"Shall I go down and read it with your aunt? I think she will have a word to say in this matter. You are her eldest son, you know," said Mr. Vernon, smiling fondly.

Eddie could not return the smile; he only said, “Auntie will think some of it is wrong and wicked; but, O, I could not help it! I could not help it!" The letter was not read without a renewal of tears.

We copy it entire.

MY DEAR PARENTS,—

"OLNEY, February, 18-.

"I fear you will be greatly disappointed, when I tell you I do not wish to stay any longer in Olney. It is not any fault in my uncle's family, and I hope not in myself. They have been very, very kind to me, and I love them with all my heart; But I do not think it would be right for me to stay here, and be a care and expense to them any more. They have taken a great deal of pains with me, and I know they do it cheerfully; but I have long felt that they were not able. I have noticed how close they had to calculate ;—and now, don't you think, uncle has had to sell his horse to keep from running in debt! I cannot help crying about it. Poor, dear Pompey! I loved him, it seems to me, next best to dear little cousin Abby. I suppose I ought not to say that, exactly, and perhaps it is not just true. But, you know, dear parents, that I have been brought up with Pompey. O, I remember so well the first time I saw him at our old home in Norfield! And now to think he is sold where I shall never see him again,—and all because the people here are too stingy to support their minister! Auntie would n't like it, if she knew I said that; but it's true, any way. I am afraid you will think I have made a great ado about Pompey; but I have kept it to myself. Aunt Mary told me all about it, after they had concluded to sell him, before he was taken away. She said she relied on

me to be brave and manly; for,' said she, 'your uncle is much grieved about it, and if he sees that it distresses you, it will make matters worse.' The tears were in her eyes all the while;—but she is so good! I expect she talked to the other children too. After Pompey was really gone, Uncle Edward came down from the study to dinner, looking very sad, and Cousin Allie exchanged glances with his mother, and they tried to talk and laugh as though nothing had happened. But I must not fill up my paper with this. I want you to hear all my reasons for leaving here. This is the first one; because they are poor and troubled to live. Another is, they have cares enough without looking after me. It takes up a good deal of uncle's time to hear my recitations; but, most of the care comes upon auntie. She hears many of my lessons, and she is always watching over me, and doing something for me. And she has more than she ought to do, besides this. O, mother! I often remember what you said before I came here, that auntie must have an easy time, as she had no farm or dairy to take care of. I guess you would think differently if you were here. I don't know of anybody that has so many cares. has everything to attend to; yet she is so gentle, and patient, and loving in it all! But you would be surprised at the change in her looks. Her face is so long and pale, and her eyes don't look half so dark as they used to. She keeps the same sweet smile yet; but I hardly ever hear her laugh now, as merrily as when she frolicked with me in the old yard. She has too much on her mind, and too much on her hands; and I ought not to tax her any longer. Another thing, I know she is very anxious to have Ellen home again; and, if I were away, I suspect they would take her from her aunt. I know she does n't have such training there as the rest of us do here, and I often think they feel unhappy about her.

She

"You will ask me, dear father and mother, where I will

U

go

to fit for college, if I leave uncle's. I hate to disappoint you, but I do not want to go to college. I know you have hoped I would follow Uncle Edward's steps, but I never shall be good enough to be a minister. And if I were, I cannot be a minister! I am for ever set against it! I have seen too much how they are treated. Dear uncle and aunt have done a great deal of good, and they seem to take things—at least auntie does-very cheerfully; but it's too bad! I could n't stand it.

"There are some religious folks here, that I don't know about getting to heaven. I should n't much want to see them there. O, this is wrong! What would Aunt Mary say to it? You see my dear parents, I am so much excited at thinking this all over-about Pompey's being sold, and about the other things—that you must make allowance for me.

"Please write soon, and tell me I may come out to you, and go to work on your new farm. I am in a great hurry to make some money, that I may help dear uncle and aunt, to whom I owe so much; though I am afraid they will wear out first. I want to be earning something for myself, too, just so that I may come and settle down here in old Olney, and show people how to support a minister. Give my love to the boys, and answer this soon.

"Your affectionate son,

"EDWARD."

We have not room for the process by which Mr. and Mrs. Vernon reached the affecting conclusion, that it was best for Edward to abandon a collegiate course, and seek an entrance into business. Mr. Vernon wrote immediately to his brother, saying, among other things,-" With the boy's present feelings, it is of no use to urge him to the pursuit of a liberal education. Its rewards are slow, and he is impatient. But do not reproach him, dear James. He has, at the bottom, mo

tives the most generous and disinterested. We love the boy with all our hearts, and know not how to give him up,-yet fear a permanent injury to him by a longer continuance here. It is sad that a spirit so young should be embittered, and confidence in Christian men shaken. I have not known, till now, what a strong under-current of feeling was gathering force in his bosom. Ah! it is a trying ordeal this, for older hearts than his. Well, let the boy have his way; he is about right, I believe. Who knows but he is raised up for this very purpose, to be a staff and comfort, by and by, to some otherwise fainting, famished minister?”

Mary grieved sore at this turn of things. Nothing had, in a long while, gone so near her heart. Much as she felt Ellen's absence, this was a harder trial still.

While waiting for his father's answer, Eddie's heart, too, often failed him. How could he leave these foster parents?how part with the children? His aunt resolved, before he left, to correct some of his notions on the subject of the ministerial profession. He was quite ready to converse upon the topic. I fear," said she, "that you are indulging some wrong views, as well as unchristian feeling, on this subject."

“I think, Aunt Mary, I ought to know something about it. I have lived with you in two places, and uncle has been treated so abusively, I could not help feeling as I expressed in my letter."

"But all parishes are not alike, Edward. There are places where the minister and his family are treated with the most tender consideration,-where the relation is mutually pleasant and satisfying;-he, ministering to their edification in spiritual things, and they in return providing all things needful for his temporal wants. True, there is not, anywhere, sufficient provision made for accumulating something against old age, or disability. Yet there is many a minister whose passing wants

are amply supplied; so that the question, What shall we eat? -or, What shall we drink?-or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?-does not follow him like his shadow, and fill his sermon with anxious interrogation points."

Edward smiled, and shook his head. “There must be such, I suppose, auntie, if you say so; but I guess they don't live about here, unless this new Mr. Langdon is one. Mr. Williams, though, is rich enough."

She resumed; "I cannot endure, my dear Edward, that your young heart should be so wrung for us, or that you should cherish bitterness and prejudice."

"It is not prejudice, auntie; have n't I seen ?”

"I know, I know," said Mary, "you have seen many things that ought not to exist. God only knows how wrong they are, and how much suffering they occasion; but there are other things that help to counterbalance. There were some choice people in Millville. Here, likewise, you can look around, and count many kind-hearted Christian people. The narrow-mindedness, in many instances, is not the fault of the heart, but of early training and ignorance."

"Deacon Hide is not an ignorant man,” said Eddie; "he rode by, last night, to the west-district meeting, without offering to carry uncle, though he knew Pompey was sold, and he would have to walk two miles in the snow."

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Well, we will not talk of him now. Perhaps he feared, if he asked your uncle to ride once he would expect it again, till he would grow burdensome. I wish to call your attention to one thing which you seem to have overlooked. The trials are not all on one side. The people have their forbearance and patience tried with the minister."

“I thought all ministers were good men," said the boy, hastily.

"Well, allowing that, my child, good men are imperfect,