“Well, I shall do it for the best,” answered Rose, “and if it shouldn’t turn out so, I can’t help it. You know I’m too much like you, father, to give up any thing I judge to be right; and I hope you wont blame me for leaving home now, since Betsey is quite as good a housekeeper as I am.” Mr. Winters bent his eyes downward, and was silent. It was not his habit to betray any outward emotion, but there was grief in his heart. His fortitude was sorely tried. The departure of Rose would cause a sad break in his home enjoyments, and the philosophy of the man was destroyed for the moment, by the feelings of the father. Inwardly he struggled, till unable to control himself longer, he rose quickly, and snatching his hat, went out from the house. After some time, he returned calm and composed, and simply remarked to his daughter, “You say you’ve decided to go, Rose, so there’s no use in arguing—but you’ll find a great change in a city life. If you shouldn’t like it, come back to your old home—that’s all. Now call the girls in to prayers—it’s nigh bed-time.” Rose did as she was bid—and that night the farmer prayed earnestly and fervently for the child who was about to quit his protection, and committed her to the watchful care of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps. The prayer over, he retired immediately to his pillow, which was wet before morning with an old man’s unwonted tears. In the course of the following month, Rose was duly installed in the authority of her new station. Her active and energetic mind, on which the useful branches of education had been thoroughly grounded, soon comprehended all the mysteries of her office, while her sprightliness and good humor, joined to her unusual decision of character, fitted her admirably for her occupation. The first term of her initiation, however, passed wearily away. Her spirit pined in the confinement to which she had voluntarily subjected herself—and with a feeling of _home-sickness_ gnawing at her heart, she repaired to her patroness, Mrs. Sandford, to tell her that she could remain no longer. “I get thinking of my father,” said she, “when I ought to be attending to the lessons—and sometimes my mind gets so confused, that I almost imagine myself mad, and the school a bedlam. Indeed, Mrs. Sandford, I cannot engage for another quarter. I find I was not made for a city life, after all. The confusion distracts me, and the high houses and narrow streets, make me gloomy and low-spirited. I feel as if I couldn’t breathe in the smoke and dust here. Oh, if you only knew how I long for the pure air of the country, and the sight, once more, of the wild, free ocean.”