boats were sporting; the clock of Putney church struck the hour, and Lucy remembered that, for the first time in her life, she was bound to note its chime as the voice of an employer. The village of Putney was soon passed, yet not without some difficulty to the poor girl; her chest heaved and panted as she endeavoured to walk lightly up the rising ground towards the Heath, where her future home was situated; poor Mary whispering, "Take it asy, dear; don't hurry yourself, avourneen." They parted at the gate.
Time would pass almost unregistered by us, but for the abruptness of some of its movements. Every country has its great national datas, which fix a period. Of late, in France, "the revolution," and "three glorious days;" in Ireland, "the ninety-eight;" in Scotland "the forty-five;" in England, "the restoration," "the riots." These stormy doings are History's high places. Yet events which effect changes as entire and as wonderful, continue untalked about or unthought of, because they have not been heralded by beat of drum, and written in fields of slaughter. So, in private life, time would pass for ever unregistered by us, but for the abruptness of some of its movements—things that seem either to stop its course or send it dashing forward. The most humble have their "great events"—their mental land marks. "It was just before I was married," or "immediately after our eldest boy was born," is the frequent observation of the wife and mother. The widow says, "before my husband died." Poor Lucy, when the sufferings of pain were increased by the
