school room any one thing that had been properly finished, you would have received one complete present to answer it; but this you know was not the case. I should be very glad if this disappointment should teach you what I have hitherto vainly endeavored to impress upon you, that as all those things, pretty or useful as they are in themselves, are rendered totally useless for want of completeness; so exertion without perseverance is no better than busy idleness. That employment does not deserve the name of industry, which requires the stimulus of novelty to keep it going. Those who will only work so long as they are amused, will do no more good in the world, either to themselves or others, than those who refuse to work at all. If I had required you to pass the six weeks of my absence in bed, or in counting your fingers, you would, I suppose, have thought it a sad waste of time; and yet, I appeal to you whether (with the exception of an hour or two of needle-work) the whole mass of articles on your table could produce any thing more useful. And thus, my dear, may life be squandered away, in a succession of busy nothings.

"I have now a proposal to make to you. These presents, which you are to take possession of as they are, I advise you to lay by carefully. Whenever you can show me any thing that you have begun, and voluntarily finished, you may at the same time bring with you one of these things,

beginning with those of least value, to which I will immediately add the part that is deficient. Thus, by degrees, you may have them all completed; and if by this means you should acquire the wise and virtuous habit of perseverance, it will be far more valuable to you than the richest present you could possibly receive.

XXV.

TEMPER; OR THE TWO OLD LADIES.

In a huge old-fashioned red brick house, with a great many tall narrow windows in front, and a high flight of stone steps up to the door, lived two old ladies, commonly called Mrs. Abigail and Mrs. Dorothy. They had lived there for many and many a year; they never altered the fashion of their dress, and were very exact and regular in all their habits and customs. Every day of the week they were driven out at the same hour, in their old-fashioned coach, by their oldfashioned coachman; and at the same hour they returned home; so that when the coach passed through the town, either going or returning, every body knew what was o'clock. They neither paid visits nor received company at their house; and the few 'servants they kept had lived with them

so many years that none but the aged people of the place could remember the least alteration in the household.

The old ladies dressed exactly alike; and were nearly of the same age; their customs, also, were quite similar; so that to observe them at a distance, it might be supposed there was scarcely any difference between them: and yet there was a difference. Mrs. Abigail was very rich, though nobody knew how rich: but not so Mrs. Dorothy, although she was her own sister; for having in her youth in some way displeased the old gentleman, her father, he left all his fortune to his eldest daughter; so that Mrs. Dorothy depended almost entirely upon the bounty-or rather upon the justice of her sister. But this was not the greatest difference between them: for Mrs. Abigail was ill-natured; and Mrs. Dorothy was goodnatured; and it is this kind of thing that makes the greatest real difference between persons, in the mind of all those with whom they have to do. The consequence of this, in the present instance, was, that all the old servants loved Mrs. Dorothy better than they loved their mistress; and waited upon her, not only with more affection, but with more respect. And as respect and affection are things which can neither be concealed where they are felt, nor successfully imitated where they are not, Mrs. Abigail saw as plainly how it was, as if they had told her so in the most express

terms.

Now this aggravated her temper beyond any thing: she thought it so very strange, and hard, and ungrateful, that she, to whom they were indebted for all they had, who paid them such handsome wages, and made them such generous presents, should be in less esteem than her poor sister Dorothy, who had nothing of that sort in her power. No; but "such as she had she gave them;" and that happened to be of more sterling value than their mistress's silver and gold. At first Mrs. Abigail was so impatient under the grievance, that she turned away several faithful servants for no other real reason than this private one: but finding that the new comers regularly fell into the same fault, she was soon glad to recall her old domestics.

Mrs. Abigail's temper did not soften as she grew older; she was vexed and tormented that she could not purchase, with all her money, that of which every human bosom feels the need; and every year increased both the cause and the effect of her disquietude. There was not a tradesman, nor a tenant, nor a neighbor, but would touch his hat with more cordiality to Mrs. Dorothy than to Mrs. Abigail; for nobody could help seeing the difference: it was even perceptible as they passed along in the old coach; for, while Mrs. Abigail used always to sit back in an erect posture, looking neither to the right nor left, the round good-natured face of Mrs. Doro

thy might always be seen, sometimes smiling at the children, and sometimes nodding to the neighbors as she passed their doors.

Mrs. Abigail used perpetually to complain of her wrongs and grievances to Mrs. Dorothy; who always heard her very patiently; and said what she could to soften and console her. She very rarely ventured to hint either at the reason, or the remedy; for that irritated her beyond any thing; and always brought forth the whole list of her benefactions to witness that the fault was not in

her.

After a long succession of years, a circumstance occurred in the family which made a greater alteration in its aspect, than if the China images on the best parlor mantel-piece, had been transported to the sitting parlor mantel-piece; which would, however, have been considered a most memorable innovation. This was, Mrs.

Abigail's taking it into her head to adopt a little orphan girl, a child scarcely five years of age, the daughter of a poor minister lately deceased.

Little Mary was a very pretty, artless, engaging child. Full of spirits, and unconscious of her misfortunes, she entered the great house without any adequate idea of its dignity, and felt herself quite at home the moment she found something to play with. At first the old ladies could not exactly say whether they were most amused or most put out by the noisy frolics of