a tint of exquisite softness. In a
small and rude garden, surrounded by straggling elder-bushes, which
formed a sort of imperfect hedge, sat near to the beehives, by the
produce of which she lived, that "woman old" whom Lucy had brought her
father hither to visit.

Whatever there had been which was disastrous in her fortune, whatever
there was miserable in her dwelling, it was easy to judge by the first
glance that neither years, poverty, misfortune, nor infirmity had broken
the spirit of this remarkable woman.

She occupied a turf seat, placed under a weeping birch of unusual
magnitude and age, as Judah is represented sitting under her palm-tree,
with an air at once of majesty and of dejection. Her figure was tall,
commanding, and but little bent by the infirmities of old age. Her
dress, though that of a peasant, was uncommonly clean, forming in that
particular a strong contrast to most of her rank, and was disposed with
an attention to neatness, and even to taste, equally unusual. But it was
her expression of countenance which chiefly struck the spectator, and
induced most persons to address her with a degree of deference and
civility very inconsistent with the miserable state of her dwelling, and
which, nevertheless, she received with that easy composure which showed
she felt it to be her due. She had once been beautiful, but her beauty
had been of a bold and masculine cast, such as does not survive the
bloom of youth; yet her features continued to express strong sense, deep
reflection, and a character of sober pride, which, as we have already
said of her dress, appeared to argue a conscious superiority to those
of her own rank. It scarce seemed possible that a face, deprived of the
advantage of sight, could have expressed character so strongly; but her
eyes, which were almost totally closed, did not, by the display of their
sightless orbs, mar the countenance to which they could add nothing. She
seemed in a ruminating posture, soothed, perhaps, by the murmurs of the
busy tribe around her to abstraction, though not to slumber.

Lucy undid the latch of the little garden gate, and solicited the old
woman's attention. "My father, Alice, is come to see you."

"He is welcome, Miss Ashton, and so are you," said the old woman,
turning and inclining her head towards her visitors.

"This is a fine morning for your beehives, mother," said the Lord
Keeper, who, struck with the outward appearance of Alice, was somewhat
curi