It will be a great loss to the shop when she goes, said one; a public loss said another; Jenny Hart ought never to marry said a young gentleman; for half the pleasure in life we young fellows have, is to get a look at her and hear her musical voice, so modest and so arch and gay as she is too. I have a great mind to choke old Norton, and shoot this Archy Campbell; and there he stands, looking as if no happiness awaited him. I think it must be old Norton after all; for no man could look so grave on the eve of marrying such a peerless creature as this Jenny Hart. Young and old caught a whisper of the news, but no one dared to banter her; in fact, there was no chance, she was so busy. Tired and fagged they all were that day; and if you had looked down behind the counter, you would have seen Martin Barton, the much enduring creature, standing on one foot to rest the other. His wife had told him to do it years ago; and so, whenever he saw her standing on one foot, which was generally every Saturday, he thought it was high time to do the same. This day poor Jenny Hart did complain of fatigue, the first time Archy Campbell had ever heard her complain of any thing. “Are you tired, Jenny Hart?” said Martin Barton, “how sorry I am.” “Tired, are you?” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “stand on one foot as we do Jenny Hart, that will rest the other.” “Stand on one foot,” said Jenny Hart, laughing, “I have not a foot left to stand upon.” “Oh, what a beautiful bunch of flowers,” said a lady, “where did they come from, and whom are they for?” “They came from our new place Camperdown,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “and they are for our two twins to-morrow.”—Jenny Hart pushed her. “Ah! true,” said the lady, “I recollect you have twins; how old are they?” “How old? let me see,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, who really had known the night before; but Jenny’s push had bewildered her—she was afraid that to tell their age, would be to tell the secret. “How old are they Jenny Hart?” “Just seventeen, Mrs. Martin Barton, and the sun is down, you see. We shut up shop now at sundown,” said Mr. Martin Barton. Seeing that many of the customers lingered—we are going to the—Jenny gave him a push. “What ails them both to tell things now,” thought she, “just at this present moment, and never before?” Well, the shop was closed, the clerks had their tea, the boxes were brought in and the money counted; Archy Campbell put all in the strong box and disappeared. Jenny Hart,—a thing of late years, quite unusual, set herself down in a chair, and seemed as if she were going to spend the evening in the little back room. “I have something to say to you my good kind friends,” said she at last, “something that I fear will give you pain; and I have also a favour to beg of you, and this I know you will have pleasure in granting.” “Tell us all in the morning, dear Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “for I am so sleepy and tired, that I cannot even listen.”