you" made me sure I had been right.

Since the baby has come we have converted the chamber over the
library into an upstairs sitting-room. I found her there before the
open fire, on my return from New York. The baby was sleeping in her
arms; and she was gently rocking him, pressed close to her bosom.

"I wish you would have a nurse for the baby, Jennie," said I. "I
don't like to see you tied to her so."

"You wouldn't take baby from me would you, John?" said she
appealingly, nestling the precious bundle closer to her heart than
before, as if in apprehension. No I wouldn't. I was obliged to
confess that, to myself if not to her.

"John," said Jennie, "Mrs Goodsole has been here this afternoon. She
wants to know if we won't take our letters to this church the next
communion. It is the first of September."

"Well?" said I, for Jennie had stopped.

"She says that if we are going to make Wheathedge our home she hopes
we can find a pleasant home in the church here. I told her I could
not tell, we had only hired the house for the summer and might leave
in the fall. But if you have bought it, John, and I am, oh! so glad
you have and thank you so much"--one hand left the baby gently, and
was laid on my arm with the softest possible pressure by way of
emphasizing the thanks again,--"perhaps we ought to consider it."

"I have no notion of joining this church," said I. "It's in debt,