I
did.--Soe when She ask'd me merrilie why I turn'd my Backe on Her, I
made Reply I had turn'd my Backe on muche Follie.--Wh. was no sooner
oute of my Mouthe than I was mightilie Sorrie for it, and turninge
aboute, I perceiv'd She was in Teares & weepinge bitterlie. Wh^at my
Hearte wolde holde no More, & I rose upp & tooke Her in my arms &
Kiss'd & Comforted Her, She makinge no Denyal, but seeminge gretelie to
Neede such Solace, wh. I was not Loathe to give Her.--Whiles we were at
This, onlie She had gott to Smilinge, & to sayinge of Things which even
y^is paper shal not knowe, came in y^e Dominie, sayinge He judg'd We
were the Couple he came to Wed.--With him y^e Sexton & y^e Sexton's
Wife.--My swete Kate, alle as rosey as Venus's Nape, was for Denyinge
of y^is, butt I wolde not have it, & sayde Yes.--She remonstrating w.
me, privilie, I tolde Her She must not make me Out a Liar, y^t to
Deceave y^e Man of God were a greavous Sinn, y^t I had gott Her nowe, &
wd. not lett her Slipp from me, & did soe Talke Her Downe, & w. suche
Strengthe of joie, y^t allmost before She knewe it, we Stoode upp, &
were Wed, w. a Ringe (tho' She Knewe it nott) wh. belong'd to My G.
father. (Him y^t Cheated Her^n.)--

Wh. was no sooner done, than in came Clarence & Angelica, & were Wedded
in theyre Turn.--The Clergyman greatelie surprised, but more att y^e
Largenesse of his Fee.

This Businesse beinge Ended, we fled by y^e Trayne of 4-1/2 o'cke, to
y^is Place, where we wait till y^e Bloode of all y^e Ffrenches have
Tyme to coole downe, for y^e wise Mann who meeteth his Mother in Lawe
y^e 1^st tyme, wil meete her when she is Milde.--

And so I close y^is Journall, wh., tho' for y^e moste Parte 'tis but a
peevish Scrawle, hath one Page of Golde, wh^on I have writt ye laste
strange Happ wh^by I have layd Williamson by y^e Heeles & found me y^e
sweetest Wife y^t ever

* * * * *

stopp'd a man's Mouthe w. kisses for writinge of Her Prayses.

TWO BUCKETS IN A WELL.

By N. P. Willis.

(_From "People I Have Met" (now out of print)._)

"Five hundred dollars a year!" echoed Fanny Bellairs, as the first
silver gray of the twilight spread over her picture.

"And my art," modestly added the painter, prying into his bright copy
of the lips pronouncing upon his destiny.

"And how much may that be, at the present rate of patronage--one
picture a year, painted for love!"

"Fanny, how can you be s