offered to Hester to make up for the loss
of her gown. Instead of accepting it, Hester told him, that as she
herself was young and healthy, she could soon be able to clothe
herself out of her own savings, and begged him to make her mother a
present of this gown, which he did. It had been a maxim of Rebecca,
that it was better not to go to church at all, than go in an old
gown. She had, however, so far conquered this evil notion, that she
had lately gone pretty often. This kindness of the gown touched her
not a little, and the first Sunday she put it on, Mr. Simpson
happened to preach from this text, _God resisteth the proud but
giveth grace to the humble_. This sermon so affected Rebecca that
she never once thought she had her new gown on, till she came to
take it off when she went to bed, and that very night instead of
skulking behind, she knelt down by her husband, and joined in prayer
with much fervor.

There, was one thing sunk deep in Rebecca's mind; she had observed
that since her husband had grown religious he had been so careful
not to give her any offense, that he was become scrupulously clean;
took off his dirty shoes before he sat down, and was very cautious
not to spill a drop of beer on her shining table. Now it was rather
remarkable, that as John grew more neat, Rebecca grew more
indifferent to neatness. But both these changes arose from the same
cause, the growth of religion in their hearts. John grew cleanly
from the fear of giving pain to his wife, while Rebecca grew
indifferent from having discovered the sin and folly of an
over-anxious care about trifles. When the heart is once given up to
God, such vanities in a good degree die of themselves.

Hester continues to grow in grace, and in knowledge. Last
Christmas-day she was appointed under teacher in the school, and
many people think that some years hence, if any thing should happen
to Mrs. Crew, Hester may be promoted to be head mistress.

BETTY BROWN,

THE ST. GILES'S ORANGE GIRL;

WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF MRS. SPONGE, THE MONEY-LENDER.

Betty Brown, the orange girl, was born nobody knows where, and bred
nobody knows how. No girl in all the streets of London could drive a
barrow more nimbly, avoid pushing against passengers more
dexterously, or cry her "fine China oranges" in a shriller voice.
But then she could neither sew, nor spin, nor knit, nor wash, nor
iron, nor read, nor spell. Betty had not been always in so good a
situation as