winter had already commenced; the ground was covered with snow, that sparkled beneath the bright moonlight; it was shining as the world appeared to Walter, and cold as his hopes on entering it. The tall elms, that so gracefully, during summer, threw their green foliage over the long, low, oldfashioned building, now towered, revealed in all their gigantic proportions, their long bare arms, stretched abroad, as if to defend the dwelling they had so lately ornamented. All around was hushed; and while Walter stood there so still and lonely, the only living thing unsheltered, he felt pressing on his heart that sense of utter desolateness, which persons of sensibility, who for the first time find themselves alone in the world, are doomed to suffer. There are few sensations more painful.

How his hopes, and plans, and wishes, had altered, since he first went to reside with Mr. Clark Fanny was then just twelve. He promised to stay three years; they looked like an eternity to him, he was so anxious to mingle among men, and hew himself a path to fame, and do he knew not what-but 'wonders, no doubt.' The three years expired. Fanny was fifteen. She loved Walter, with all the innocency and truth of sisterly affection. Every leisure hour they planned some amusement together. During the long winter evenings, when she had knit her thirty times round, they read the same books together. Fanny, with tears in her eyes, begged him to stay; could he go? O, no! not then-in a few months per

haps. Thus two years passed-they passed quickly to Walter. One year only remained of his minority; and during that, he never once expressed a wish to go. And Jacob could not labor more faithfully, while serving for his beloved Rachel, than Walter wrought on the farm of Mr. Clark. Yet the intercourse between Walter and Fanny, had assumed a character so distant and reserved, that a stranger might have thought them wholly indifferent to each other. This reserve was the effect of her delicacy, and his sense of honor and fidelity to his master. It was then Walter felt the full bitterness of his poverty and dependence.

He loved Fanny, deeply, fervently; and yet he never breathed a syllable, which a brother might not have spoken to a sister. Still he feared he had not been sufficiently guarded, else why had not Mr. Clark expressed a wish to have him reside longer with him, when he so much needed help? 'He suspects I love Fanny,' murmured the youth to himself. A convulsive movement for a moment agitated his features. Then clenching his hand firmly, he exclaimed--' And I will yet be worthy of her love! And plunging down the steep road, he pursued his way with a speed that seemed calculated to overtake his companion.

In truth, Walter was not the only person who wondered why ne was suffered to depart. Aunt Judy owned her astonishment; but as economy was as much her hobby as it ever was Adam Smith's, the only difference being that his was political, hers, personal-she resolved

all her doubts by reflecting, that probably, her brother knew of some person he could hire who would work cheaper than Walter.

The next morning saw a very sober looking group assembled around the breakfast table of Mr. Ezekiel Clark. 'I'took a bad cold yesterday, and could not sleep much last night,' said Mr. Clark.

'I had terrible bad dreams, and my sleep did not do me one bit of good,' said aunt Judy.

Fanny said not a word; but, judging by her swollen eye and pale cheek, she had rested no better than the others. A fortnight passed, and no news from Walter-another fortnight, and a letter came to Mr. Clark.

Pray, how does Walter like his school? how many scholars does he have? when is he coming home?' eagerly demanded aunt Judy; huddling question upon question, with true feminine volubility.

'He says nothing at all about his school,' replied her brother, gravely, and glancing his eye on his daughter.

'You needn't look to Fanny,' said aunt Judy, pettishly, provoked that her questions were all vain,- as if she wanted to hear anything about Walter. She hasn't mentioned his name since he went away, and I don't believe she cares whether he is dead or alive.'

Fanny was employed making a coat of crimson flannel, which aunt Judy had taken particular pains to color for little Jonathan. During the time her father was reading the letter, she had busily continued her work; but aunt

Judy afterwards declared, she never, in all the days of her life, see such a looking buttonhole as one that Fanny made on that crimson suit.' Her face was pale as marble when her father first looked upon her; at aunt Judy's remark, it was colored to her forehead-even her neck and hands were as crimson as Jonathan's coat.

A smile of tenderness, mingled with a shade of sorrow, passed over the usually fixed, and almost stern features of Mr. Clark. He collected his writing materials, and sat down to answer Walter's letter; but what he wrote, aunt Judy, with all her fidgeting, could not discover.

The months passed on; but if we credit aunt Judy, they passed heavily. She always declared it was the most melancholy winter she ever experienced. And Fanny,' she said, was so downspirited and moping, she raly feared the girl was going into a consumption.'

At such remarks, Fanny would try to smile but if her father heard them, the look of pity and endearment he always threw upon her, would bring tears to her eyes.

;

It was towards the last of March, and on the evening of a stormy, blustering day, such as frequently occur at the vernal equinox, that Mr. Clark sat down to read his usual portion of scripture. He had laid his hand on the sacred volume, and given the preparatory hem, when the outer door unclosed, and a light step was heard traversing the long, narrow entry. The sitting room door was flung open.

'Walter !'-exclaimed Mr. Clark, in the deep bass tones of his guttural voice, seizing one of the youth's hands.

"Walter !'-screamed aunt Judy, a full octave above the highest treble notes she ever before used--as she caught the other.

'Walter' murmured Fanny, in a voice sweeter to his ear than the breathing of an Eolian harp, as disengaging himself from the grasp of her father and aunt, he pressed both her hands in his, and while she sunk into the chair from which she had partly risen, just touched his lips to her forehead.

The action was unnoticed by aunt Judy, who had stooped to pick up her spectacles, which had fallen in her hurry to welcome Walter; and which she would not have had broken, for a kiss from the handsomest young man in the universe. If Mr. Clark saw the slight caress, the smile that beamed on his features, while he pointed Walter to a seat in his usual place, did not argue displeasure.

'What is the matter with Fanny now?' said aunt Judy. 'I shouldn't think Walter's comng home was any occasion for tears.'

'We will proceed in the duties of the evening,' said her brother, solemnly, as he just glanced on his daughter.

'You may have Fanny,' said Mr. Clark to Walter the next day-but, as I told you in my letter, you must not marry till next November. Manage for yourself one year. Go, hire yourself out, and be steady and industrious; you will gain much useful knowledge;