Mary reasoned with her, and endeavoured to assure her that Fanny had spoken merely from the desire of talking; but she found that poor Alice, naturally nervous, and always dreading lest anything should happen to her mother, was not to be convinced. The foolish words, spoken at random, had done what foolish words often do very great mischief. A strong-minded person would not have suffered as Alice did; but you must remember, she could not see her mother, and she knew, by experience, that the dame, when indisposed, always endeavoured to conceal it from her beloved and only child.

The young party quitted the cottage dispirited and annoyed; for they left the poor blind girl endeavouring to restrain her tears. Chatterbox was sorely grieved at first, and listened for some time attentively to her eldest sister's advice, who pointed out to her the evil of speaking at random. "I cannot tell you," ," she said, "how frequently you hurt people's feelings by your inconsiderate words. Papa was going to give the coachman warning the other day, in consequence of something you misunderstood and talked about: and poor Jane Conway told me, that though her present employer is quite convinced of her honesty, she never can forget that she was once considered a thief, from your misrepresentation."

"I am sure, sister," answered Fanny, "I never intended it; and I explained all about it to Jane, and to her mistress. I did not think she would ever feel it again, after all I cried, and she knew I did not intend it."

"Tears, my love, cannot wash out words; and words, make wounds, more hastily than they can heal them. You have been told, that all those who talk a great deal, are apt to mingle

truth and falsehood together; and this must be especially the case with you, who cannot understand all you hear, or all you see."

"I do my best, I'm sure," sobbed poor Fanny: "I do my very best. Papa said, the other day, I was like a note of interrogation."

"Not quite," observed Sophy, "for that waits for an

answer."

"It is the old story over and over again about me," continued Fanny, pettishly; "and you tell me the same thing over and over again."

"When you conquer that love of chattering, my own dear Fanny," observed her sister, "we shall find it difficult to discover a fault in one we love so dearly."

The young folk frequently paused on their homeward walk : the fresh air, the variety and beauty of the trees, the singing of the birds, and the clouds, tinged by the beams of the setting sun into every variety of rose and saffron colour, delighted them much; and they all agreed in thinking the country far more charming than the town. By degrees the blind girl and her mother were forgotten by all except Mary Browne. Harry kept blowing the "puffs," as he called them, off the dandelion heads, to ascertain what o'clock it was: Miss Eltham gathered wild flowers, and told their botanical names and properties to her sisters, thus rendering the walk as profitable as it was pleasing. Fanny had remained tolerably silent (for her) for some time, until she saw a dog run in among some sheep that were grazing in a field near the common, and after setting them all scampering, run out again, barking and wagging his tail as if he had performed a brave and gallant action; and

she then began to talk about sheep and shepherds, and their dogs, exaggerating as she talked on, until, at last, forgetting the advice she had received, she burst into her usual torrent of words, some with meaning, and some without;—now uttering one extravagance and then another.

"What is that you say, Chatter, about a rabbit a yard in length, and a stone in weight?" inquired little Harry, who was three years younger than Fanny.

"Indeed, Harry, Charles Jeffry said in the square, one day, that he had a rabbit that was a yard long, and weighed a stone."

"Did he, Mary?" inquired Harry, who had learned to distrust what his sister said; and the worst of it was she did not feel the degradation of being doubted.

"I did not hear him say that, Master Harry," replied Mary. "There!" said the boy. "What did he say?"

"He said what I say," persisted Fanny, "a rabbit—a white rabbit-with lop ears, pink eyes, and a roman nose; he did, indeed, but all rabbits have roman noses; and it was a yard long, and weighed a stone."

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'No, Miss Fanny, I beg your pardon; he said it was so large that, if it had lived, he thought it might have grown to be a yard long, and a stone in weight." said Mary.

"Fanny, Fanny!" exclaimed Miss Eltham, in a reproving

voice.

"Well, it is pretty much the same thing, is it not?" replied the exaggerating little girl; "for you see

"Stop, my dear," said her sister, "I must insist upon your attending to me. If I said my sister Fanny is as

tall as mamma, and much, much stouter, would that be true?"

"No, sister, certainly not," replied the little maid; "and

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"Attend a moment, do, dear Fanny; for this talking and exaggerating will render you not only despicable but dangerous," persisted Miss Eltham: "but if I said my sister Fanny is tall and large of her age, and one of these days may be, as tall and as stout, if not taller and stouter, than mamma is now, would not that be true?"

"Yes, sister; but it is very hard of you to say that I may become not only despicable but dangerous; I intend no harm.

"Again, my dear little sister, I must entreat you to listen to me. When you cannot believe what a person tells you, do you not despise him?"

"But, sister"

"Now, Fanny, I will have no shuffling; do you, or do you not, despise a person who tells you an untruth? At all events, you loose all faith, all trust in him; you do not believe him when he tells you the truth, if you have more than once proved that what he said was untrue."

"Well," stammered Fanny, who saw the purport of her sister's words, "I believe you are right."

"As to not intending harm, that is better for yourself; but if you do harm, those who suffer, do not profit by the absence of all intention. Language is given us to instruct, to enliven, to soothe, to cheer, to divert each other, and to increase the happiness of our fellow-creatures by words of truth and affection; not as a power to be exerted in noise, in the cause of folly, or

I do not know how Miss Eltham would have concluded her sentence, for it was interrupted by a most painful proof of the mischief arising from thoughtless words.

The young party had loitered on their homeward way, and did not arrive at the principal bridge, I have already mentioned, until the beautiful sunset, that decked the heavens in such glowing colours, had faded, as sunsets must, into the grey twilight, which, in this country, is the prelude both to night and morning. Harry wished very much to have been permitted to return by the foot-bridge, and urged how much shorter was the path than the road; but Mary would not suffer him to do so, as, if his foot slipped on the planks, unless he held the rope firmly, he might roll under the rope into the river, which, though little more than a broad brawling stream in some places, was there both deep and dangerous. They had not advanced more than a yard or two on the good old bridge, when, looking toward the foot-bridge, Miss Eltham and Mary Browne saw, almost at the same instant, Alice Burden, the blind girl, just in the act of stepping on it, evidently feeling, with outstretched arm, for the directing and protecting rope; the other hand held the ribbon by which her little dog guided her steps. They all paused to watch her

movements.

"How very foolish of her to come this distance by herself," said Chatterbox: "it will be quite dark before she gets back."

"My dear Fanny," observed Miss Eltham, "how silly that is, dark and light you know are the same to her; but it is certainly much too late for her to be out by herself; and she ought not to venture upon that bridge, which Mary Browne does not think safe, even for those who can see."