'WELL, Agnes, you must not take such long walks again beforebreakfast,' said my mother, observing that I drank an extra cup ofcoffee and ate nothing - pleading the heat of the weather, and thefatigue of my long walk as an excuse. I certainly did feelfeverish and tired too.

'You always do things by extremes: now, if you had taken a SHORTwalk every morning, and would continue to do so, it would do yougood.'

'Well, mamma, I will.'

'But this is worse than lying in bed or bending over your books:you have quite put yourself into a fever.'

'I won't do it again,' said I.

I was racking my brains with thinking how to tell her about Mr.Weston, for she must know he was coming to-morrow. However, Iwaited till the breakfast things were removed, and I was more calmand cool; and then, having sat down to my drawing, I began - 'I metan old friend on the sands to-day, mamma.'

'An old friend! Who could it be?'

'Two old friends, indeed. One was a dog;' and then I reminded herof Snap, whose history I had recounted before, and related theincident of his sudden appearance and remarkable recognition; 'andthe other,' continued I, 'was Mr. Weston, the curate of Horton.'

'Mr. Weston! I never heard of him before.'

'Yes, you have: I've mentioned him several times, I believe: butyou don't remember.'

'I've heard you speak of Mr. Hatfield.'

'Mr. Hatfield was the rector, and Mr. Weston the curate: I used tomention him sometimes in contradistinction to Mr. Hatfield, asbeing a more efficient clergyman. However, he was on the sandsthis morning with the dog - he had bought it, I suppose, from therat-catcher; and he knew me as well as it did - probably throughits means: and I had a little conversation with him, in the courseof which, as he asked about our school, I was led to say somethingabout you, and your good management; and he said he should like toknow you, and asked if I would introduce him to you, if he shouldtake the liberty of calling to-morrow; so I said I would. Was Iright?'

'Of course. What kind of a man is he?'

'A very RESPECTABLE man, I think: but you will see him to-morrow.He is the new vicar of F-, and as he has only been there a fewweeks, I suppose he has made no friends yet, and wants a littlesociety.'

The morrow came. What a fever of anxiety and expectation I was infrom breakfast till noon - at which time he made his appearance!Having introduced him to my mother, I took my work to the window,and sat down to await the result of the interview. They got onextremely well together - greatly to my satisfaction, for I hadfelt very anxious about what my mother would think of him. He didnot stay long that time: but when he rose to take leave, she saidshe should be happy to see him, whenever he might find itconvenient to call again; and when he was gone, I was gratified byhearing her say, - 'Well! I think he's a very sensible man. Butwhy did you sit back there, Agnes,' she added, 'and talk solittle?'

'Because you talked so well, mamma, I thought you required noassistance from me: and, besides, he was your visitor, not mine.'

After that, he often called upon us - several times in the courseof a week. He generally addressed most of his conversation to mymother: and no wonder, for she could converse. I almost enviedthe unfettered, vigorous fluency of her discourse, and the strongsense evinced by everything she said - and yet, I did not; for,though I occasionally regretted my own deficiencies for his sake,it gave me very great pleasure to sit and hear the two beings Iloved and honoured above every one else in the world, discoursingtogether so amicably, so wisely, and so well. I was not alwayssilent, however; nor was I at all neglected. I was quite as muchnoticed as I would wish to be: there was no lack of kind words andkinder looks, no end of delicate attentions, too fine and subtle tobe grasped by words, and therefore indescribable - but deeply feltat heart.

Ceremony was quickly dropped between us: Mr. Weston came as anexpected guest, welcome at all times, and never deranging theeconomy of our household affairs. He even called me 'Agnes:' thename had been timidly spoken at first, but, finding it gave nooffence in any quarter, he seemed greatly to prefer thatappellation to 'Miss Grey;' and so did I. How tedious and gloomywere those days in which he did not come! And yet not miserable;for I had still the remembrance of the last visit and the hope ofthe next to cheer me. But when two or three days passed without myseeing him, I certainly felt very anxious - absurdly, unreasonablyso; for, of course, he had his own business and the affairs of hisparish to attend to. And I dreaded the close of the holidays, whenMY business also would begin, and I should be sometimes unable tosee him, and sometimes - when my mother was in the schoolroom -obliged to be with him alone: a position I did not at all desire,in the house; though to meet him out of doors, and walk beside him,had proved by no means disagreeable.

One evening, however, in the last week of the vacation, he arrived- unexpectedly: for a heavy and protracted thunder-shower duringthe afternoon had almost destroyed my hopes of seeing him that day;but now the storm was over, and the sun was shining brightly.

'A beautiful evening, Mrs. Grey!' said he, as he entered. 'Agnes,I want you to take a walk with me to - ' (he named a certain partof the coast - a bold hill on the land side, and towards the sea asteep precipice, from the summit of which a glorious view is to behad). 'The rain has laid the dust, and cooled and cleared the air,and the prospect will be magnificent. Will you come?'

'Can I go, mamma?'

'Yes; to be sure.'

I went to get ready, and was down again in a few minutes; though,of course, I took a little more pains with my attire than if I hadmerely been going out on some shopping expedition alone. Thethunder-shower had certainly had a most beneficial effect upon theweather, and the evening was most delightful. Mr. Weston wouldhave me to take his arm; he said little during our passage throughthe crowded streets, but walked very fast, and appeared grave andabstracted. I wondered what was the matter, and felt an indefinitedread that something unpleasant was on his mind; and vaguesurmises, concerning what it might be, troubled me not a little,and made me grave and silent enough. But these fantasies vanishedupon reaching the quiet outskirts of the town; for as soon as wecame within sight of the venerable old church, and the - hill, withthe deep blue beyond it, I found my companion was cheerful enough.

'I'm afraid I've been walking too fast for you, Agnes,' said he:'in my impatience to be rid of the town, I forgot to consult yourconvenience; but now we'll walk as slowly as you please. I see, bythose light clouds in the west, there will be a brilliant sunset,and we shall be in time to witness its effect upon the sea, at themost moderate rate of progression.'

When we had got about half-way up the hill, we fell into silenceagain; which, as usual, he was the first to break.

'My house is desolate yet, Miss Grey,' he smilingly observed, 'andI am acquainted now with all the ladies in my parish, and severalin this town too; and many others I know by sight and by report;but not one of them will suit me for a companion; in fact, there isonly one person in the world that will: and that is yourself; andI want to know your decision?'

'Are you in earnest, Mr. Weston?'

'In earnest! How could you think I should jest on such a subject?'

He laid his hand on mine, that rested on his arm: he must havefelt it tremble - but it was no great matter now.

'I hope I have not been too precipitate,' he said, in a serioustone. 'You must have known that it was not my way to flatter andtalk soft nonsense, or even to speak the admiration that I felt;and that a single word or glance of mine meant more than the honiedphrases and fervent protestations of most other men.'

I said something about not liking to leave my mother, and doingnothing without her consent.

'I settled everything with Mrs. Grey, while you were putting onyour bonnet,' replied he. 'She said I might have her consent, if Icould obtain yours; and I asked her, in case I should be so happy,to come and live with us - for I was sure you would like it better.But she refused, saying she could now afford to employ anassistant, and would continue the school till she could purchase anannuity sufficient to maintain her in comfortable lodgings; and,meantime, she would spend her vacations alternately with us andyour sister, and should be quite contented if you were happy. Andso now I have overruled your objections on her account. Have youany other?'

'No - none.'

'You love me then?' said be, fervently pressing my hand.

'Yes.'

Here I pause. My Diary, from which I have compiled these pages,goes but little further. I could go on for years, but I willcontent myself with adding, that I shall never forget that glorioussummer evening, and always remember with delight that steep hill,and the edge of the precipice where we stood together, watching thesplendid sunset mirrored in the restless world of waters at ourfeet - with hearts filled with gratitude to heaven, and happiness,and love - almost too full for speech.

A few weeks after that, when my mother had supplied herself with anassistant, I became the wife of Edward Weston; and never have foundcause to repent it, and am certain that I never shall. We have hadtrials, and we know that we must have them again; but we bear themwell together, and endeavour to fortify ourselves and each otheragainst the final separation - that greatest of all afflictions tothe survivor. But, if we keep in mind the glorious heaven beyond,where both may meet again, and sin and sorrow are unknown, surelythat too may be borne; and, meantime, we endeavour to live to theglory of Him who has scattered so many blessings in our path.

Edward, by his strenuous exertions, has worked surprising reformsin his parish, and is esteemed and loved by its inhabitants - as hedeserves; for whatever his faults may be as a man (and no one isentirely without), I defy anybody to blame him as a pastor, ahusband, or a father.

Our children, Edward, Agnes, and little Mary, promise well; theireducation, for the time being, is chiefly committed to me; and theyshall want no good thing that a mother's care can give. Our modestincome is amply sufficient for our requirements: and by practisingthe economy we learnt in harder times, and never attempting toimitate our richer neighbours, we manage not only to enjoy comfortand contentment ourselves, but to have every year something to layby for our children, and something to give to those who need it.

And now I think I have said sufficient.