of grace with you, that you are blinded, sorely blinded; and henceforth you will feel it to be duty to leave the girl to my appointed ministry." "Never, never,” replied Susan, firmly : "she has been unkindly dealt with already-nature and grace both speak for the child, Reuben-both tell me that she needs more gentle usage.' and “But, woman, I have the gift.” "I have a gift also, Reuben; sooner shall you have my heart's blood, than I will trust this girl with you again; ye need not lift your voice in the congregation; ye need not whisper among the brethren. Remember I am your elder; I fear you not, Reuben; I suspect you." The determined look with which Susan accompanied her words, quelled Harrington's spirit: he dared not attempt a reply, and smothering an imprecation, he departed to digest, as he best could, his rage and mortification. Susan did not think it expedient to make any farther direct disclosure to Emily of her suspicions of Harrington, but she cautiously questioned and crossquestioned her. Emily, confounded by Reuben's subtlety, and feeble and exhausted, could not remember that he had said to her any more or other, than he had repeated to the elder sister. Notwithstanding the agreement of the simple girl's testimony with Reuben's story, Susan was too sagacious to be deceived by the interpretation the crafty brother had put upon the language he had held to her, and having for a long time felt a growing dislike and distrust of him, she was not convinced that she had been mistaken in her conclusions; and she remained quite satisfied that she had done right in refusing him any farther communication with Emily. Emily's melancholy became every day deeper and more fixed, and Susan began to fear the total annihilation of her mind. She imposed no restraint on her, but per mitted her to walk when she chose; to remain secluded from observation in her own room, and sometimes to lie all day on the bed in a state of listlessness and vacuity, in which she appeared scarcely conscious of her existence. CHAPTER XVI. "Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling, smooth! Is there no pity, no relenting ruth?" Burns. EMILY was one day sitting by her window, when she saw a party of travellers from Lebanon springs stop at their gate. It suddenly occurred to her that she of some one agency might, through the of the party, get a letter conveyed to her friends. The thought that this might be the first step towards leaving the society, flitted across her mind, but without forming any distinct purpose, she hastily penned the letter, which was the occasion of Ellen's abrupt departure from She then stationed herself at a Eton. door that opened into one of the passages through which the visitors were to pass; and arresting the attention of a romantic young lady who was in the rear of the throng, she slipped the letter into her hand, unobserved by any one, and entreating her to convey it safely to some post-office, she disappeared, leaving her confidant quite elated with the trust which had been confided to her by the pale interesting little shaker, and which she discharged, as has been seen, with laudable fidelity. Activity is as necessary to the health of the mind, as exercise to that of the body. Emily derived more benefit from the effort she had made in writing and despatching her letter than she had felt from the combined skill, moral and medical, of the whole fraternity. For a few days her heart was cheered, and her countenance brightened. She had no settled purpose of leaving the society: she still believed it her duty to remain |