father would propose plans of entertainment and excursions to the neighbouring settlements, to occupy hours that could be spared from the farm-work, and which would give them opportunities for social intercourse with their neighbours. The Sabbath came too, with its hallowed rest, refreshing both their physical and spiritual natures with its benign influences. In the carly spring, the roads were to be mended and new bridges built, and cheerfully did they all associate with their townsmen in their efforts for the public good.

As for the younger children, there was school, with its pleasant intercourse. There was fishing for the boys, and holiday walks after cranberries; then came the maplesugar season, and the clump of trees left for a sugarorchard was the place of resort. To tap the trees and gather the sap; to keep the large iron kettle boiling many days, and then to bear the thick, luscious liquid to the house, where Susan and Mary were ready to purify and finish it more slowly-this was pleasure, not work. The gathering of wild flowers, the improvement of "the birds' parlour," the taming of squirrels, and the attempt to naturalize some plants and shrubs sent from home— these were the employments that gave a variety to their life.

But the bearer of those plants and shrubs-who was he? That very Richard Gray of whom Mary wrote to her friend, Lucy Leighton. Days, even weeks, passed before the stock of news he brought from home was exhausted. Everything and everybody in Laurelton was discussed, messages received from friends, and tokens of affection admired. Of Richard's plans and prospects, there was no little talk among themselves; for was he not to be one of them? Susan herself, though more nearly interested in their success, was not more earnest in her hopes than they, or more ingenious in her schemes to help him in this, his first start in business; while Mr.

II

Moreton's words of encouragement brightened the future of both, and his advice and aid smoothed away the first difficulties in their path.

“This shall be your home, Richard,” said he, “until you have one for yourself. Begin carefully and economically. Remember my motto for all sure progress, 'Never haste, never rest. With a good trade, industrious habits, and a bright prospect ahead, you will succeed. I shall keep your partner with me this year, and you shall have all the labour and all the profits of the establishment. After that, we will see." And, with an order for some furniture, he left him to work his way on.

There were two great events to mark the summer, in the estimation of the children. One was the birth of a little girl at Patrick's—a nice little baby, whom Winne, from gratitude, desired to call after "Miss Annie;" and the other, the due celebration of the yearly-recurring national holiday. For this, all ordinary labour on the farm was suspended, and the day given up to amusement.

The Lakeland people readily responded to the call for help in this festival (ostensibly given in behalf of the Sunday-school), and as readily accepted the general invitation to be present. Children, teachers, and parents, assembled in the court-house, and there they had music and speeches; after which they marched, in not very orderly procession, to a neighbouring grove. There were bountiful tables prepared for their refreshment, of which all partook. An oration from Robert Moreton, short, but directly bearing upon the subject of temperance, and a hymn in honour of the same virtue, sweetly sung by the children, finished their public exercises; but an impression was left upon the minds of most, which firmly remained there ever after-that Sunday-schools and temperance were good things; and all agreed, as they dispersed at the setting of the sun, that this fourth of July had been a very pleasant day.”

In

Our readers will easily see that in all these employments there were toil and labour. For none is there exemption from that sentence which proclaimed that by the sweat of his face should man eat bread; and our friends looked not for a life of inaction or freedom from care. Would they have desired it? Did not the weary physical frame sometimes faint by the way, and did not rest, bodily rest, seem inviting to them? Yes; and sleep, refreshing sleep, brought it! "sweet" to them, as "labouring men." For a life of indolence, a listless state of personal ease, their habits and education had unfitted them, even if their tastes had led them in that direction. dustry, cheered on by a love of all that was beautiful in nature, characterized them as a family. Labour, directed to a desirable end, was praiseworthy; and the lesser cares and toils were all made light and pleasant, as they were seen to promote the comfort and wellbeing of those around. "The hand of the diligent maketh rich," not only in the attainment of outward possessions, but in that wealth of the heart, contentment. Day after day did they experience this, as, rising from their beds, they shook off slumber, and went forth to their daily duties, "providing meat in summer, and gathering food in harvest;" and to them was the promise fulfilled, "He that tilleth his land shall have plenty of bread."

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHARLES MORETON.

CHARLIE MORETON in trouble! Can it be? Why else does he, so long before evening, seek his chamber, and remain there too? Why sits he disconsolately on the foot of his bed, pressing his throbbing temples with his hot

hards? Why does he refuse to hear the gentle knock at his door; and when Annie's soft voice says, "Charlie! Charlie!" why does he not hasten to receive her? Why offer no word of welcome or thanks, as she herself opens the door, and carefully brings in the little salver with its burden of choice food for his evening meal? Is he sick, or weary, or discouraged? Notwithstanding Annie's care for him, it is easy to see that she is grieved; her eyes gleam through a misty veil of tears, her pale cheek is paler than usual, and sighs, that she vainly seeks to repress, come one after another from her lips.

As she lays her soft hand on Charlie's head, he impatiently says, Don't, Annie." She sces that he cannot yet bear sympathy, and she waits in silence, quietly seating herself by his side. As the minutes pass away, so passes the anger and impulsive passion of Charles Moreton. He knew that he had done wrong. Although, on his way from school, and while the shouts of the boys were ringing in his ears, he had deemed himself a hero fighting a worthy battle, the stillness of home, and the sad looks of father, mother, brothers, and sisters, as he came, torn and soiled, with flushed face and bruised eye, into their quict circle, gave a different aspect to the whole case. If he had not pleased the Scotch boy, Duncan Dunwoodie, in their bargain, and had been called “ a cheating Yankee," why need he have resented it, and called him " a mean thistle-thorn back?" Was there any necessity of "giving as good as he sent," when Duncan heaped opprobrious epithets upon him, or of returning that first half-accidental blow he received? Ah, Charlie! is that quick, passionate temper of yours ungovernable? Shall it be master, and Charles Moreton be its servant? "Don't stay, Annie," at last he said; "don't stay with me."

"But shall I not tell father you are sorry?" she answered. 66 They are all so sad, Charlie."

There was no answer, and she pointed to the plate, and asked

"Won't you have this nice cake that Mary sent you, and a glass of milk?"

"I cannot take it, Annie. Do go and leave me!"

"But let me first bathe your head with this fresh cool water, Charlie," she persisted; "it will make it so much better."

Busying herself about him, she led him to talk of his quarrel, and give a continuous account of it. He found it hard to justify himself; and when she said

"You did wrong, Charlie," he was ready to answer"I know it, and that is the worst of it; that is why father is so much displeased, and why mother looked so grieved, and why I feel so unhappy."

"Then I may tell father you are sorry. O, I am so glad! Now we shall be happy again, and father will let you come down. May I tell him, too, that you promise not to quarrel with the boys again?"

“I cannot make any promises, Annie. I always break them."

"But you will try; and I may tell them that?" With permission to do this, she gladly departed on her joyful errand, leaving him to solitude and repose.

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The following morning Charles was early strolling in the garden. The flitting clouds were no unfitting emblems of the gloom that overshadowed his face. His anger was gone, his temper subdued; but with the remembrance of the past there came a distrust of the future; and as he seated himself on one of the garden benches, he exclaimed

"I cannot do it! I know I never can!"

"What is it that you cannot do, my son ?" asked a voice behind him, which he knew to be his father's.

Charles hesitated. He had thought himself alone, and had spoken from the impulse of the moment. Should he