affection. Jane, released from the thraldom in which she had been bound to Erskine, was as happy as a redeemed captive. Her tastes and her views were similar to Mr. Lloyd's, and she found in his society a delightful exchange and a rich compensation for the solitude to which her mind and affections had been condemned.
We are ignorant, perhaps Jane was, of the precise moment when gratitude melted into love, and friendship resigned the reigns to his more absolute dominion. But it was not long after this, nor quite 'a year and a day' (the period of mourning usually allotted to a faithful husband) after her separation from Erskine, that, as she was sitting with Mrs. Harvey in her little parlour, Mr. Lloyd entered with his child. After the customary greetings, Mrs. Harvey suddenly recollected that some domestic duties demanded her presence, and saying with an arch smile to Mr. Lloyd that she 'hoped he would overlook her absence,' she left the room. Little Rebecca was sitting on her father's knee; she took from his bosom a miniature of her mother, which he always wore there, and seemed intently studying the face which the artist had delineated with masterly power. "Do the angels look like my mother?" she asked.
"Why, my child?"
"I thought, father, they might look like her, she looks so bright and so good." She kissed the picture, and after a moment's pause, added, "Jane looks like mother, all but the cap; dost not thee think, father, Jane would look pretty in
