"Why, our master is a very queer old fellow, but I says nothing."

Mrs. Sukey Scratchit now came forth in her clean starched muslin apron and high-crowned cap, to receive and welcome Lucy, and to act as mistress of the ceremonies in ushering her into the presence of her sick lover.

Charles Rushmere, when the weeping Lucy approached the old-fashioned settee on which his emaciated form reclined, drew her gently to him, and whispered,

66

"She came; his cold hand softly touched,
And bathed with many a tear;

Fast falling o'er the primrose pale

So morning dews appear."

Ah, Charles, if you only knew how often I have cried over that ballad of late!" sobbed Lucy, in the fullness of her heart.

"If you please, Miss Marlow," interrupted Mistress Sukey, putting her head in at the door, "master desires his compliments to you, and hopes you will excuse his dining at home to-day, if so be as you and Master Charles can make yourselves comfortable to dine together alone on roast fowl, with white bacon and egg-sauce, and a bread pudding, at one o'clock."

"Mr. Rushmere is very kind, I am sure," said Lucy.

"And remarkably considerate too," added

Charles, with a smile.

"Tell him we are greatly

obliged to him, and shall be very comfortable without him."

"Lauk, Master Charles, he knows that well enough; and that is the reason he goes out today," rejoined Mistress Sukey.

My readers may imagine how swiftly and happily the hours fled away till six o'clock arrived, when Mistress Sukey again made her appearance to announce that the shay was at the door in readiness to convey Miss Lucy home.

A few days afterwards, Charles was sufficiently recovered to be able to ride over to Woodfield to return Lucy's visit, which his father intimated to him would be only a civil thing. At the end of a month, Charles was reinstated in the occupation of White Thorne Farm; and a few days after, Mr. Rushmere called at the wheelwright's house, where he found Lucy very busy kneading bread, while Polly was heating the oven. The old man condescended to commend Lucy's method of making up her loaves, asked for a mug of beer in order to ascertain her skill in brewing, gave a scrutinizing glance at the general neat appearance of the kitchen, and then walked off to the workshop, where he abruptly informed Isaac Marlow "that his business with him was to hear how soon it would suit him to spare his daughter to be his son's wife."

"If you ask me when it would suit me to spare my Lucy, I should say never," was the reply of the fond parent, "for she is my greatest comfort on earth; but as it is her happiness, not my own, I should think of, I suppose 1 must make up my mind to part with her as soon as one of her sisters is old enough to take her place."

No, no, Mr. Marlow, my son wants his wife home before harvest; and if he can't have her now, I shall make him take some one else, (that is if I can.) But I had better send him to talk to you about it, for she seems to be the sort of girl to suit us."

That very day Charles came and pleaded his cause so movingly to the father of his Lucy, that Isaac Marlow consented to their immediate union.

Lucy was loth to leave her father with so young a housekeeper as Anne, who was scarcely twelve years old; "but then," as she observed, "both Anne and Jane were very handy, and had learned many useful things of her, and Polly was now seventeen, and had got into nice neat ways, and she should herself be living near enough to come and help them on baking days, and any other times when they required assistance or advice."

So the matter was settled, and on midsummer

day Anne and Jane officiated as bridesmaids to their happy sister, and Polly Jones, not the least delighted of the party, gained a new gown and white ribbon from the bridegroom.

THE POSTMAN'S KNOCK.

BY MISS POWER.

"He comes

Yet careless what he brings; his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
And, having dropped the expected bag, pass on,
To him indifferent whether grief or joy."

COWPER.

THE postman's knock! who is there that can near that seemingly insignificant sound without at least a sensation of curiosity, a vague feeling of expectation, if not a thrill of hope or fear? Disappointment generally succeeds; either the letter is for some one else in the house, or it is a commonplace note from a commonplace acquaintance, or perhaps it is a bill; and we fling it aside, feeling a little impatient with ourselves for imagining it could be anything interesting. This is the general effect of the postman's visit; but perhaps the letter arrives, and there is something in the seal or in the handwriting of the address, or there may be certain mystical ciphers in the the shape of initials at the corner, that make us tear open the missive with an eager hand and a