Michael. Why, this is what makes the farmers hate learning. Boys, who forget that GOD sees them, take their masters' time to perform their own business.

Jem. Why now, Michael, what harm? there's Joe Fuller has been playing heads and tails in the field with the carter, long and long, and you make out as if I committed a sin, because I left the cattle a minute to learn this table.

Michael. That's your way, Jem; you are always talking of others: what's Joe Fuller to me, or to you? You are hired to work for your master; you are well fed, decently clothed, and warmly lodged, for which you are required to do every part of your business faithfully.

Jem. Well, and don't I?

Michael. Now tell me, Jem, should you wish your master to see you sitting under that tree now?

Jem. No, no-I don't say I should. But-
Michael. But what?

Jem. You're so mortal particular, that's the worst I know of you.

Michael. Tell me, Jem, if your master did'nt give you victuals enough, what you would say?

Jem. Say! why I'd complain to the parish, as bound me out.

Michael. And if you neglect your business? Jem. Master may turn me off; what do I care?

Michael. Jem, I've been deceived in you. You make me very unhappy. I did so hope your sickness would have done you good; but your principles are just what they were, I see. Jem. Oh, if I'm so very bad, I'm not fit for such a godly young man as you.

Michael took the rope, and left the field without any reply. All his work seemed to have failed, and as he drew near home, he said, 'GOD only can change the human heart.'

Farmer Moss was a single man. He had one sister, whose husband was a rich farmer, but not so respectable as Farmer Moss. He had feeling; but as soon as the tear was dry, it was over. His habits were bad: though he rose early, he wanted his dram to steady his hand: he did not drink brandy, that destructive liquor; but he had his old beer and his gin-bottle. What at first was a cordial soon became a necessary of life. Often had his faithful horse brought him safe home; often had his neat and orderly

household watched beneath the porch of their nice dwelling, and heard with pleasure the sure-footed tread of old Grey; but the hour of sorrow came, and the horse could no longer protect his master. It was one of those fine autumnal evenings, when the fervours of summer seem yielding to the cold breath of Winter, that old Finch, after leaving the Blue Boar in a state of careless insensibility, mounted his horse in the inn-yard, and said, "Good bye, my hearty!" to a sot like himself. Three miles did the invaluable beast carry his senseless burthen, over a wretched road, when a tilted cart occupying the middle of the narrow way, the careful animal turned aside to make room: the senseless man had suffered the bridle to escape his hold; the horse stumbled from the depth of the rut; the bridle, loose and long, entangled one leg, and the creature plunging to get free, his rider was thrown to a distance. The bridle broken, the horse ran home, to the terror of his wife, a daughter about sixteen, and a boy of twelve. The people in the cart were humane and discreet: the woman wrapped her shawl round his head, which bled profusely. The man and his two sons helped him into the cart: they turned round and followed, as far as they could

trace it, the guidance of the horse. About a mile from the place where the accident happened, they met the farmer's family running distractedly. They carried him safely home: he was in bed and a surgeon at his side in half an hour; it was too late! he breathed a very deep sigh; looked piteously in the face of his wife; wept to see her weep; and, with that only sign of sense, expired.-Mrs. Finch wrote to her brother, and entreated him to come to her. Farmer Moss had just returned to the house to dinner, and was exceedingly shocked by the painful event. He called impatiently for Michael, and the servants were sent to seek him in every direction. He was at length found, and the farmer beckoned him into his little parlour without speaking. Michael was now nineteen, a well-grown lad, steady as a man of five-andtwenty. The farmer looked out of his casement a few minutes, and then turned round. "Michael,” said he, and stopped: the tears ran down his cheeks: "Michael, I am very much distressed. I am busy at home, very busy, and my on-ly sister, as nice a woman as any in the country, is-just a widow. Her boy is a baby as you may say, and his sister but young.

Michael. What can I do, Sir? Can I go?
Farmer Moss. No, no, Michael; stay you

here; I must go. Do you watch here. See that my men do their duty.

Michael. But, Sir, William's a deal older than I; he knows better, he has been a long time here, Sir. I thinks as 'twould be better to leave him in care.

Farmer Moss. Do you do what I bid you; keep your own place; but only watch as my men do as they would when I'm here.

Michael. Sir, you puts me upon hard duty; but you are my master; I shall obey you.

The farmer went, and Michael was left in trust. It was Friday, and the wages were to be paid on Sunday morning, and Michael had the amount given him. William, the servant above mentioned, had been one of Michael's secret enemies, because he saw how faithfully he discharged every duty, and that, in order to keep in his master's favour, he must be equally diligent, which, though he was far from a bad servant, was by no means his intention. This circumstance had made him fight shy' of Michael, and Michael had no wish to ingratiate himself against his will. But it happened about a fortnight before, William had stayed out, and Michael let him in quietly, and made no mention of it to any one, not even to William. This occurrence was greatly in Michael's

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