You will ask whether Fanny ever took a walk. Yes, often; her husband had great delight in letting her hang on his arm, and walk up the long street with him. Sometimes, on Sunday, after church, they strayed as far as the commons; she, pouring out her grateful feelings for being allowed to enjoy the bright sunshiny day, and accustoming her husband to dwell on the Divine source whence all our blessings flow. Mr. Floss, himself, had a hard bringing up; to obey his father and mother; keep himself neat and clean; to bring home medals from school, and to be honest in his dealings, were all that he had to observe. Fanny never dipped into _his_ mind, or she would have seen how cold and barren all lay there; while, outward, all was so fair. She thought that every one’s heart—but no—Fanny never speculated on any thing; she talked to her husband as if his heart was of the same mould as hers. He dipped into her mind though; and the purity and excellence of it more than compensated for her want of worldly knowledge. So all the way from church he listened to the outpourings of her spirit; always fresh and animated, and clothed in a language peculiar to herself; for Fanny knew nothing of the forms and phrases in which bigots disguise the truth. Her husband, therefore, listened and loved; and, at length, he loved the subject; so that her very simplicity was the means of his becoming a religious man. “To meet you in Heaven, my Fanny,” he said, one day, “I must strive to think on these subjects as you do. I am afraid I shall not be found worthy to join you there.” “But you do think as I do, love,” said she, looking affrighted—“you do—and you think more than I do; you can argue better. I never think at all; all my feelings come naturally. You _will_ go to heaven, my Francis, for the prayers of the humble and penitent are heard; and is there a night, nay an hour in the day, that my spirit is not lifted up to ask for forgiveness for you and for us all?” “You are so merry and cheerful, my dear Fanny, that one would not suppose you were in prayer so constantly.” “Well, Francis, and is not that the time to pray?—why must God be addressed only in darkness, and when we are ill and sad? Then we pray through fear and selfishness. It is when I am happy and merry that I am most afraid of committing sin; and it is then, too, that I feel God’s goodness and mercy most. Dear Francis, what a pleasure it is to feel this bright, warm sun shine on our face; and see, that little dog barks in very gladness, too, for I see nothing near it to make it bark. He feels the warmth and it gives him pleasure; but he forgets it, you see, and falls to quarrelling with that little black dog, for the bone. God is ever present to me, my husband, and that keeps me merry and cheerful. I am sure I have no wish to quarrel for any thing.”