ge, adopted
a rule for the government of her manner of living, which was consistent
with her duties. They mixed in general society sparingly; and, above all,
they rigidly adhered to the obedience to the injunction which commanded
them to keep the Sabbath day holy; a duty of no trifling difficulty to
perform in fashionable society in the city of London, or, indeed, in any
other place, where the influence of fashion has supplanted the laws of
God.

Mrs. Wilson was not a bigot; but she knew and performed her duty rigidly.
It was a pleasure to her to do so. It would have been misery to do
otherwise. In the singleness of heart and deep piety of her niece, she had
a willing pupil to her system of morals, and a rigid follower of her
religious practices. As they both knew that the temptations to go astray
were greater in town than in country, they kept a strict guard over the
tendency to err, and in watchfulness found their greatest security.

John Moseley, next to his friends, loved his bays: indeed, if the
aggregate of his affections for these and Lady Herriefield had been put in
opposite scales, we strongly suspect the side of the horses would
predominate.

One Sunday, soon after being domesticated, John, who had soberly attended
morning service with the ladies, came into a little room where the more
reflecting part of the family were assembled, in search of his wife.

Grace, we have before mentioned, had become a real member of that church
in which she had been educated, and had entered, under the direction of
Dr. Ives and Mrs. Wilson, into an observance of its wholesome ordinances.
Grace was certainly piously inclined, if not devout. Her feelings on the
subject of religion had been sensibly awakened during their voyage to
Lisbon; and at the period of which we write, Mrs. Moseley was as sincerely
disposed to perform her duty as her powers admitted. To the request of her
husband, that she would take a seat in his phaeton while he drove her
round the park once or twice, Grace gave a mild refusal, by saying,

"It is Sunday, my dear Moseley."

"Do you think I don't know that?" cried John, gaily. "There will, be
everybody there, and, the better day, the better deed."

Now, Moseley, if he had been asked to apply this speech to the case before
them, would have frankly owned his inability; but his wife did not make
the trial: she was contented with saying, as she laid down her book to
look on a face she so tenderly loved,