ing husband and wife had fallen out, and had come to blows,---the Provost's widow, must bring them to terms, etc. The Provost's widow spoke to all her little scholars, and prayed with them, wept with a little one who was profoundly repentant of a serious fault, that he had committed, exhorted a second, praised a third, praised and blessed them all, and then went to other duties about the house. When the clock struck eleven, she had bound up the wound, first reprimanded properly the husband and wife, and then reconciled them, had consoled the little boy, etc. When she came back she looked at the weaving, arranged what should be done for the next morning, ate in haste two potatoes and salt, and then went to the other end of the village, to bear to a sick and wretched mother the joyful intelligence of her child's returning from the ways of sin. I sat meanwhile in my room. Four little maidens, with rosy red cheeks, lay in bed near me, and slept soundly on the snow white sheets. The peaceful, beautiful summer night, which was so warm that I could have my window open; the silence and quiet around me, the gentle breathing of the sleeping children, diffused something lovely and peaceful, and awakened in me those deep, sad feelings that spread a calm over the present, and hover around us with the remembrances of past years. The moon, that friend of my childhood and my youth, rese and beamed pale and kindly, over the beech grove into my room. Its light streamed lovingly on the closed eyelids of the children, then shone upon a face, that the day of life had left to wither, ---upon a breast,--whose feelings the passage of years had not yet silenced. O how wonderful! in the friendly beams hovered all those joyous and sad circumstances of my past life, to me so dear---how clearly they rose up in the night---and pressed upon my heart, living and warm! All those with whom I had dwelt in intimacy during my life, and who had become dear or of importance to me, seemed to collect around me, and again to shed their influence in word and look. The H. family, with whom I had spent nearly a year, came at this moment so near to me, that it seemed to me I could speak to these lovely friends, ask them if all was well at home---if they were happy, and whether they remembered me still! Yes---whether? For I had not for a long time received from them the slightest token of remembrance, not a line, not a word. That childish, painful dread of being forgotten---of not belonging to any one,---of being to those whom we respect and love, so little,---so nothing almost, for a moment took possession of my heart. I wept---and I was still sitting with my handkerchief before my eyes, when the widow Bult, who had seen me at the window, from the yard, came in. She asked me seriously, what was the cause of my trouble, and I confessed my weakness submissively. She blamed me for this severely, exhorted and kissed me with motherly tenderness, and bade me go to bed, and for her sake, to preserve my health, lately impaired. She left me,---but I obeyed her not; struck a match, lighted my lamp, and sat down to write a moral lesson for myself. I heard during this, the clock strike twelve, and half past, then there rose a sudden noise in the house, and it sounded as though there were some one on the stairs that led to my room. My door opened gently,--and the Provost's widow Bobina Bult in her night cap and slippers, with a shawl thrown over her shoulders, ---stood before me, her eyes sparkling with joy---and a thick letter in her hand, which she reached me. "From the H's., the H's!" whispered she. "I was not going to sit up longer for the post, but just as I was going to bed, I heard him come---I had a presentiment! Good night! good night! God bring you joy!" and away went Madam Bobina Bult. And it was joy to me, Julia's letter ran as follows: August 13th, 1830. It is a little parson's wife who writes to you. For months, I have been,---no longer Julia H., but Julia L. I had not the spirit to write sooner. For a long time I have felt a dizziness in my head, and anxiety at my heart. The cause; in the first place a fearful awe, which I have cherished for my dear husband---yes, I knew not for a long time, how I could reconcile my feeling of his superiority over me, and my own precious self love, which would not allow Julia H., what shall I say?---to fall in my estimation. And then,---this rural economy!--cows and sheep, and eggs and butter, etc., and a deluge of little matters,---and then my mother, who would make herself uneasy, helping me. But---now---by degrees, all has come into such wonderful order, the little god with bow and arrow helped me. My good L. takes more pains, I believe, to please me, than I him,---indeed, he was and he is, God be praised, truly in love with me. As soon as I discovered this, there was no more trouble. I took courage. Cows, calves and hens prospered, a vigorous flame burned beneath the great, household kettle---and my mother was at rest, thank God; and my husband---then of course, he was happy, for I was happy with him. Beata, do you know what I pray, morning and evening, ay, hourly, from the bottom of my heart? "O God! make me worthy the love of my husband, grant me the pow er of making him happy." And I have father and mother; but we forgive her so received such power, for he is (so he says, willingly. Ah, brother Charles, thou hast and so he seems) very happy. If you knew found a beautiful pearl! Soon he leaves how wel he looks, how gay. This is the shore of the southern seas, to enjoy the because I take so much care of him; then pearl of his life in his dear North, and to he does not dare take so litt'e care of him- shut her up in the shell of married life. self, as before; and then, he works no more How came I upon such a strange figure? in the night, he has weaned himself of this. Yet it may stay. If the sun of love only And so he thinks and writes (he acknowl-beams within the mother-of-pearl dwelling, edges, himself,) more freely and powerfully than before. Then I am very careful not to interrupt or disturb him, when he is in his studies, writing or reading. Oh, when I would just get a glimpse of him (he is so beautiful, Beata,) I steal in gently, and play him a little trick. I place a flower upon his book, kiss his brow, or do some woke-Lieutenant. Was not that charmnsuch thing, and go quietly back again, and ing? To-morrow morning my father and when I turn round to shut the door. I always mother, and sisters visit us. It will be a get a glance from his eyes, that follows me day of joy. as though it were stoleu. it will toss to and fro on the stream of life, like an island of blessedness. Charles writes such beautiful and interesting letters. His soul is like a museum, among its jewels Herminia will dwell. Do you know what happened to my brother before he left us? He went to sleep one night,- -a Cornet, and I have told you how happy I am, and Besides, I labor to make myself a pas- yet I have one wish, the gratification of tor's wife, truly worthy of esteem. I would which will fill up the measure of my hapthat L.'s wife should be a pattern for house-piness. My good Beata, here in our house, wives in the parish. Do not fancy, that in the midst of all this, I forget or slight my little outward person. O no: I often ask counsel of the mirror, but do you know, what mirror I prefer to ask counsel of? That one I see in L.'s eyes. It is so pleasing to see one's self en beau. O Beata, how ennobling it is, to be united to a man who is esteemed and honored, and at the same time is so good. As Arwic's wife, which Nothing I would never be, what a life of nothingness I should have led! Now, with heartfelt peace, I feel myself everyday rise higher in my own and in my husband's esteem. It is a glorious feeling to rise! Do you know that Arwid has been married the last three months? His wife, Eleanor D. looks very wakeful, and he looks lively—if it can be called so-when he must. I fear that his dear peace is a little disturbed. Poor Arwid! The young pair were married with feasting and banqueting. Old P. passes every day (certainly intentionally) with his span of horses, the Swans, and with his daughter-in-law, in the beautiful landau and drives slowly past, as if it were to solemnize the funeral of my happiness; but I feed my ducks with gay and careless heart, nod sweetly to Eleanor, and thank Eternal Goodness for my lot. It is Saturday evening, I wait at home for my husband. In the shade of my window I have placed our little supper table; the meal consists of asparagus from our own garden, delicious raspberries and milk; his favorite dish. The angelic Herminia Linnæa is now decorating the table with flowers. How beautiful, how good, how indescribably lovely, no one can imagine! She has supplanted us with our there is a little chamber, pretty and agreeable, with green carpets and white curtains, (just such as you like,) with a view over the meadows, where fat cows are feeding, which give the most beautiful milk. In the chamber is a book-case, a—. But it is tedious to describe; come and see it, if you like it; and if you think you can find yourself at home in it, call it yours. Come. Now I hear L. coming in the distance. He comes into my room. I will appear as if I neither saw nor heard him. We must not spoil men, and make them think we listen to their steps. Yes, only coughonly embrace m I will not move, will not let my pen fall. One must not always yield, and must not spoil his wife; [L. writes,] and, for this reason, Julia must give me the pen; and, while she sits upon my knee, I will write what will trouble her. Our dear friend, Beata, come to us! We wait you with open arms. You must be happy in our house. Come, and see how I keep Julia in check. To give you a proof of it, she shall not write a word more, notwihtstanding her great zeal. I will write. August 14. I weep, I laugh, I am beside myselfand still I must write. Do you know who is here? who has just come? Guess, guess. Emily is here, my sister Emily! the good Emily, the gay Emily, the beauti ful, the happy Emily! And Algernon is here, and the little Algernon, the most magnificent little child in the world. Mother dances with him, father dances with him, Algernon dances, L. dances--. Wait, wait; I must go and sing, and I |