Shortly after my recovery, Jacob--the faithful, good Jacob was obliged to leave us, for we could no longer afford to pay wages. What was owing to him had to be settled by sacrificing our best cow, and a great many valuable articles of clothing from my husband's wardrobe. Nothing is more distressing than being obliged to part with articles of dress which you know that you cannot replace. Almost all my clothes had been appropriated to the payment of wages, or to obtain garments for the children, excepting my wedding-dress, and the beautiful baby-linen which had been made by the hands of dear and affectionate friends for my first-born. These were now exchanged for coarse, warm flannels, to shield her from the cold. Moodie and Jacob had chopped eight acres during the winter, but these had to be burnt off and logged-up before we could put in a crop of wheat for the ensuing fall. Had we been able to retain this industrious, kindly English lad, this would have been soon accomplished; but his wages, at the rate of thirty pounds per annum, were now utterly beyond our means. Jacob had formed an attachment to my pretty maid, Mary Pine, and before going to the Southern States, to join an uncle who resided in Louisville, an opulent tradesman, who had promised to teach him his business, Jacob thought it as well to declare himself. The declaration took place on a log of wood near the back door, and from my chamber window I could both hear and see the parties, without being myself observed. Mary was seated very demurely at one end of the log, twisting the strings of her checked apron, and the loving Jacob was busily whittling the other extremity of their rustic seat. There was a long silence. Mary stole a look at Jacob, and he heaved a tremendous sigh, something between a yawn and a groan. “Meary,” he said, “I must go.” “I knew that afore,” returned the girl. “I had zummat to zay to you, Meary. Do you think you will miss oie?” (looking very affectionately, and twitching nearer.) “What put that into your head, Jacob?” This was said very demurely. “Oie thowt, maybe, Meary, that your feelings might be zummat loike my own. I feel zore about the heart, Meary, and it's all com' of parting with you. Don't you feel queerish, too?” “Can't say that I do, Jacob. I shall soon see you again,” (pulling violently at her apron-string.) “Meary, oi'm afeard you don't feel like oie.” “P'r'aps not--women can't feel like men. I'm sorry that you are going, Jacob, for you have been very kind and obliging, and I wish you well.” “Meary,” cried Jacob, growing desperate at her coyness, and getting quite close up to her, “will you marry oie? Say yeez or noa.” This was coming close to the point. Mary drew farther from him, and turned her head away. “Meary,” said Jacob, seizing upon the hand that held the apron-string, “do you think you can better yoursel'? If not--why, oie'm your man. Now, do just turn about your head and answer oie.”