ce--as they were not the costume of 1780, so neither were they
that of 1826; they are altogether a style peculiar to the individual
Aunt Margaret. There she still sits, as she sat thirty years since, with
her wheel or the stocking, which she works by the fire in winter and by
the window in summer; or, perhaps, venturing as far as the porch in an
unusually fine summer evening. Her frame, like some well-constructed
piece of mechanics, still performs the operations for which it had
seemed destined--going its round with an activity which is gradually
diminished, yet indicating no probability that it will soon come to a
period.

The solicitude and affection which had made Aunt Margaret the willing
slave to the inflictions of a whole nursery, have now for their object
the health and comfort of one old and infirm man--the last remaining
relative of her family, and the only one who can still find interest in
the traditional stores which she hoards, as some miser hides the gold
which he desires that no one should enjoy after his death.

My conversation with Aunt Margaret generally relates little either to
the present or to the future. For the passing day we possess as much as
we require, and we neither of us wish for more; and for that which is
to follow, we have, on this side of the grave, neither hopes, nor fears,
nor anxiety. We therefore naturally look back to the past, and forget
the present fallen fortunes and declined importance of our family in
recalling the hours when it was wealthy and prosperous.

With this slight introduction, the reader will know as much of Aunt
Margaret and her nephew as is necessary to comprehend the following
conversation and narrative.

Last week, when, late in a summer evening, I went to call on the old
lady to whom my reader is now introduced, I was received by her with all
her usual affection and benignity, while, at the same time, she seemed
abstracted and disposed to silence. I asked her the reason. "They have
been clearing out the old chapel," she said; "John Clayhudgeons having,
it seems, discovered that the stuff within--being, I suppose, the
remains of our ancestors--was excellent for top-dressing the meadows."

Here I started up with more alacrity than I have displayed for some
years; but sat down while my aunt added, laying her hand upon my sleeve,
"The chapel has been long considered as common ground, my dear, and used
for a pinfold, and what objection can we have to the man for