ness and cleanliness of the house. Mary was one of those persons who possess a kind heart and a bad temper she had been out of humour, because her new mistress had delayed her journey for a few days, and because she had waited for her, and the house had been prepared for her reception in vain; but she could not resist the smile with which Lucy, after her long, fatiguing journey, greeted her, and surveyed the apartment which she had arranged. She went down stairs, saying to herself; "Well, I think there will be some pleasure in waiting on my young mistress I feel as if I could not be cross with her." Mary, however, was often cross; but Lucy was always gentle, but as firm as she was gentle; so that Mary soon learnt not only to love, but to respect and look up to her young mistress. Many months glided away; Lucy was still very happy in her small house, with the few hours she enjoyed of her husband's society. Morton was not wanting in good sense, but he was not without a share of that false shame about residing in the unfashionable quarter of the town which has become so common to the merchants of London. His business prospered, and he allowed himself to be too much elated by it. He began to think of moving to the west end of the "Lucy," said he, one evening, "I have been thinking, that now I am become richer, there is no occasion for us to remain in this dull house; suppose we were to remove to the other end of the

town.

town? I can't bear your being shut up here all day." "But, my dear William, I don't mind being shut up; and I am not dull; the city agrees perfectly well with us. If we were ill, perhaps it might be better to remove; you have no fatiguing walk now, after a wearisome day. And, while the counting house is so near me, I have more of your society. If on my account you wish to go, really, would rather remain here, always near you." William agreed that it would be much pleasanter to remain near her, and the plan was given up. Lucy passed her mornings in reading and working; she seldom played till the evening, when her husband joined her, as she feared the sound of her piano-forte might disturb those beneath her. She paid and received but few visits, for she was very happy in remaining quietly at home with her husband. Lucy was an attentive observer; and she saw with anxiety, that as winter approached there was a sort of assumed cheerfulness in William's manner, which he was at times unable to sustain: she could not account for it; nor could she imagine why he was less with her than formerly. One night she had, as usual, heard the counting-house shut up, and she knew that all the clerks had gone; but still William remained below; she waited longer for him than she had ever done before; and at length, she hardly knew why, she became uneasy. Leaving the parlour door partly open, she softly descended the stairs, and was about

to enter the office, when, through a small window in the door, she perceived Morton sitting alone at his desk, leaning his head on his hands, with a countenance which seemed fixed in an expression of utter wretchedness. The desk was closed, no papers were lying on it, the candles had half burnt away, and their dim light, and long crusted wicks, declared that he had long remained in that gloomy position. Lucy said nothing; she returned, even more quietly, to her parlour, and when her husband joined her, she was more than usually affectionate in her delicate attentions to him. For some time his affectionate cheerfulness lasted; he asked his wife to play, but, on turning her head, she saw that he was lost in sad reflections, leaning against the chimney-piece. She left the piano-forte and went up to him, taking his hand, and looking up into his face, with one of those looks of pure, tender love, which only a wife can bestow, My dearest William," she said, "I cannot be deceived, you are very unhappy; and to see you thus, makes me wretched. Will you confide in me? I do not ask from curiosity, but from real affection; I can bear anything but this dreadful doubt, indeed I can. You will tell me every thing, William ?” He had, at first, tried to laugh; but he then turned mournfully away, and Lucy heard him sob convulsively she approached nearer to him, and gently threw her arms round his neck. Poor Morton could not restrain his grief any longer; but, leaning his

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head on her shoulder, he sobbed aloud: Lucy wept too, but she quietly wiped away her tears, and stifled the choking anguish, that seemed to rise up into her throat, though she was unable to conceal from her husband, how violently she trembled. After a little time, William became more composed; he looked up, kissed his wife's pale cheek, and said, “ I am a sad child, Lucy; but I will not give way so again. I have acted unjustly and ungenerously towards you, in concealing any thing; but you shall hear why I am so unhappy, and you will learn how to bear it all."—"Oh yes, yes," replied his wife," we shall learn to bear it all: God, is a God that hideth himself; but God is love.' How, my own William, can our trust in God be proved, without its meeting with some trial?" She left off speaking, for her husband appeared calmer; and she listened to his account of the manner in which his affairs had suddenly become so involved, that ruin was inevitable. She felt very deeply, all the time her husband was speaking; but she continually kept the remembrance of God's gracious promise uppermost in her mind. Morton had watched her countenance with the most earnest attention; and saw, with bitter grief, the expressions of surprise and woe that passed over it; but, as the clouds passed over, they also passed away, and the sunshine of the soul alone remained. In a short time, the spirit of the true Christian had become resigned, cheerful, and resolved; she gazed tenderly

on her husband, and then half raised her eyes towards heaven, as he finished speaking, while the words, "God is love," faintly escaped from her lips. "What is to be done?" inquired William.-" Oh ! every thing is to be done; nothing is to be left undone, or at least untried," she answered: " we must endeavour to be very calm, very diligent, and very honourable it is God's will that we should be tried; let us pray, that, with the trial, he will afford us the means of rising superior to it. To-night you must go to bed early, and endeavour to compose your mind ; and to-morrow, you must try to use every exertion, which our present situation requires." At an early hour they retired, but Lucy was detained below some time after her husband: she remained still longer, to read in the book where, in every sorrow, she had acquired strength and consolation; and as she softly opened the door of the bed-room, thinking that her husband had been long in bed, she was surprised to find him sitting up, still undressed, and intently occupied, she supposed in reading. His back was towards the door, but as he looked round at her approach, a pensive smile lighted up his features, and he said, "I have been taking your advice, my love; I have been seeking composure, and I have not sought in vain. Every word that I read is peace to my soul; read here, dear Lucy,' As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten: be zealous, therefore, and repent.' This and the preceding