to be sure; for whom else could I bring it?""Well, I thought so, dear Edward, but I was not quite sure: for young people do behave themselves so ungraciously now-a-days to their elder relatives, that I did almost wrong thee, my dear boy."-"Nay, aunt; you have always been kind to me, and I am indeed happy in this opportunity of showing you that I remembered my aunt, when a wide sea divided me from her."-"So you have, Edward; and you know I love you as a son. Will the bird talk, Edward—what do you call it, Edward?"—" It is a Virginia nightingale, dear aunt."-"Oh! then, it is a singing bird?"-"Yes, aunt, it sings a little; but not so sweetly as our nightingale: it has received a larger share of beauty from the hand of its Maker than the nightingale of England, but our nightingale far exceeds it in melody."—"That is as it should be, Edward-one handsome, another clever: to one riches are given; to another health; and so forth. God is wise and just, dear Edward; but you have been taught to know all such things from your good mother, and Parson Goldsmith.""I hope so, aunt," I replied; "but have you any commands to Awbury (for so was then called the obscure village of my birth); I am going there as soon as I have settled accounts with my uncle as to what I have been doing in America."-"I will trouble you," said she, "with a little parcel for the girls, and my love; and if canst borrow a pillion, I should have no objection to go behind thee, and see what they are all about."-This last part of my aunt's speech rather embarrassed me. Much as I loved my aunt, I confess I felt no desire to ride a

pillion horse on this occasion. But she was only jesting; so that I had no reason to fear either vexation or detention from this source.

In a few days I finished with my uncle, and then made arrangements for paying the intended visit to my friends. I set out on horseback, with feelings of a very sober kind; and being alone, had much time for meditation as I rode on slowly. I looked back on the happy days of my boyhood; played with my fellows, in memory, on the green before the school-house; and called to mind some of the old people, and, among others, my honoured father, sitting beneath the venerable elm there, in its full maturity of three hundred years. I believed then that the world could not boast such a man, nor such a tree. I thought also, with pleasure, on my revered pastor and schoolmaster, who was meek and kind-hearted to all, and who managed to make his boys scholars without using either the birch or the ferula. He was, indeed, more anxious to teach us our duty than our Latin; but he contrived to teach us both. The kindness of his nature seemed to kindle a kindred feeling throughout the school, so that we felt disposed to help each other, and did so, and lost nothing, but gained much, in the brotherly task: he loved my father; and his family and ours were like one. The nearer I approached the village, the more impatient I became to arrive; I thought on my sisters, and their friends his daughters, every moment with increasing emotion; I gave Dobbin the spur, and gradually quickening my pace, came up to our gate at a brisk canter. My sisters received me most affectionately, and quickly sent for my bro

ther, who happened to be out. He came, and the meeting was affecting; we saw ourselves all together, but our parents were no more with their children; we looked on the place where they were wont to sit, and wept.

By degrees my brother entered on family affairs; and I soon mentioned to him my uncle's intention of settling me at Honduras as a merchant, and I expressed a hope that fortune would favour me so that I might be able to provide for my sisters. This kind sentiment towards them was as kindly received by them; but the youngest said, she would not wait the event of fortune-making, but would go with me. "I will send for you, dear Maria,” said I, "when I am fairly settled, if you then should like to come."-"I will go with you, Edward," she replied, "unless you can prevail on Eliza Goldsmith to be your guardian angel." Though she said this playfully, and perhaps a little apprehensively, I felt as if electrified by the unexpected appeal: certainly I had always been sensible to a sentiment of a peculiar character for Eliza Goldsmith; I felt that it was not exactly like that which I bore to my sister Maria, though it seemed to connect their images in my thoughts. I had seen several beautiful and amiable women abroad, but they could not bear comparison with Eliza Goldsmith; Eliza's sweet smile was, in truth, always playing around me, and doubtless it was the memory of what that sweet smile so faithfully expressed, which had unconsciously fixed my affection. Thus, I had been calm, almost happy, during my absence from Eliza; for nothing had occurred to

make me discover what lay hidden in my heart; but now the tumult of my feelings awakened my suspicions, and my agitated answer confirmed Maria's: "Eliza Goldsmith," I said, "leave her happy home for me! leave father, sisters, for me!" and I believe I said the last words in a way that would have shown a child my adoring affection; then I added, in an altered tone, "Eliza Goldsmith would never think of Edward Seaward, as you seem to wish, Maria."

I sighed deeply; Maria smiled: but she soon grew serious, and said, "You know, Edward, that Eliza is sincerity itself; indeed, she has not a feeling that she need be ashamed to own. From the hour that she became sensible to your decided preference for her, your love, I will say, she never tried to hide her great affection for you." "Become sensible to my preference! - my love! - Maria,-I never thought, never dared, -surely I never could have said any thing

-

"Never purposely, I dare say, Edward," replied Maria; "nor any thing that would be directly understood by other people; but Eliza could not remain blind to what we all saw. It was plain to every one of us, that when Eliza was present, you never missed any other creature; that you were even more proud of her approbation than of dear Mr. Goldsmith's; that you were always imagining how you could give her a pleasure. When she was sick, don't you remember how you watched every body's looks in the house, and how kind and affectionate you were to her after her illness? It was not long after her recovery, just when you went

to Virginia, that she told me she would die single, unless heaven should bless her by making her your wife."

"Maria! my dearest Maria!" I said, and embraced her, not being able to complete what I wished to say. While I kept silent, for I was wholly overcome with the suddenness and sweetness of this surprise, my sister went on telling me several things, which were doubly grateful to my feelings, as giving me fresh proofs of Eliza's attachment, and of her superiority over all other women in that frankness which is only to be found in generous and noble characters.

At last I recovered my ordinary powers, and thanking my sister for the kindness of showing me where I might find a treasure beyond valuation, I said, "If it be really so, Maria, Edward Seaward is the happiest of happy men! but to ask Eliza Goldsmith to go with me to such a climate! to marry Eliza, and bury her amongst people that would not comprehend her; no! I cannot be so selfish. Did I not refuse to take you with me, my dear sister, because I love you? and ought I not to let the same motive prevail against my wish for such a dear companion as Eliza? I must not think of it; I will act as becomes the pupil of her excellent father."

"Well, well, this is all very fine," said my elder sister; "but I think, before you make rash resolutions, you had better come with us to the parsonage, and see how you feel about it in Eliza's company."

This remark set us all on foot; and it being now nearly sunset, we went forth to visit the dearest