self freely; but I never meant, I am sure 1 never should mean, anything more than a sister might say."

"And are you sure you never could, if all my happiness depended on it, Mary?"

She turned and looked up in his face, and saw a look that brought conviction. She rose to go on, and her hand was taken and drawn into the arm of her cousin, and that was the end of the first and the last difficulty that ever arose between them.

UNCLE TIM.

AND SO I am to write a story-but of what and where? Shall it be radiant with the sky of Italy, or eloquent with the beau ideal of Greece? Shall it breathe odour and languor from the orient, or chivalry from the occident? or gayety from France, or vigour from England? No, no: these are all too old-too romance like-too obviously picturesque for me. No let me turn to my own land—my own New-England; the land of bright fires and strong hearts; the land of deeds and not of words; the land of fruits and not of flowers; the land often spoken against, yet always respected; "the latchet of whose shoes the nations of the earth are not worthy to unloose."

Now, from this very heroic apostrophe, you may suppose that I have something very heroic to tell. By no means. It is merely a little introductory breeze of patriotism, such as occasionally brushes over every mind, bearing on its wings the remem. brance of all we ever loved or cherished in the land of our early years; and if it should seem to be rhodomontade to any people on the other side of the

mountains, let them only imagine it to be said about "Old Kentuck," or any other corner of the world in which they happened to be born, and they will find it quite rational.

But, as touching our story, it is time to begin. Did you ever see the little village of Newbury, in New-England? I dare say you never did; for it was just one of those out-of-the-way places where nobody ever came unless they came on purpose: a green little hollow, wedged like a bird's nest be. tween half a dozen high hills, that kept off the wind and kept out foreigners; so that the little place was as straitly "sui generis" as if there were not another in the world. The inhabitants were all of that respectable old standfast family who make it a point to be born, bred, married, die, and be buried all in the selfsame spot. There were just so many houses, and just so many people lived in them; and nobody ever seemed to be sick, or to die either-at least while I was there. The natives grew old till they could not grow any older, and then they stood still, and lasted from generation to generation. There was, too, an unchangeability about all the externals of Newbury. Here was a red house, and there was a brown house, and across the way was a yellow house; and there was a straggling rail fence or a tribe of mullen stalks between. The parson lived here, and Squire

Moses lived there, and Deacon Hart lived under the hill, and Messrs. Nadab and Abihu Peters lived by the crossroad, and the old "widder" Smith lived by the meeting-house, and Ebenezer Camp kept a shoemaker's shop on one side, and Patience Mosely kept a milliner's shop in front; and there was old Comfort Scran, who kept store for the whole town, and sold axe-heads, brass thimbles, liquorice ball, fancy handkerchiefs, and everything else you can think of. Here, too, was the general postoffice, where you might see letters marvellously folded, directed wrong side upward, stamped with a thimble, and superscribed to some of the Dollys, or Pollys, or Peters, or Moseses aforenamed or not named.

For the rest, as to manners, morals, arts, and sciences, the people in Newbury always went to their parties at three o'clock in the afternoon, and came home before dark; always stopped all work the minute the sun was down on Saturday night; - always went to meeting on Sunday, had a school. house with all the ordinary inconveniences; were in neighbourly charity with each other; read their Bibles, feared their God, and were content with such things as they had-the best philosophy, after all. Such was the place into which Master James Benton made an irruption in the year eighteen hundred and no matter what. Now this James is

to be our hero, and he is just the hero for a sensation at least so you would have thought, if you had been in Newbury the week after his arrival. Master James was one of those whole-hearted, energetic Yankees, who rise in the world as naturally as cork does in water. He possessed a great share of that characteristic national trait so happily denominated "cuteness," which signifies an ability to do everything without trying, and to know ev. erything without learning, and to make more use of one's ignorance than other people do of their knowledge. This quality in James was mingled with an elasticity of animal spirits, a buoyant cheerfulness of mind, which, though found in the New-England character perhaps as often as any. where else, is not ordinarily regarded as one of its distinguishing traits.

As to the personal appearance of our hero, we have not much to say of it-not half so much as the girls in Newbury found it necessary to remark, the first Sabbath that he shone out in the meeting. house. There was a saucy frankness of counte. nance, a knowing roguery of eye, a joviality and prankishness of demeanour, that was wonderfully captivating, especially to the ladies.

It is true that Master James had an uncommon. ly comfortable opinion of himself, a full faith that there was nothing in creation that he could not