with people who had been so nearly the cause of his ruin; and blessing him and Fanny, who stood dissolved in tears, he ceased to speak; and in a few moments, with that holy prayer of our Lord trembling upon his lips, the hand of death gently relieved him from all his worldly sufferings; in two days more Fanny was bereaved of her remaining parent, and they were both consigned to their earthly bed on the same day. They had been married in the morning of their days, and had struggled together through a long life; had met with many sorrows, but they were those sorrows that came from God, and therefore they submitted to all the deprivations it was his good Providence to allot them. The power and efficacy of religion was never more fully exemplified than in the conduct of this humble pair. In all their sorrows the Bible was their constant source of consolation, and they followed the precepts it taught; it consoled and cheered them when, in the beautiful language of that holy book, they were arrived at that period when "they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grashopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail; and the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the sound of the bird, and all the daughters of

music shall be brought low."

"Their lives were

lovely, and in their deaths they were not divided. "

Fanny was now again returned to her husband's house, and was looking forward to the time, which was fast approaching, when she should become a mother. One evening as she was busily employed at her needle, she saw Martin returning home, and with him two of the men with whom he had so solemnly promised her parents, now in their grave, never to associate. As they advanced towards the house, she observed them suddenly turn off, and Martin came into the cottage alone; he threw himself down into a chair, and did not speak, but looked sullen and discontented.

"I am tired of this continual work," said Martin, turning abruptly round to his wife," and think I shall give up the farm, and the money I shall get for the stock will be enough to keep us, and I can get some light employment that will suit better than this toiling from morning til night; and I hardly ever get good crops."

"Oh! Martin," said Fanny, her eyes filling with tears as she spoke, "where will you be so well off as in this our pretty home? Depend upon it there is no happiness in idleness; but those men, those wicked men, have put these notions in your head, and the promises you made to my dear parents are-are all forgotten."

Poor Fanny sobbed aloud; and Martin, feeling the truth of what she said, was irritated, and in an angry manner snatched up his hat and left the house.

Fanny remained in the same place weeping; the hours wore away, and Martin returned not. She bitterly upbraided herself for having spoken upon the subject which so suddenly caused his departure. He would not surely remain out much longer: still he came not; and the shades of night were fast approaching; and the rain pattered against the window.

E

Fanny's little preparation for supper was discontinued; she walked about the house with breathless impatience, blaming herself for having said a word to cause his departure. As the wind mournfully sounded, and the storm kept increasing, her fears rose with it. She ventured, however, in spite of the weather, to light her lantern, and creep to the end of the little path that led to the village. Still no welcome sound of Martin's approach met her ears; and she returned heartless and disconsolate to her home, where she sat by the dying embers, hoping and anxiously waiting his return.

The girl who lived with her in the capacity of servant was a mere child, and was gone to bed long before Fanny ventured out in the storm; and with that kindness and gentleness of disposition which characterised her, she would not call her from her quiet sleep, though the solitude and the silence was almost insupportable. Rain now came down in torrents; the wind shook the cottage casements. Where was Martin at this moment?-seated by a large fire at the Swan, with pipes and liquor, and laughing companions by his side; fancying himself much injured and insulted by poor Fanny's meek remonstrances, and steeling his heart by copious draughts against her sufferings, which he knew would be acute at his absence. Midnight came, and the storm ceased; and Martin went reeling home. His welcome step was heard by the poor listener. As she bounded towards the door to receive him, “Oh, Martin why have you left me in anger?" she said timidly; but perceiving his tottering step, and flushed face, she ceased speaking, but quietly assisted him to bed, where a heavy sleep soon shut out all his cares. The next morning, when recollection returned, he felt ashamed of his conduct; and endeavoured to atone for it by keeping steadily to his work, and spending his evenings quietly at home.

No reproaches passed Fanny's lips; she never alluded to his unkindness or her own sufferings.

In a short time afterwards she was the happy mother of a fine boy; and as she pressed it to her bosom, a silent prayer was offered up that its father's erring habits would cease; and that the birth of this child might prove a comfort to them both. Happiness in this world, however, was not to be the lot of Fanny. Her child lived but a short time; Martin got into debt; and with increasing difficulties, brought on by his own irregular habits and vicious companions, he became morose and hardened. All his property, by degrees, dwindled away; and at last poor Fanny found herself friendless, houseless, and alone in the wide world, Martin having fled no one knew where. But his companions had also disappeared; so that it was probable that they were together upon some lawless pursuit or other. In the mean time the house and the little remaining property fell into the hands of the creditors. Fanny was received by a kind neighbour into her cottage: but she was poor, and could only afford her a temporary habitation. What was to be done? She shrunk from the thoughts of parish relief; and yet without it how could she support herself? her health was giving way rapidly from the intense anxiety of her mind, which precluded sleep.

As she was sitting one morning, pale and breathless, at the cottage door, revolving in her mind all the miseries that had crowded into her short life, her tears fell fast as she thought of her husband. Though so unworthy of her affection, the idea that she should see him no more, convulsed her frame almost to agony. She at last roused herself from these painful reflections; and upon her bended knees prayed to God to support and sustain her. Her case had gained the commiseration of some of her opulent neighbours a little subscription was made, and