appearance during the last winter, was now beginning to glow in the west: a star or two faintly glimmered overhead: the sea was perfectly calm; and the gentle, regular fall of the wave on the pebbly shore, seemed not to interrupt the solemn stillness. Mary and her father enjoyed the scene: they now walked silently; for to those who can feel them, such scenes dispose less to conversation than reflection.

There is this grand difference between natural rational pleasures, and those that are artificial;— and it is one by which they may easily be distinguished; that from the former, the transition to religious thoughts and engagements is easy and agreeable: whether we contemplate nature with the eye of taste, or investigate it with that of philosophy, our thoughts are readily led upwards to the great Author of all; "all whose works praise Him:" and it is at such times, with peculiar appropriateness that the Christian can say,——

"This awful God is ours,

Our Father, and our friend."

But from trifling thoughts and dissipating amusements, the transition is violent and difficult indeed; and is, in fact, very rarely attempted.

So it proved in the present instance. When they returned from their walk, Mary retired to her closet, with a mind serious, and disposed for its sacred duties, while Martha remained before

her glass, ruminating on the pattern of a new spencer, which had attracted her attention on the parade.

VII.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN LUCY AND HER MOTHER.

ONE day a lady and her daughter called upon Lucy's mother, and sat with her an hour or more, conversing on various subjects. Lucy's age was not such as to make it proper for her to take part in the conversation; she sat sometimes listening to what passed, and sometimes making silent observations on the dress or manners of her mother's visiters. When they took leave, she began the following conversation.

LUCY. What a good thing it is that people cannot see one's thoughts!

MOTHER. It would be inconvenient, sometimes, if they could.

LUCY. O, worse than inconvenient! to day, for instance, I would not have had Mrs. and Miss G. know what I was thinking of for all the world.

MOTHER. Indeed! Pray may I know what it 'might be?

Lucy. O yes, mamma, you may; it was no real harm. I was only thinking what an odd, fat, dis

agreeable kind of looking woman Mrs. G. was;and what a tiresome way she had of telling long stories; and that Miss G. was the vainest girl I ever saw; I could see all the time, she was thinking of nothing but her beauty, and her

MOTHER. Come, come, no more of this. I have heard quite enough.

LUCY. Well, mamma, but only do suppose they could have known what I was thinking of!

MOTHER. Well, and what then do you suppose? LUCY. Why, in the first place, I dare say they would have thought me an impertinent, disagreeable little thing.

MOTHER. I dare say they would.

LUCY. So what a good thing it is that people cannot see one's thoughts! is it not?

MOTHER. I rather think it does not make so much difference as you imagine.

LUCY. Dear me, I think it must make a great deal of difference.

MOTHER. Did not you say just now, that Miss G. was a vain girl, and that she thought a great deal of her beauty?

LUCY. Yes, and so she does, I am certain.
MOTHER. Pray, my dear, who told you so?
LUCY. Nobody: I found it out myself.

MOTHER. But how did you find it out, Lucy. LUCY. Why, mamma, I could see it, as plain as could be.

MOTHER. So then, if you could have looked

into her heart, and had seen her think to herself "What a beauty I am!-I hope they admire me"-it would have made no alteration in your opinion of her.

LUCY. (Laughing) No, mamma; only have confirmed me in what I thought before.

MOTHER. Then what advantage was it to her that you could not see her thoughts?

LUCY. (Hesitating) Not much, to her, certainly -just then at least;-not to such a vain looking girl as she is.

MOTHER. What do you suppose gives her that vain look?

LUCY. Being so pretty, I suppose.

MOTHER. Nay, think again; I have seen many faces as pretty as hers, that did not look at all vain.

LUCY. True, so have I; then it must be from her thinking so much about her beauty.

MOTHER. Right. If Miss G. has a vain expression in her countenance (which for argument's sake we suppose) or whoever has such an expression, this must be the cause. Now we are come to the conclusion I expected, and I have proved my point.

LUCY. What point, mamma?

MOTHER. That you greatly overrate the aavantage, or mistake the nature of it, of our thoughts being concealed from our fellew creatures. Since it appears, that the thoughts--at

least our habits of thought, so greatly influence the conduct, manners, and appearance, that our secret weaknesses are as effectually betrayed to all discerning eyes, as if our inmost feelings were actually visible.

LUCY. But surely there are some people so deep and artful, that nobody can possibly guess what passes in their minds? Not that I should wish to be such an one.

MOTHER. They may, and do, indeed, often succeed in deceiving others in particular instances; but they cannot conceal their true characters; every one knows that they are deep and artful, and therefore their grand purpose is defeated; they are neither esteemed nor trusted.

LUCY. Well, but still mamma, to-day, for instance, do you really suppose that Mrs. and Miss G. had any idea of the opinion I formed of them?

MOTHER. Indeed, my dear, I dare say Mrs. and Miss G. did not take the trouble to think about you, or your opinions; but supposing they had chanced to observe you, I think, most likely, they would have formed an unfavorable idea.

LUCY. Why so, mamma?

MOTHER. Let us suppose that any other young girl of your own age had been present, and that while you were making your ill-natured observations on these ladies, your companion had been listening with sympathy and kindness to the account Mrs. G. was giving of her troubles and