Here is a present for my niece. May it prove to her, what of late it has been to me, a blessing! The captain paced the room in silence. This picture, my dear and invaluable friend, continued she, addressing me, you will see buried with me. She gazed intently on the miniature of Mr. Philip Flint, which she wears in her bosom. Poor fellow! added she mournfully, he will not soon forget Lucretia! He will regret that he was not with me.—I cannot stand this! said the agitated captain, and were I not convinced, Lucretia, that even in this depression of your mind, there is a healing power more potent than all human aids, you would break my heart.—I will spare your feelings, answered she, only let me say a few words more: I wish to have your concurrence. I have nominated Mr. Greenwood to succeed Snughead in the Farefield living; but if you think he would like the presentation better from you, speak, and it shall be so managed. “I do not believe,” added Mrs. Allen, “that the captain could have uttered a word, had his friend’s being made an archbishop depended on it; he was quite overcome by his feelings.” “At length he ventured to say, should you like to see Mr. Greenwood? He would be sorry to see me, replied she; he is a good man, and will pity me; but I wish not to see him. I have no want of his assistance;” she raised her eyes to Heaven, and paused. “You may imagine,” continued Mrs. Allen, “that her exertions had subdued her. The captain no sooner left her, than she went to her bed; and I have the comfort of quitting her in a peaceful sleep.” This recital, my Lucy, will affect poor Mary; but it will do her no harm hereafter. Her mind wants firmness for the trials of life; and she must acquire strength by the usual means. I have occasion for more patience and fortitude than I possess. I tremble for the consequences which will result to Mrs. Allen, should Miss Flint continue long in her present condition. What will you say to the cares and attention that devote my dear friend to her room the whole day? What will you say to her swelled legs, got by watching her through half the night? Will it be any comfort to you, when she is on a sick bed, to be told that her piety and prayers are the cordials that quiet the perturbed _spirit_ of the miserable invalid? I have yet much to do with my rebellious one; and I honestly confess, that, sincerely as I rejoice at Miss Flint’s present temper of mind, I should murmur to give a saint to her funeral obsequies. My serious remonstrances have answered; Mrs. Allen is gone to bed, and I will take care she shall not quit it to-night, to traverse half clothed, the passages to that of another. What with fogs within, and fogs without, it has been necessary for me to make a sun of my own. Sir Murdoch has undertaken to teach me to paint in oil colours; and I have begun to copy a landscape “très riant,” for I cannot help laughing at my imitation of a good copy. _In continuation._