Fosbrooks lived there-in my young days. Many a pleasant evening have I spent at Lea Farm. They were a family of young people, all light-hearted and good-tempered, and I used to think it a great treat to go there. The father of the family was a plain, honest, old-fashioned farmer; he was well to do in the world, and his family had every comfort, and lived quite at their ease; but he never could bear what he called newfangled ways and finery, and none such were suffered in his house. He would not bring up his daughters to act the part of young ladies no piano-fortes heard of in his house, nor learning to draw, nor such things as the daughters of rich farmers are after in our days. His daughters were to see to the poultry, and understand all about a dairy; and though they kept two maids to do all the hard work, every thing was to be looked after by the girls themselves, and all the nice dishes were made by them, if they gave a supper. The young men were brought up to farming work, and nobody was allowed to be idle. And so, having their hands and heads generally full of useful employment, they enjoyed themselves heartily whenever they had any amusement going on. Many a pleasant summer's evening have I spent at Lea Farm, wandering

about the fields there; and many a merry winter's evening by their fire-side.

E. You talk of mirth and pleasure, Rachel, but you look grave and thoughtful whilst you say the words. I have seen you look much more cheerful when you were talking to me of sad things; you looked much more cheerful this afternoon when we were coming through the churchyard, and you were talking

R. Did I look grave? I suppose it was thinking how many changes-O, Ellen, I cannot talk of my youth, and not look grave.

E. Dear Rachel, I have hurt you by my questioning; I am very sorry. Let us think of something else.

R. No, I do not wish to do that; if you like I will go on with what I was saying. You know why the gay thoughts of my youth seem sad to me.

E. Yes, I do know; because of your brother. And therefore I ought not to have asked you why you looked grave.

R. He, who was the gayest and the brightest! But it is not with sadness that I ought to think or talk of him.

E. No; in the churchyard you do not talk of him sadly. You have a smile then upon. your face—not a merry smile, certainly, but a smile, O, that goes very deep!

R. Thank God that it is so-that all my thoughts of him beyond the grave are full of light and hope. But when I think of gay scenes, in which he was one

go

E. I understand; then it seems to you, I suppose, as if a black veil came between you and the mirth? And your brother used to with you to Lea Farm? R. Yes, that he did. change did not come first first to that gay housethem brought near.

But sorrow and

to me: they came there first I saw

E. How was it?

R. One of those fresh-coloured active girls grew sickly. She was sent from home for change of air; she went to stay at a friend's house near the sea-side. It was a long way from their home. Her father took her there, and came back again. One of her sisters had longed to go with her-that was my friend Susan, who was next to Jane in age, and had always been her companion. It was a sorrowful parting to both of them when Jane went away, but their friend had only room to take in one, and Susan was not seriously uneasy about her, though she was grieved at their first separation. I used to see her look downcast and dull, as if she was lost without her sister, and I tried to keep up her spirits, for we had always been great friends. I went to see her as often as I could; and one day, early in the spring, I got through all my business as quick as I could at home, and I set out to walk there. As I came near the house, I wondered to see nobody in the garden, and the housedoor not open, for it was just the time when the girls were generally busy in their garden. I thought to reproach them for being so lazy, and I stepped briskly up to the door. I knocked, but I got no answer; and, tired of knocking to no purpose, I went round to the back of the house: there I found one of

D

the maids, who told me there was ill news. Her master had been sent for that morning to his daughter Jane, for she was taken much Susan went with him, and so did his eldest daughter: only some of the younger ones of the family were left at home. E. Did poor Jane die?

worse.

R. She died before they could get to her. And never shall I forget my first visit after their return home. Such a look of desolation in that house, which had always been filled with the sound of merry voices. My poor friend Susan, pale and bent down with grief, hardly able to speak to me. What a change it was!

E. And that is what comes to pleasant things. How can people be merry?

A. [coming in, hears Ellen's last words.] What, Ellen, in a doleful mood? What are you talking of? Rachel will not let you work, I know.

E. Hush, Ann, do not tease Rachel. It was something sad that she was telling me about.

A. O, if Rachel calls it sad, I know it really is something serious. I thought it was one of your fancies. Will you go on talking, Rachel ?

R. Yes; I should like you both to listen, that you may see how good grows out of evil-1 mean out of what we call evil. And