As the door closed, little Em'ly looked at us three in a hurried manner, and then hid her face in her hands and fell to sobbing.

"Doen't, Em❜ly," said Ham, tapping her gently on the shoulder. "Doen't, my dear! You doen't ought to cry so, pretty!" Oh, Ham!" she exclaimed, still weeping pitifully. "I am not as good a girl as I ought to be! I know I have not the thankful heart sometimes I ought to have!"

"Yes, yes, you have, I'm sure," said Ham.

“No! no! no!” cried little Em'ly, sobbing, and shaking her head. "I am not as good a girl as I ought to be! Not near! not near!"

And still she cried, as if her heart would break.

"I try your love too much, I know I do!" she sobbed. "I'm often cross to you, and changeable with you, when I ought to be far different. You are never so to me. to you, when I should think of nothing but and to make you happy!"

Why am I ever so

how to be grateful,

"My dear! I am

"You always make me so," said Ham. quite happy in the sight of you. I am happy all day long, in the thoughts of you."

"Ah! that's not enough!" she cried. "That is because you are good; not because I am! Oh, my dear, it might have been a better fortune for you, if you had been fond of some one else - of some one steadier and much worthier than me, who was all bound up in you, and never vain and changeable like me." "Poor little tender-heart," said Ham, in a low voice. "Martha has overset her altogether."

Please, aunt," sobbed Em'ly," come here, and let me lay my head upon you. Oh, I am very miserable to-night, aunt! Oh, I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. I am not, I know!"

Peggotty had hastened to the chair before the fire. Em❜ly, with her arms around her neck, kneeled by her, looking up most earnestly into her face.

"Oh, pray, aunt, try to help me! Ham, dear, try to help me! Mr. David, for the sake of old times, do, please, try to help me! I want to be a better girl than I am. I want to feel a hundred times more thankful than I do. I want to feel more, what a blessed thing it is to be the wife of a good man, and to lead a peaceful life. Oh, me! Oh, me! Oh, me! Oh, my heart, my heart!"

She dropped her face on my old nurse's breast, and, ceasing this supplication, which, in its agony and grief, was half a woman's, half a child's, as all her manner was (being, in that,

more natural, and better suited to her beauty, as I thought, than any other manner could have been), wept silently, while my old nurse hushed her like an infant.

She got calmer by degrees, and then we soothed her; now talking encouragingly, and now jesting a little with her, until she began to raise her head and speak to us. So we got on, until she was able to smile, and then to laugh, and then to sit up, half ashamed; while Peggotty recalled her stray ringlets, dried her eyes, and made her neat again, lest her uncle should wonder, when she got home, why his darling had been crying.

I saw her do that night, what I had never seen her do before. I saw her innocently kiss her chosen husband on the cheek, and creep close to his bluff form, as if it were her best support. When they went away together, in the waning moonlight, and I looked after them, comparing their departure in my mind with Martha's, I saw that she held his arm with both her hands, and still kept close to him.

A Loss.

(From "David Copperfield.”)

I GOT down to Yarmouth in the evening, and went to the inn. I knew that Peggotty's spare room my room was likely to have occupation enough in a little while if that great Visitor, before whose presence all the living must give place, were not already in the house; so I betook myself to the inn, and dined there, and engaged my bed.

It was ten o'clock when I went out. Many of the shops were shut, and the town was dull. When I came to Omer and Joram's I found the shutters up, but the shop-door standing open. As I could obtain a perspective view of Mr. Omer inside, smoking his pipe by the parlor-door, I entered and asked him how he was.

"Why, bless my life and soul !" said Mr. Omer, "how do you find yourself? Take a seat. Smoke not disagreeable, I hope?" "By no means," said I. "I like it in somebody else's pipe." "What, not in your own, eh?" Mr. Omer returned, laughing. "All the better, sir. Bad habit for a young man. Take a seat. I smoke, myself, for the asthma."

Mr. Omer had made room for me, and placed a chair. He now sat down again very much out of breath, gasping at his pipe as if it contained a supply of that necessary, without which he must perish.

"I am sorry to have heard bad news of Mr. Barkis,” said I. Mr. Omer looked at me with a steady countenance, and shook his head.

"Do you know how he is to-night?" I asked.

"The very question I should have put to you, sir," returned Mr. Omer, "but on account of delicacy. It's one of the drawbacks of our line of business. When a party 's ill we can't ask how the party is."

The difficulty had not occurred to me; though I had had my apprehensions too, when I went in, of hearing the old tune. On its being mentioned, I recognized it, however, and said as much. "Yes, yes, you understand," said Mr. Omer, nodding his head. "We dursn't do it. Bless you, it would be a shock that the generality of parties might n't recover, to say, 'Omer and Joram's compliments, and how do you find yourself this morning?' —or this afternoon as it may be."

Mr. Omer and I nodded at each other, and Mr. Omer recruited his wind by the aid of his pipe.

"It's one of the things that cut the trade off from attentions they could often wish to show," said Mr. Omer. "Take myself. If I have known Barkis a year, to move to as he went by, I have known him forty year. But I can't go and say, 'how is he?""

I felt it was rather hard on Mr. Omer, and I told him so. "I'm not more self-interested, I hope, than another man," said Mr. Omer. "Look at me. My wind may fail me at any moment, and it ain't likely that, to my own knowledge, I'd be self-interested under such circumstances. I say it ain't likely, in a man who knows his wind will go, when it does go, as if a pair of bellows was cut open; and that man a grandfather," said Mr. Omer.

I said, "Not at all."

"It ain't that I complain of my line of business," said Mr. Omer. "It ain't that. Some good and some bad goes, no doubt, to all callings. What I wish is, that parties was brought up stronger minded."

Mr. Omer, with a very complacent and amiable face, took several puffs in silence; and then said, resuming his first point: "Accordingly we're obleeged, in ascertaining how Barkis goes on, to limit ourselves to Em'ly. She knows what our real objects are, and she don't have any more alarms or suspicions about us than if we was so many lambs. Minnie and Joram have just stepped down to the house, in fact (she's there, after

hours, helping her aunt a bit), to ask her how he is to-night; and if you was to please to wait till they come back, they'd give you full partic❜lers. Will you take something? A glass of srub and water, now? I smoke on srub and water myself," said Mr. Omer, taking up his glass, "because it's considered softening to the passages, by which this troublesome breath of mine gets into action. But, Lord bless you," said Mr. Omer, huskily, "it ain't the passages that's out of order! Give me breath enough,' says I to my daughter Minnie,' and I'll find passages, my dear!"

He really had no breath to spare, and it was very alarming to see him laugh. When he was again in condition to be talked to, I thanked him for the proffered refreshment, which I declined, as I had just had dinner; and, observing that I would wait, since he was so good as to invite me, until his daughter and his son-in-law came back, I inquired how little Em'ly was?

"Well, sir," said Mr. Omer, removing his pipe, that he might rub his chin; "I tell you truly I shall be glad when her marriage has taken place."

"Why so?" I inquired.

"Well, she's unsettled at present," said Mr. Omer. "It ain't that she's not as pretty as ever, for she's prettier - I do assure you, she's prettier. It ain't that she don't work as well as ever, for she does. She was worth any six, and she is worth any six. But somehow she wants heart. If you understand," said Mr. Omer, after rubbing his chin again, and smoking a little, "what I mean in a general way by the expression, 'A long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together, my hearties, hurrah!' I should say to you, that that was in a general way what I miss in Em'ly."

Mr. Omer's face and manner went for so much, that I could conscientiously nod my head, as divining his meaning. My quickness of apprehension seemed to please him, and he went on:

"Now, I consider this is principally on account of her being in an unsettled state, you see. We have talked it over a good deal, her uncle and myself, and her sweetheart and myself, after business, and I consider it is principally on account of her being unsettled. You must always recollect of Em'ly," said Mr. Omer, shaking his head gently, "that she's a most extraordinary affectionate little thing. The proverb says, You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.' Well, I don't know about that. I rather think you may, if you begin early in life. She has made a home out of that old boat, sir, that stone and marble could n't beat."

VOL. VII. - 19

"I am sure she has!" said I.

"To see the clinging of that pretty little thing to her uncle," said Mr. Omer; "to see the way she holds on to him, tighter and tighter, and closer and closer, every day, is to see a sight. Now, you know, there's a struggle going on when that's the case. Why should it be made a longer one than is needful?"

I listened attentively to the good old fellow, and acquiesced with all my heart in what he said.

"Therefore, I mentioned to them," said Mr. Omer, in a comfortable, easy-going tone, "this, I said, 'Now, don't consider Em'ly nailed down in point of time at all. Make it your own time. Her services have been more valuable than was supposed; her learning has been quicker than was supposed; Omer and Joram can run their pen through what remains; and she's free when you wish. If she likes to make any little arrangement afterward in the way of doing any little thing for us at home, very well. If she don't, very well still. We're no losers, anyhow.' For- don't you see," said Mr. Omer, touching me with his pipe, "it ain't likely that a man so short of breath as myself, and a grandfather too, would go and strain points with a little bit of a blue-eyed blossom like her?"

"Not at all, I am certain," said I.

"Not at all! You're right!" said Mr. Omer. "Well, sir, her cousin - you know it's a cousin she's going to be married to?"

"Oh, yes," I replied. "I know him well."

"Of course you do," said Mr. Omer. "Well, sir! Her cousin being, as it appears, in good work, and well to do, thanked me in a very manly sort of manner for this (conducting himself altogether, I must say, in a way that gives me a high opinion of him), and went and took as comfortable a little house as you or I could wish to clap eyes on. That little house is now furnished right through as neat and complete as a doll's parlor, and but for Barkis's illness having taken this bad turn, poor fellow, they I would have been man and wife I dare say, by this time. it is, there's a postponement." "And Em'ly, Mr. Omer?" I inquired. "Has she become more settled?'

As

"Why that, you know," he returned, rubbing his double chin again, "can't naturally be expected. The prospect of the change and separation, and all that, is, as one may say, close to her and far away from her, both at once. Barkis's death need n't put it