were wrong for her to be happy alone in her by-gone world; an instant attempt to take up your modern subjects (and with no bad success, for she was intelligent, clear, and hopeful for the future, and had not in the least degree that bane of age, the spirit of a croaker.) But soon recurring with a gentle smile to the letter, the juvenile production of a friend since become eminent in the literary world; or, it might be, to some little treasured fact she had only then been enabled to authenticate. Such are my reminiscences of the beloved old lady whom it was my happiness and pride to call Aunt.

However, her taste I have not imbibed. On the contrary, I am a ruthless destroyer of letters; and I suppose it was the observation of this propensity in me which made my dear aunt often glance towards me with somewhat of a suspicious look, as she read aloud a passage or two from the yellow legends; and more than once she even intimated her suppositions that I should burn all her hoards when she was gone. Good, excellent soul! nothing surely ever smote my heart more painfully than the realization of her suspicions when it came. But what could I do? I had no home of my own-no place of extensive capabilities, where, for another century, the dear documents might have mouldered on; and how could I tell into what hands they might fall? This last consideration decided me; and I offered them up, whole and entire, I am not ashamed to say, not without many tears, to the all-devouring flames. Most surely the pain I then felt, the tender grief at destroying what was most precious to one so beloved, has only strengthened me in my antipathy to the habit of preserving such relics.

There are those who will say, with somewhat of a sneer, that the documents themselves are now little worth preserving. True enough. The world has seen the last of what were called 'good letters.' We have rapid, spirited notes, worthy of this fast-living age, but we shall have no

more deliberate folios and quartos-no treasured, dearlypurchased, carefully written, carefully read, budgets of news, or repositories of sentiments.

What has been written above is introductory to the production of a few selections from the letters of two little girls, respecting whom I have not much to say. Their characters I believe it will be best to gather from the letters themselves. Lucy and Fanny are not rare specimens of young life.

I do not mean to hoard their letters, but I do not burn them. I have permission to print them, as giving indirect portraits of two children of not uncommon characters. I believe the study of such characters is never worthless.

FANNY'S LEtter.

'Dearest Mamma,

Beckham, July 10th.

'As you said you wished me to write to you very soon, I will try to do so. I have not very much to say about the journey, or about being here yet. I liked the railway, the carriage was so nice and comfortable, and we went along at such a rate. But when we came to the station, there was Cousin Henry, as you said, Mamma, but he was in rather an odd sort of cart with only two wheels, and a great big heavy horse to drag it, as large as the brewers' horses. And it was not very comfortable, for the sun shone very bright, and there was no shade, and I am sadly afraid my new bonnet ribbon is faded. And then the sun was very teas. ing to my eyes. The country is bare, and rather ugly. Cousin Henry called it eight miles, but really I think it must be twelve.

Though the horse was so large and heavy, he was not the quieter for that. He stumbled now and then, and I really thought he was going to tumble down. I was frightened, for only think, Mamma, if he had fallen, we must have been all thrown out, and there was a deep ditch or one side full of water; and even if we had not fallen in there, we might have been thrown into the road, and perhaps that great horse would have rolled over us. I could not help crying a little, but Cousin Henry only laughed. Afterwards, a fly, I do believe it was a wasp, stung the horse, and he set off in such a queer canter, shaking the gig. Lucy and Henry

laughed, but it was not nice, was it, Mamma? Still, I should like, too, to feel as happy as Lucy. She never seems frightened, or tired, or vexed at anything. I am sure I wish things never made me uncomfortable. I suppose I must try and bear them better. I was trying; but all the time Lucy and Cousin Henry were talking about some old monks, the horse was going his own way, and really, I don't think Cousin Henry knew how frightful it was. And then it was rather too bad in them to laugh at me.

*At last it rained quite hard. I saw it coming a long time before —a heavy black cloud driven directly towards us; but it was not till I felt two or three big drops on my face that Cousin Henry said he must put up the umbrella; and he gave each of us a hood and a cloak, and made us look such funny figures. I think he took good care of us then, and we rode snugly under the umbrella till we got near Beckham, and then a gate was opened, and we drove up to the door, and then Uncle, and Aunt, and Eliza, came to help us out. How very loud Uncle talks! He quite frightened me at first. And when he saw that, he looked at me, and said I was a poor spirited thing. But Aunt Mary was very kind. She spoke so gently to me; and I think she will let me keep by her side all the time I am here; for I hope, dear Mamma, you do not want us to stay longer than a very little while. I do not think I shall be happy. It is so range. And then I am afraid I shall forget my music, for there izo piano here. I cannot see any books hardly. What are we to do on rainy days? Cousin Eliza is kind, but she half lives in the kitchen and garden; and she gathers and shells the peas and beans for dinner, and all the fruit. She is as brown as a berry; no wotler, for she has so much to do in the sun. I am sure my head would ache if I did half as much. Will you tell me, Mamma, whether you like me to gather the things, or whether you don't think it would make my head ache?

'Give my love to Papa.

'Your affectionate Daughter,

'FANNY.'

LUCY'S LETTER.

Beckham, July 10th.

'Dear Mamma,

'You said you should like Fanny and me each to write you letter telling about our journey. Oh! there is so much to tell! Ireally don't know that I can get it into one letter. First there Was the railway. That was very pleasant, though it was a little

tormenting too. I felt such a wish to stop and look at some of those pretty churches, and beautiful parks and woods. It is rather tiresome only to wait a minute or two at a bustling railway station. Don't you remember, "Mammy dear," (you know I must say that sometimes,) that pretty little roadside inn at Belford, where we slept one night when we were going to Bath? I was a small dot of a thing, then; but, Mammy, don't think I shall ever forget the bowling-green and the arbour, which the maid called harbour, and the spreading elm, with the seat under it. Well, this does not tell you about my journey in this present summer of 1847, when your little Lucy is become a great big girl, "And little Lucy must be called no more."

'When Fanny and I got to the station, we found it was just as you told us it would be. Cousin Henry was there with the gig waiting for us. He is so good-natured; he had brought all sorts of funny cloaks and hoods with him, in case it should rain. It was a treat to get into the open gig, and be able to look right and left and all about us, after being boxed up in the railway carriage. We had a beautiful drive, eight miles, Cousin Henry says; but really, I could not think it more than six. A great part of the way, you know, dear Mamma, is wide, open heath. Not like the Sussex Downs, no, hardly so pretty as they are, but it is not all flat. There are many hollows, and the furze-bushes are beautiful, and there is one place where the turnpike road cuts a gentleman's park in two, and on either side are the largest thorns, full of pink blossoms. When we were jogging along on the bare heath without any hedges, I was most amused with the larks. They were springing up from the ground and singing overhead, such a cheering song! It seemed as if they had the whole sky to themselves. Then the plovers came out from the furze-bushes. And by-and-by we went over a rabbit warren, and I do believe we saw hundreds of rabbits. Fanny liked them very much. When we had reached the highest part of the heath, Cousin Henry stopped the fat horse for a minute, and asked me if I saw anything particular at a distance. I looked towards the spot to which he pointed; and there, a very long way off, was something that looked like two or three churches in one, with very irregular towers. There was very low ground between us and it, but the building stood high. I dare say you know, Mamma, what it was. Only think of it being Ely Minster! It almost took away my breath. So that low ground was what used to be covered with water, and it helped to form the Isle of Ely. And so, really, we were looking down upon the "Camp of Refuge," where Here

ward, the brave Saxon, held out so long! Cousin Henry says that the whole of that wide fen country we saw below us was the tract formerly called Hoiland. There, you know, Mamma, the salt water came, and the waves dashed against several islands besides Ely; and there, long, long ago, lived the Queen and Abbess Ethelfleda. What an old time that was! Cousin Henry says it was in the year of our Lord 670 that the abbey was founded, and the great charch was built by St. Wilfred, Bishop of York. Cousin Henry says he was the bishop who brought over from Rome painted glass, and masons, and artificers. Cousin Henry knows the whole story as well as if he had lived at the time, almost, and told me about the unbelieving Danes coming, in the year 870, and murdering the meaks and nuns, and almost destroying the abbey. But then, a haired years afterwards, came a good king, and a bishop, who built it up again much handsomer than before. And Cousin Henry says the most wonderful part is, that the church was built of great masses of stone, such as are not to be found anywhere near, and all must have been brought in blocks by sea, some of thein from the Island of Purbeck. And there was a high tower and a steeple, which served as a landmark through the whole fen country. It must be a very large cathedral, for we could see it plainly at a distance of twenty-two miles.

Well, dear Mamma, we were going on gently all this time, every ww and then looking at the noble old minster, and thinking fine

about it; but when we came within two miles of Beckham, the coatry was different to that we had passed through. Now it was all inclosed. It was flat, but cultivated as neatly as a garden. The even rows of wheat were waving backwards and forwards. Cousin Heary pointed to them, and quoted a line of poetry,

"And yellow harvests wave their golden grain."

Soon, very soon, he says, it will be quite ripe enough to cut, and "then, Cesin Lucy," he said, "you will see something of country business." We passed one or two handsome churches built with flint stones; and pretty parsonages; and gardens, gay with pinks and roses. And once we had to cross a village green, half covered with Fess and sheep. All the cross-roads which went over the green had a gate to them, that the sheep and cattle might not stray; and Con Heary threw a penny to a child who ran a long way to open the gate for us. Just then a shower of rain came on, and Henry made us put on cloaks and hoods, and held the large umbrella over

He said it was too heavy for us to hold, but he gave me the whip into my own hand, because he had the reins too to take care