The parish committee in Waverley have received a communication from Mr. Benson, that he hopes to be with them on Thursday, the sixth day of August, and should be happy to meet any of his old people in the vestry or at any place they may appoint. No sooner did they hear this than they determined that it should be a feast of welcome. They are perfectly enthusiastic in their love for him. I only hope his wife may be a suitable help-meet. Mr. and Mrs. Munroe called here to-day to invite us in behalf of the managing committee to be present on the occasion; I answered vaguely, "that if the Doctor were at liberty," etc., etc. _Friday, July 31st._ I am astonished at Emily--here she has been planning a journey to C---- and has never let us know it until to-day. I went in this morning to give her and mother the invitation left by Mr. Munroe. She answered gayly, "I should be happy to go, but I shall be far away before that time." "Where?" I asked in surprise. "Oh, somewhere among the Catskill Mountains; but," she continued, "Ruth and I have made a nice loaf of cake. It is bride's cake," she added, laughing gayly, as she brought from the closet a large loaf beautifully frosted. I forgot to mention, that cake, fruits, and flowers had been solicited for the occasion. "Cæsar," said Emily, "has promised me two bouquets made in his best style; and remember, Mr. Benson is to hold one and his wife the other." Then, with a low courtesy in acknowledgment of my profound amazement, she deposited the cake in the closet again. "Emily," said I, as mother answered a summons from the room, "I do believe you're getting crazed." "Why?" "Because you laugh so much, and act so strangely." "Well, dear sister," said she, growing very grave, "if crying will suit you any better, I can easily do that," and leaning her head upon the table, with her arms for her pillow, she gave way to a passionate burst of grief. "And sorrow too finds some relief In tears which wait upon our grief." I stood in the middle of the room perfectly confounded, and was hesitating whether I ought not to run home for Frank, when hearing a distant door shut she started up, throwing her arms around my neck, and said hurriedly, "Dear sister, don't look so very sad. It has been a hard struggle; but it is almost over. I seldom give way as I have done now; that is too great a luxury to be indulged in often." "At times e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief." She turned to leave me; but I persisted in following her to her room. We sat down after I had closed the door. Turning from our late subject, she began to say something in a careless tone. "Don't, Emily, don't speak so, that makes me feel worse than anything."