say maister to."

Eve gave a little smile: "But he must let me be mistress, you know,
Joan."

"All right! only don't you stretch that too far," said Joan warningly,
"or no good 'ull come of it; and be foreright in all you do, and spake
the truth to un. I've many a time wished I could, but with this to hide
o' that one's and that to hush up o' t'other's, I know he holds me for a
downright liard; and so I am by his measure, I 'spects."

"I'm sure you're nothing of the sort, Joan," said Eve. "Adam's always
saying how much people think of you. He told me only yesterday that he
was certain more than half the men of the place had asked you to marry
them."

"Did he?" said Joan, not wholly displeased that Adam should hold this
opinion. "Awh, and ax they may, I reckon, afore I shall find a man to
say 'Yes' to."

"That is what I used to think myself," said Eve.

"Iss, and so you found it till Roger put the question," replied Joan
decisively. Then, after a minute's pause, she added, "What be 'ee goin'
to do 'bout the poor sawl to London, then--eh? You must tell he
somehow."

"Oh, I don't see that," said Eve. "I mean to write to him, because I
promised I would; and I shall tell him that I've made up my mind not to
go back, but I sha'n't say anything more. There isn't any need for it,
that I see--at least, not yet a while."

"Best to tell un all," argued Joan. "Why shouldn't 'ee? 'Tis the same,
so far as you'm concerned, whether he's killed to wance or dies by
inches."

But Eve was not to be persuaded. "There isn't any reason why I should,"
she said.

"No reason?" replied Joan. "Oh, Eve, my dear," she added, "don't 'ee let
happiness harden your heart: if love is sweet to gain, think how bitter
'tis to lose; and, by all you've told me, you'll forfeit a better man
than most in Reuben May."

_The Author of "Dorothy Fox._"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

ON THE SKUNK RIVER.

The Lady of Shalott, looking into the mirror which reflected the highway
"a bowshot from her bower-eaves," saw the villagers passing to their
daily labor in the barley-fields; market-girls in red cloaks and damsels
of high degree; curly shepherd-boys and long-haired pages in gay livery;
an abbot on an ambling pad and knights in armor and nodding plumes; and
her constant pastime was to weave these sights into the magic web on
which she wrought. I undertake, in a modest way, to follow her example,
and weave a series of pictures from the sights that da