adness. It is a woman's. She is dressed in deepest
mourning, and is--Heaven be with her in her solitariness!--a recent widow.
She is thirty years of age at least, and is still adorned with half the
beauty of her youth, not injured by the hand of suffering and time. The
expression of the countenance is one of calmness, or, it may be,
resignation--for the tranquility has evidently been taught and learnt as
the world's lesson, and is not native there. Near her sits a man benign of
aspect, advanced in years; his hair and eyebrows white from the winter's
fall; his eye and mien telling of decline, easy and placid as the close of
softest music, and nothing harsher. Care and trouble he has never known;
he is too old to learn them now. His dress is very plain. The room in
which he sits is devoid of ornament, and furnished like the study of a
simple scholar. Books take up the walls. A table and two chairs are the
amount of furniture. The Vicar has a letter in his hand, which he peruses
with attention; and having finished, he turns with a bright smile towards
his guest, and tells her she is welcome.

"You are very welcome, madam, for your own sake, and for the sake of him
whose signature is here; although, I fear, you will scarcely find amongst
us the happiness you look for. There will be time, however, to consider"--

"I _have_ considered, sir;" answered the lady, somewhat mournfully. "My
resolution has not been formed in haste, believe me."

The vicar paused, and reperused the letter.

"You are probably aware, madam, that my brother has communicated"--

"Every thing. Your people are poor and ignorant. I can be useful to them.
Reduced as I am, I may afford them help. I may instruct the
children--attend the sick--relieve the hungry. Can I do this?"

"Pardon me, dear lady. I am loth to repress the noble impulses by which
you are actuated. It would be very wrong to deny the value and importance
of such aid; but I must entreat you to remember your former life and
habits. I fear this place is not what you expect it. In the midst of my
people, and withdrawn from all society, I have accustomed myself to seek
for consolation in the faithful discharge of my duties, and in communion
with the chosen friends of my youth whom you see around me. You are not
aware of what you undertake. There will be no companionship for you--no
female friend--no friend but myself. Our villagers are labouring men and
women--our population consists of such a