"Yes, that is always the way!" she grumbled. "Mary can go to the shop where she can see every one, and I must sit poked up stairs, sewing my eyes out. It is too bad." "I am sure I would willingly change places with you, if mistress were willing!" said Mary. "I do not love to serve in the shop at all." "Then ask her—do ask her!" returned Betty eagerly. "So many folks will be sure to come in this morning to hear the news." "You will do no such thing, Mary!" said Mrs. Crump decidedly. "Your mistress knows what she is about, and I will not have her fashed with such follies. You know very well, Betty, the last time you served in the shop, you broke a china jar, worth a half year's work, all because you were gaping and staring instead of minding your business. I think the remembrance of what is up over our heads, might give you some serious thoughts for once." "That is just it!" whispered Betty. "I am afraid to stay up there, with a corpse in the house." "And what do you think the dead woman is going to do to you? However, you can bring your work down to my room, if you like." Amabel and I arranged our room, and then began to wonder what we should do next; we could not practise our music, neither did we feel like diverting ourselves with "Sir Charles Grandison." At last, Amabel proposed that we should take our work and Mr. Thomson's poems into the garden, and work or read as we fancied. It was a lovely day; a breeze was blowing, just enough to cool the air and bring in the freshness of the sea, to mingle with the smell of the late haying, and the stocks and gill-flowers in the borders, and make music in the great cedar that grew in the church-yard. Amabel had just finished reading "The Autumn," when we became aware that she had another auditor than myself. Mr. Wesley had come out of the house, approaching with so gentle a step that we had not heard him, and stood listening to the reading. We both rose in some little confusion, and curtsied an answer to his polished greeting. "Pray do not let me disturb you!" said he, as he seated himself on the other bench of the little arbor. "It is a pleasure to find young ladies so well employed. Will you permit me to rest here for a short time? I have been riding since dawn." Amabel made some polite answer, and Mr. Wesley took up the book she had laid down. "'Tis a fine poem, is it not?" said he. "Have you read the hymn with which the book concludes?" "We have not got as far as that!" said Amabel. Mr. Wesley turned over the leaves, and began that sublime hymn, beginning— "These as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God." I shall never dissociate these lines with the melodious voice and expressive manner of Mr. Wesley. When he had finished, we sat silent for a few minutes. "That is beautiful!" said Amabel at last, with a kind of sigh. "It is indeed!" answered Mr. Wesley. "I hardly know of more than one finer." "And what is that, Sir?" I ventured to ask.