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 come here quite a young person; but, you know, I’d seen a deal of life already, considering my station. And then, we always read in the evenings, Peter and I, and discuss things. Having the Bible taught in school is what we’re at just now—I can’t seem to make up my mind about it. . . And I always did use to say too, when I was Home, and looking out of window upon nothing but chimneys, as I did hope, before my time come to die, I’d have got me to some place where I could have enough sky for once

“Happy?” she suddenly burst out. “Why! this is the very best time of all my life! It’s as if I’d only just got to things, and there’s so much to do! Ain’t God good? for He gives me the work to do, and He gives me the strength to do it with. Happy? Why, sometimes I feel that happy I can scarce contain myself, and am forced to go and give the chicks an extra bit, or take poor Peggy a carrot, so as to do a little something for somebody, and get a mite of it worked off!”

And I warrant that Peter, too, is happy! that, as he footed it leisurely this morning, behind the little flock of his own rearing, in the spring sunshine and along the sweet-smelling road, he whistled like his enemy the blackbird as he went—or else was silent only with a happier silence, a glad uplifting of the heart. For with him, as with Catherine, a deep, unspoken piety lies quick at all the roots of life. It is not only literally and in the body that this plain, unpretentious couple have their home among serene pastures, under wide skies, near to everlasting hills, and in full sight of Glory. Nay, and that inner, spiritual scene and prospect they