selected at Nisbett's a set of books, suited to my purpose, and I have marked passages in many other books; on these she is to meditate a time beyond her usual exercises of the same nature; and in order to affect this, during the three months, she is to be down stairs every morning a quarter of an hour later than her sisters; also, she is to sit up the same space longer; so that I do trust this most unhappy circumstance will be turned for good to her, and may be the means of bringing her to greater seriousness, than had things gone on in their usual course. I ought to say that the sight of your young people seemed to affect her afterwards greatly, which I thought a good sign. Fanny was very much displeased at first; much more so than I at all expected,-I suppose her new friendship had something to do with it. She has however written to her friend, and is now more reconciled. Charlotte, you know, is of a less sensitive temper than the rest, and she has taken it wonderfully coolly. It has distressed me a good deal; for, though young of her age, she must know enough to be shocked at a thing of this nature; and she must see the trouble it has occasioned us all. However, at first she could hardly be made to comprehend it; and when she did, she made no remark at all; nor has she since; nor has she noticed it in her diary; she goes on exactly as usual, apparently more diligent than ever at her studies; since the rest of us have been much disturbed by the excitement that has prevailed. She had however a cold, which settled in her eyes, and this may partly account for what appeared apathetic in her,-poor dear child! but she has never shown the acute feelings of her sisters. Campbell, you know, went to school before the disclosure, and it is thought best not to mention it to him. Constance alone, of our sorrowful group, remains to be noticed.—I reserve her with pleasure to the last, for she certainly is a remarkable girl of her age, and quite a pattern to us all, under any circumstances. Her notices of her sister's unhappy fall, in her diary, are truly edifying, and are worthy a more public view;-but she has her reward. Yet though she feels so deeply her sister's degradation, not a taunt, not a word of reproach, has ever escaped her lips! Those who know her manner, as I do, can see it is constantly in her mind, and a sigh unbidden will sometimes arise; but the only allusion she has made to it was this morning, in their Scripture Reali

zation lesson, which they all take together. I had selected the denial of Peter, and she had prepared a few remarks, very striking and touching: I think they must have had their effect on her sister. I know, my dear madam, I need not apologize for the length of a letter upon a subject so interesting to you; I shall however add nothing extraneous, begging to subscribe myself,

Feb. 9.

Your respectful and faithful servant,
M. A. NEWMARSH.

P. S. Dear Mrs. Newton Grey has been paying us a visit of condolence. She says she knows how to sympathize with us, having so recently suffered with her boy; but she has good hope of his repentance being sincere, and his promises of amendment lasting. She says he was very open about his fault, and that she had every reason to be satisfied with his conduct. I do, however, still wish she would send him, till he goes to college, to Dr. Barker's.

This mention of Mrs. Newton Grey and her son, reminds us that we have to explain not inserting the interview that took place, after that lady had discovered the worst part of her son's conduct. It was of the same character as the former one; but so much more painful, that we willingly spare the reader a sight of it. He professed great frankness and great sorrow, with good resolutions for the future; but we think we may conclude he could not be properly sincere, when the very next day he continued in his old course again. The fact was, he hardly seemed to care about any thing, so that his mother did not hear of his bad ways, and talk to him about them. We hope there are not many such sons; but we fear many youths have something of a tendency to such principles and feelings. Many certainly act very differently and speak very differently, before their parents' faces, and behind their backs. Some do this avowedly, to their companions, and some scarcely acknowledge that they do so, even to their own selves; but in both cases it is done; and the youth does not remember he is injuring himself, far more, even, than he is deceiving his parents.

If this account of Newton Grey should meet the eye of any son, who, through weakness, or fear, or any other cause, is conscious of such a tendency, we trust he will be startled by the wickedness of that youth's conduct; and especially

observe the pain and anxiety of his mother, when she thinks he has erred in the least. Many a sleepless night did she pass, and many tears did she shed, when such things came before her; as, in spite of all his craft, they would do occasionally. He could, it is true, satisfy her and give her hope, by fair words and religious sayings; but some day, even in this world, the truth was likely to come upon her; and most certainly some day the consequences of his undutifulness and evil doings would come upon him. Mrs. Newton Grey was a woman of much religion; and that is the only comfort we can look forward to for her, under the weight of affliction that seems likely some day to fall on her head. We will now turn away from this painful subject.

EMILY sent a letter to Grace, through her mamma; it was written from school, and enclosed in a letter home.

My dear Grace,

Richmond, Feb. 10.

I am writing a note for you to go on Monday, as I think you will like to hear a little of our visit to the Duffs, and Ellen does not know as much of all that has passed, as I do. I told you I should speak to Mary Anne of her behaviour, and so I did. I told her she ought to be ashamed of herself for telling such a story. She asked me what story? and persisted that she had told no more a story than you and when I came to think over it, I could not remember that she had actually told a falsehood in word, though it was just the same. She said if the people chose to crown her Queen, she could not help it; and it was altogether nonsense, and a thing that none but worldly people would care about; and that nobody but Grace Leslie, who was so grand and sly, would have made such a fuss about. This made me very angry, and I should have had a grand battle with her, and told her what a mean thing we all thought her, and every body else,-only, before I had time, George took her

up, and said the same, only much better than I could. He said, "I'll tell you what, Mary Anne, the short and the long of the matter is, that you have disgraced yourself abominably, and that if you were a boy, we should hoot you out of the room; but that being the girl you are, you have no sense of shame, and so are able to look at us all as you do. And as for Grace Leslie, her name should have stuck in your throat and choked you, before you dared to speak of her as you have she is a great deal too good for you to have any thing to do with, and you would not have dared to find fault with her, if she had treated you as you deserve, and had not been so kind." Mary Anne here interrupted him, and said she was sure Grace had not been very kind to her, for it was all Grace's fault from beginning to end; for she had made every body believe that herself—that is, Mary Anne-was the inventor of the Fairy Bower. George went on rather more provoked, for he had been quite cool before, "Mary Anne, I wish you were a boy, that you might be punished, for it is no use talking to you; and I will only say, that I here declare, I will not again call you 'my pretty cousin,' or any thing of that sort, till you become a little more like Grace Leslie, both in goodness and prettiness; for I think her the best and the prettiest little girl that I have ever seen.” Mary Anne had kept in her vexation, till this, but now could do so no more; she burst out crying, and said we were all very unkind to her; but it was all Grace Leslie's fault, and that George had never been the same to her since Grace came into the house, and that she wished she had never seen or heard of Grace Leslie, and a great deal more. Here Constance came forward, and took her sister's part, who continued sobbing: she said, that certainly if Grace had been straightforward, all that had happened would never have been. She then turned upon me, and said I had no right to find fault with Mary Anne; for that, as Mary Anne said, I was as bad myself. (She had said so before, and called me worldly.) I believe you will agree with all Constance said here, so I shall leave Ellen to tell you. I told Mary Anne what papa said of her behaviour, but this was before George spoke. I should not have said as much as I did, (to please you, rather than myself,) only I found she was not punished at all, and all but Fanny behave to her as if she had been very good, instead of very bad; at least they treat her as if

she was ill, or had some great trouble. This is very different from the way we are served at school, when we have been naughty; though no girl has been as bad as Mary Anne, since I have been there. Fanny does not fall into the same way, though; she is sharp, and says just what she pleases. She is very proud of her visit in Grosvenor Square, and is always talking of Lord Minorie, &c. &c. They fell out just after we came in. Fanny reproached Mary Anne for breaking off her intimacy with Isabella; and the other answered, that she, of all people, had least to complain of; since Fanny had to thank her for going there at all; and that if Isabella gave her up so easily, it showed that Fanny was not so charming to Isabella as she imagined; and much more of the same sort, which I know you do not like to hear; indeed I am afraid I have told you too much already, and that you will be angry with me. You see I do not forget you yet. I shall think of Ellen going to you on Monday: I should like to be going too,—and it makes school less pleas ant even than usual. But did you hear what your mamma said to me about some other holidays? I thought it so very kind of her, for I happened to be feeling very dull in saying good-bye to you, and hearing Ellen's visit planned. I never observed your mamma was so kind before; but now, member, she is so very often. Ellen will tell you how strange it was about little Emma and nurse Brown. I never wrote such an odd and such a dull letter in my life, and on two little scraps of paper! I had no idea I had so much to say when I began. Now, good-bye.

Believe me, my dear Grace,

I re

Your affectionate

EMILY WARD.

George wished to have his love sent you, and that you should be told that he had made an epigram on Mrs. Mason. He says it is very good, but it is half Latin.

Ellen explained Emily's allusions thus: she said Mary Anne was very much vexed at Emily's rebuking her, and said that she was not fit to do so, since Emily was a great deal worse than she was in some respects; and she called Emily worldly, and alluded to the fault they were all talk. ing of the day of the party. Emily made no answer to this;