f good-will which argues more of personal comfort and
self-love than anything else. No, the loving look we speak of is as
often grave as gay. Its character depends very much on the face through
which it beams. And it cannot be counterfeited. Its _ring_ defies
imitation. Like the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears
of sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze in warm smiles;
like the northern lights of winter, it can gleam in depths of woe--but
it is always the same, modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less
patent to others, according to the natural amiability of him or her who
bestows it. No one can put it on. Still less can any one put it off.
Its range is universal; it embraces all mankind, though, _of course_, it
is intensified on a few favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a
renewed heart, and its foundation lies in love to God.

Young Varley's mother lived in a cottage which was of the smallest
possible dimensions consistent with comfort. It was made of logs, as,
indeed, were all the other cottages in the valley. The door was in the
centre, and a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it
into two rooms. One of these was subdivided by a thin partition, the
inner room being Mrs Varley's bedroom, the outer Dick's. Daniel Hood's
dormitory was a corner of the kitchen, which apartment served also as a
parlour.

The rooms were lighted by two windows, one on each side of the door,
which gave to the house the appearance of having a nose and two eyes.
Houses of this kind have literally got a sort of _expression_ on--if we
may use the word--their countenances. _Square_ windows give the
appearance of easy-going placidity; _longish_ ones, that of surprise.
Mrs Varley's was a surprised cottage, and this was in keeping with the
scene in which it stood, for the clear lake in front, studded with
islands, and the distant hills beyond, composed a scene so surprisingly
beautiful that it never failed to call forth an expression of astonished
admiration from every new visitor to the Mustang Valley.

"My boy," exclaimed Mrs Varley, as her son entered the cottage with a
bound, "why so hurried to-day? Deary me! where got you the grand gun?"

"Won it, mother!"

"Won it, my son?"

"Ay, won it, mother. Druve the nail _almost_, and would ha' druve it
_altogether_ had I bin more used to Joe Blunt's rifle."

Mrs Varley's heart beat high, and her face flushed with pride as