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 promise me, Jemmie, you'll make the best of my going."

"I'll try, Lucy," replied the little fellow, with a quivering lip; and Lucy proceeded with all the resolution she could muster to go through her usual occupations. Her father's evening meal was prepared with as much care as that of a more pampered epicure. His toast, his tea and salt fish, must be exactly right to tempt the sense, blunted and diseased by gross indulgence, and he selfishly ate, and groaned, and fretted, while his defrauded wife and girls sat by, supping on the hardest fare. Thanks to the sweet uses of labour and temperance, they relished it more than the sick man could have relished a Roman feast.

"I am sure," said little Annie Lee, setting back her chair, and throwing herself into Lucy's lap, "I don't know what Martha and I are to do when you are gone."

"Do?" replied Lucy, kissing her; "why, Annie, you are to do all your work, and mine into the bargain."

"Oh, Lucy, you know that is not what I mean; but who will make Martha's paste?" "I have taught her how to make it as well as I can."

"Yes; but sometimes she has bad luck with it, and you never have bad luck, and she can't call on mother, because mother has too much to do already."

"No; instead of calling on mother, I hope you will both always be ready to assist her."

"But I must ask her, Lucy, to fix my work when