her in their difficulties, and received from her almost invariably, the very wisest counsels. Mr. Woodburn said Ann was like many other still waters, she was deep, and his familiar name for her was, “Old Sobersides.” The last of the flock was the lively, laughing Letitia, seldom called anything but Letty. Sweet Letty was about seventeen; with all the vivacity, and eager frank life of a schoolgirl. In fact, she was that till the other day. Now, she was the sunshine, the flying, quivering sunshine called Jack-a-dandy, sent by reflection from a basin of water over walls and ceilings in blithest dance. Letty, like the Jack-a-dandy, was here and there, in the house, in the garden, full of joy and love of all things around her; with a face more charming than beautiful, all smiles and frolic, Letty was ready to lend a helping hand to her mother or sister; full of talk and question, making every one glad with her own gladness, and ready to take a stroll or a ride with her father or George, and to astonish them with the frank, open, genuine expressions of her young and innocent heart. Everything they told her of the people or the things amid which they lived interested her, and any relation of cruel or unkind treatment of any one, fetched up the colour of a most lovely roseate indignation to her young, pure cheek, and the warmest expressions of it to her tongue. Such was blithe Letty—simple, yet shrewd, loving and light-hearted, the happy embodiment of ardent and out-blossoming womanhood. But Woodburn Grange was a spot made for a happy home, for substantial ease and abundance, not for grandeur. There was everything there which enabled its possessors to enjoy the country. A handsome income; all the rural luxuries of life; horses, an open, but not a close carriage, a boat on the charming river below, hearts ready to love good and intelligent neighbours, and such neighbours to love.