of," said James.

"O, that's not all; she wants to look pretty, and loves to be admired,
and all----"

"It sounds very much like her," said James, looking at Alice.

"O, but, besides that," said the lady, "she has been preaching a
discourse in justification of vanity and self-love----"

"And next time you shall take notes when I preach," said Alice, "for I
don't think your memory is remarkably happy."

"You see, James," said the lady, "that Alice makes it a point to say
exactly the truth when she speaks at all, and I've been puzzling her
with questions. I really wish you would ask her some, and see what she
will say. But, mercy! there is Uncle C. come to take me to ride. I must
run." And off flew the little humming bird, leaving James and Alice
_tete-a-tete_.

"There really is one question----" said James, clearing his voice.

Alice looked up.

"There is one question, Alice, which I wish you _would_ answer."

Alice did not inquire what the question was, but began to look very
solemn; and just then the door was shut--and so I never knew what the
question was--only I observed that James Martyrs seemed in some seventh
heaven for a week afterwards, and--and--you can finish for yourself,
lady.

THE SABBATH.

SKETCHES FROM A NOTE BOOK OF AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN.

The Puritan Sabbath--is there such a thing existing now, or has it gone
with the things that were, to be looked at as a curiosity in the museum
of the past? Can any one, in memory, take himself back to the unbroken
stillness of that day, and recall the sense of religious awe which
seemed to brood in the very atmosphere, checking the merry laugh of
childhood, and chaining in unwonted stillness the tongue of volatile
youth, and imparting even to the sunshine of heaven, and the unconscious
notes of animals, a tone of its own gravity and repose? If you cannot
remember these things, go back with me to the verge of early boyhood,
and live with me one of the Sabbaths that I have spent beneath the roof
of my uncle, Phineas Fletcher.

Imagine the long sunny hours of a Saturday afternoon insensibly slipping
away, as we youngsters are exploring the length and breadth of a trout
stream, or chasing gray squirrels, or building mud milldams in the
brook. The sun sinks lower and lower, but we still think it does not
want half an hour to sundown. At last, he so evidently is really _going
down_, that there is no room for scepticism or latitude of opinion on
the s