soon found her uncle's house a very different place from the home she had been accustomed to. Lucy had been brought up in a pious and decent manner; and not only her ideas of what was right or wrong in the sight of God, revolted at the conduct she witnessed at the miller's house, but her modesty and common feelings as a woman were often grossly shocked. Lucy had much good sense, and her religion made her humble and meek; so, notwithstanding her strong disapprobation of all that she saw, she did not, as many would have done, rashly rebuke, but she spoke sometimes with tender and affectionate earnestness to her cousin Amy. One day, after Lucy had been speaking as usual without any success, she went to her own room and sat down on her bed in silent sadness. Hardly a minute had elapsed, when Amy called loudly to her cousin to come down: "Come," she said, as Lucy entered the old-fashioned kitchen," come and speak for yourself to my father: I cannot speak half so well; besides, I never feel as you do." The miller was that afternoon in a very good humour, and he took his pipe from his mouth,

and knocked the ashes out on the brick floor, and then looked up with a merry glance of his eyes as he said, "Ay, my little lass, come, speak for yourself? What have you to say against our rare jolly ways? They don't suit you, eh?" Lucy looked rather reproachfully at her cousin, who stood up behind the miller, with her hand on his shoulder, enjoying the confusion which she caused. "Yes, uncle," she replied, " I mean, no I do not like your manner of living; but I did not say - you know, dear Amy, I did not-that your ways don't suit me. I am sure you are both very kind, only that "" Only nonsense, father," interrupted Amy suddenly," don't listen to that silly girl. I've heard often all she has to say. Hush, hush, child!" she added, "and let me speak, for I shall speak much more to the purpose, and that you'll confess when you know what I have to say. Tomorrow is Farnham Fair, I'd quite forgot it, and Tom and Martin Woodford will be here in an hour, with their two sisters. I forgot to tell you, father, but Martin said you invited them." "Did I," said the miller, who had

been very drunk at the time the invitation was given, "I'm sure I don't know, but I suppose I did, and I'm glad of it. Tom and Martin are fine fellows as ever made a house ring with a song and a laugh, and the girls are smart merry lasses. Wheugh! I must get up, I suppose," said he, as Amy began to take down the candlesticks and the brass mortar, and to dust the high mantle-piece. "I must be off to

way, with your

the mill, and out of your dusters and brooms, or I shall be swept up like this 'backee dust," he added, rapping his pipe again on a part of the floor which Lucy had been sweeping very carefully. "Ah! get away as fast as you can!" cried his daughter, striking him over his broad shoulders with her duster, "but pray come in time enough to dress yourself a little smartly, put on your best clothes, and do let me tie on your neckcloth for you, dear father." "Well," said Amy to her cousin, "are you not glad? We shall be a charming party at the fair. You shall have Tom all to yourself, and he is reckoned much the best-looking fellow of the two. I hate Martin, but I know he will make

me walk with him." Lucy looked down at her black dress, as Amy repeated her question, but she was obliged to explain herself by words, before the thoughtless girl could understand the reason of her refusal. The party arrived, and Lucy remained alone all the following day. That was the happiest day which she had passed since her parents' death. The evening. came, and Lucy sat up long after her usual bed-time, waiting for Amy and her friends. The church clock had struck twelve before they arrived. Lucy heard their loud laughter for some minutes before they reached the door, and when they entered, she noticed that Amy's mirth was the merriest. The two girls slept that night in the same chamber, as Amy had given up her own room to her female friends. Lucy was in bed and asleep, before her cousin went up to bed. She had slept more than an hour, when she opened her eyes and beheld Amy, yet undressed, sitting at the further end of the chamber. Lucy was about to speak, when she saw the expression of her cousin's face; it was totally changed. The tears were falling slowly, but in large drops, over her

pale cheeks; and her lips, though closely drawn together, seemed to quiver with agony

of mind. She sat before the table with her fingers almost clenched in her disordered hair, and her mind seemed absorbed in thoughts that made her miserable, For a short time her eyes rested on the Bible in which Lucy had been reading, and which lay open before her; but she knew not on what she looked at first, and when she did perceive it, she pushed it violently away. Lucy closed her eyes, she had half resolved to address her, but she felt afraid to do so; and soon after, she heard her cousin approach the bed, and she felt that Amy was looking in her face, to discover if she were still asleep. When Lucy awoke in the morning, Amy was already dressed, and dressed very gaily: no traces of grief remained on her laughing countenance, and Lucy felt that her secret was best kept to herself.

During the following months, Lucy had some additional reasons to suspect that her cousin was still unhappy; but Amy was so guarded in her behaviour, that no one but a witness of her emotion on the evening I have