"Poor things," said Mrs. Maclean the next morning at the breakfast table, when she saw Ellen's eyes fill with tears at some mention of her Uncle Villars, "Poor things! it is no wonder you feel bad to part with such a good friend; but you must cheer up, he will soon be back again; and now I will tell you what—instead of setting down to mope in your room to-day we will just make a holiday of it. I will put my ironing off for once, and we will borrow Deacon Foster's horse and shay—the shay will carry us all three easy enough—and I will drive you out to my brother-in-law's farm. Were you ever there?"

"No—never."

"Well—I can tell you there ain't many such farms as Tom Maclean's, and you'll get some of the finest peaches there that you've seen this year. So now I'll go for the horse and shay, and you can put these cups and saucers in the cupboard for me, and get your bonnets on by the time I come for you."

Ellen's face brightened with the anticipated delights of the day—a ride of three miles, and then the privilege of sauntering at will through gardens and orchards, of a sunny day in October—who can wonder at her enjoyment of the thought? Even Mary felt that she might take a holiday "for once," as Mrs. Maclean said, without being a butterfly. So the cups were soon put away, and the bonnets tied on, and soon came Deacon Foster's horse and shay, and Mrs. Maclean driving. Mary and Ellen jumped in, and found, as Mrs. Maclean had told them there would be, plenty of room; and Mrs. Maclean cheruped to the horse, and away they went—not very fast, yet fast enough to get over the three miles in much less time than Mary and Ellen wished. And yet they could scarcely be sorry when they reached the low, but large stone farmhouse, with its field of clover on one side, in which three or four cows were grazing, and its orchard on the other, where among pear and apple trees they could catch glimpses of the red and yellow peaches which Mrs. Maclean had praised so highly. And Mrs. Tom Maclean, and Susy and Martha Maclean, came to welcome them with such pleasant looks and words, that nothing seemed wanting to their gratification. All the morning they walked about with Susy and Martha for their guides—had fruit from the orchard, milk from the dairy, and more flowers from the garden than they could carry home. When called in to dinner they found Mr. Maclean there. He too received them very kindly, and talked of their Uncle Villars, regretting that he had met with any troubles, as he heard he had, and that he should have been obliged to leave his own pleasant home.

"Mrs. Merrill seems almost broken down about it," continued Mr. Maclean; "and she teld me that you was agoing to keep a school for young children: now I'm a thinking of sending our Susy and Martha to you for a while. A little more schooling won't do 'em any harm, and they can go in with the market-cart every morning, and come back home in it when market is over. You can help them, I dare say, and then what they pay will help you—and that's what I call right."

Mary thanked Mr. Maclean, and said she would do her best to "help" his daughters, who smiled at each other, and looked much pleased with the arrangement.

"Well now," said Mr. Maclean, "I should like to know what you're going to charge?"

To this Mary could only answer, whatever he thought right.

"That won't do—that won't do," said Mr. Maclean; "you sell the schooling, and I buy it: it is the one that sells that always ought to fix the price."

"Tom, how you talk," said his wife; "you might as well tell a baby about fixing prices, I dare say. Don't you know what you've paid before for schooling?"

"Yes, I paid a dollar a month apiece; but that wouldn't be fair now—for then they went to a man, and only learnt books; but I guess now they'll find out how to be handy with the needle too, and that's worth as much as book learning to a woman—so I think double the old price would be fair now. I'll tell you what, miss," he added, turning to Mary, "to encourage you, I'll make it a dollar a week for the two, and I'll send it in to you every Saturday; how will that do?"

Mary thought it would do very well. Knowing nothing of the labor of teaching, and as little of the value of money, she thought a dollar a week a great sum to be given her. It was really a generous offer in Mr. Maclean, who, being uneducated himself, could not estimate very truly the value of her services in educating his daughters, and who knew, besides, that he could have them taught at some common day-schools for less.

The happiest day must have an end, and the western sky was still bright with the sun's last beams, when Mary and Ellen alighted at their own door, leaving Mrs. Maclean to drive home the borrowed chaise.

The next morning Mary awoke very early—much earlier than usual, and try as much as she would, she could not sleep again. I have told you that even in her early childhood Mary had been thoughtful, but now you must remember she was over fifteen years old, and had already experienced such changes as might have made a person of much gayer temper grave. But not even these changes had tended to sadden Mary so much as Ellen's waywardness had done. The charge which she had received from her dying mother Mary never had forgotten, and it had been recently and forcibly repeated by her father. Though Mr. Leslie did not know himself the extent of those losses through which his children had been left so very destitute, he knew enough to make him suffer much anxiety about them in his last illness. Especially had he feared for Ellen,—so young, so thoughtless, and so arrogant in temper. To Mary, who was ever at his side, and who showed so much of a woman's care and thoughtfulness that he often forgot she was but a child, these anxious feelings were expressed; and again did she promise to her father, as under like circumstances she had done to her mother, that she would never part from Ellen—that she would love her—and bear with her—take care of her, and if it were necessary, work for her support, even as her mother would have done had she lived. And faithfully did Mary fulfil her promise of loving Ellen and bearing with her, and pleasant did she feel it would be to take care of her, and even to labor for her. And Ellen loved her sister Mary too, and for her sake would have done almost any thing except control her temper, or restrain the expression of any angry or dissatisfied feeling. But it was just this temper and these feelings which gave Mary most pain, and were likely to make her task most difficult. In all which these sisters had to do, they must depend greatly on the kindness and good-will of others. Mary knew this, and she knew too that kindness and good-will were not to be gained by a display of passionate, wilful tempers. Especially did Mary dread any thing of this kind in the school they were about to begin, and her morning thoughts—the thoughts which would not let her sleep again when once she had awoke—were all of how she might most gently, and with the least danger of displeasing Ellen, impress upon her how much patience and self-control would be needed in teaching a set of rude, ignorant children. Before she had come to any decision on this important point, Ellen awoke, and with more animation than she usually evinced at such an early hour, exclaimed, "Why, Mary, not up yet—and our school to begin to-day!"

"But not for three hours yet, Ellen—it is only six o'clock."

"But I thought you were always up at half-past five."

"So I am; but I have been thinking so much about this school this morning that I have forgotten every thing else."

"What about it, Mary—about what you should teach?"

"No, Ellen—not just that; but I have been thinking how unpleasant and difficult it will be."

"Do you think so? I think I shall like it."

"So should I, Ellen, if I were sure that the children would all be smart, and pleasant tempered; but it must be very hard to teach dull children; and if they are obstinate and ill-tempered we shall be so apt to become impatient with them, and then, you know, all comfort will be at an end."

"But I don't see why you should think they will be dull; I am sure Susy and Martha Maclean seemed to be very pleasant children."

"So they did, but there are four other children, you know, whom Mrs. Maclean has engaged for us, and of whom we know nothing."

"Well, I dare say they are clever children. For my part I don't think children are ever ill-tempered unless people are cross to them, and if you are afraid that I shall be cross to your scholars, Mary—"

Mary interrupted Ellen's hasty speech, saying in a gentle tone, "I am afraid, dear Ellen, that our scholars will often tire us and try our patience very much; but Uncle Villars says that whatever we do, we should do cheerfully, so I will not talk of my fears any more."