to be called plain-looking, and to walk the streets with a

rustic gait.

Jesse continued a good and gentle boy, and on his sunny head a bright hope rested. Walter had lost not a cluster of that shining hair, nor a charm from his face, nor a dimple from chin or hand, in those innocent years, while his milk-white neck was soft and rosy as ever for a full taste of kisses. Walter was the little darling of the household. Walter was the pet and plaything of the neighborhood. Half a dozen little girls usually contended for his hand to lead him home from school. The milkman had him often on his cart, driving his horse, like a lordly coachman; or away on his farm, feeding cows or finding hens' nests. Horses and wagons enough were presented him to have furnished a royal stable in Lilliput. Old redshirted fishermen liked to take him out beyond Baker's Island to see the sun rise from the ocean, and fish for cod and haddock. The shop-keepers bantered him, and filled his pockets with nuts and cakes. And Aunt Bessie Plympton, a colored maiden, who lived alone in the court, declared, while mose all ye boys was little sassy snipes, Waltie Winthrop was a sweet purty picter of a boy as ever her eyes did see," and Walter began to show that he was flattered by all these notices and praises.

But who could help noticing the cunning little elf? Who could help showing and looking praise, if they did not speak it? Praise, too, that would set that rosy face dimpling with smiles of triumph, and light up those roguish eyes with boastful flashes. My mother made constant exertions to silence the flatteries of friends, and

conceal her own pride, and yet the boy would find out by the twinkle of her eye, in the sternest mood-by her face, long as she might draw it, by the tone of her voice and touch of her hand, that he was her favorite, and he would grow vain in spite of her. But that vanity was only another charm in the eyes of many people.

In these circumstances, in this dusky old house, we lived, and counted the months that would soon bring around the time for father to come home; when one evening, as we were starting for a walk by the water, a sailor ran into the court and gave my mother a letter. He had just stepped from a vessel that had met with the Helen Doyle and exchanged despatches a few months before, and brought letters to friends in Salem. Mother knew by the superscription that the letter was from father, and forgetting to thank the bearer, or invite him in, she flew to her chamber, and by the light of the setting sun devoured its welcome words. Father had not seen an hour's illness since he left Salem. All of his crew were well and in the best of spirits. Good fortune had guarded the ship, and guided their harpoons as they lay in a teeming fishery. They had already two-thirds of a cargo, and with a mighty sperm whale along side, and ten men bailing and barreling the clearest oil, what could he write but happy news? And why could he not make up a cargo and see Salem again in less than a year after the letter might reach us? He sent a sailor's love to mother, and bade her take comfort, live well, and make the children happy, denying little Walter nothing that he might wish; and he would bring a heart full of love and

a barrel full of oranges to us when he came home. He directed her to call on his agent, Mr. Ezra Coleman, for any funds she might desire, and hoped he would make enough, beside what was left in that person's hands, to procure the Derby-street home, of which they had enjoyed so many sweet anticipations. He warned the children— "little double-chinned, white-throated Walter" in particular-these are his words" to stand-to for a regular storm of kisses when he came."

That unexpected news was almost too much for my poor mother. In a paroxysm of joy she crumpled the letter to a wad on her bosom, and soaked it with her tears. The full moon rose, and after getting Walter to sleep, she took me and Jesse by the hand, and enjoyed her walk by the water. It was an evening I shall always remember. The very waves seemed to congratulate us with sympathetic murmurs, and the moon and stars looked glad on our account. We did not return until nine, and nearly all that night we were kept awake by a joy that was more refreshing than slumber. Mother and I talked of the new home, and concluded, if father preferred Derby-street to Wenham or Lynn, we would gladly favor his wishes. But the house should be a cottage of the Gothic style; my own room, in one wing, should be hung with landscape paper, and the little attic chamber over the porch, for Walter, should be as pleasant as it could be made. Our mosses, shells, foreign birds and curiosities, should all be arranged in father's room, to remind him of his voyages, and every thing we could work to adorn its furniture should be done.

came.

The time would not be long before we should see him ; he would return in the loveliest season of the year, and we resolved to enjoy ourselves as best we could until he We would not go back to a larger tenement; we would buy nothing better to eat or wear than we had bought; we would not draw on Mr. Coleman at all for money, and no less work should be done in our Becket chamber; but we would enjoy ourselves now more than ever, thinking of what was written in the letter, and of the love and good fortune my father would bring.

IV.

ONE morning, very early, we had risen to talk of all that happiness, when a neighbor knocked at our chamber door. My mother turned pale at first, and I threw up my hands with alarm, for the knocking was unusual, and seemed a startling omen of some great sorrow. But we soon knew our visitor, and were assured, by his presence, that he had come on a kindly errand. It was Hannah Buxton's father. As the reader must already have supposed, he was a member of the Society of Friends. He descended from the family of Buxtons who emigrated from England on the early settlement of Salem; and he maintained a zeal which would have made him a martyr two hundred years ago.

Nathan Buxton was about fifty-five years old. He was a straight, round, noble-looking man, with a rare force and vivacity of both outward and inward life. His head had the mould of more than common character. It evinced great firmness; it showed aggressive and even destructive energy; but it was amply rounded over the forehead; while a stranger judged at a glance that his soul was mistress of his senses, and had changed all his passions to principles of Christian life. He had deep and acute perceptions; his Roman nose, and fine mouth and.