us. The forgiveness
we have so many tim es prayed for, we have not yet dared to receive,
though we know it is our own.

That November day was just what this has been fair, mild, and sweet; and
how much did that dear one enjoy it! The earth was dry, and as we looked
from the window we saw no verdure but a small line of green on the south
side of the garden enclosure, and around the trunk of the old pear-tree,
and here and there a little oasis from which the strong wind of the
previous day, had lifted the thick covering of dry leaves, and one or
two shrubs, whose foliage feared not the cold breath of winter. The
gaudy hues, too, which nature had lately worn, were all faded; there was
a pale, yellow-leafed vine clambering over the verdureless lilac, and
far down in the garden might be seen a shrub covered with bright scarlet
berries. But the warm south wind was sweet and fragrant, as if it
had strayed through bowers of roses and eglantines. Deep-leaden and
snow-white clouds blended together, floated lazily through the sky, and
the sun coquetted all day with the earth, though his glance was not, for
once, more than half averted, while his smile was bright and loving, as
it bad been months before, when her face was fair and blooming.

But how sadly has this day passed, and how unlike is this calm, sweet
evening to the one which closed that November day! Nature is the same.
The moonbeams look as bright and silvery through the brown, naked arms
of the tall oaks, and the dark evergreen forest lifts up its head to the
sky, striving, but in vain, to shut out the soft light from the little
stream, whose murmurings, seem more sad and complaining than at another
season of the year, perhaps because it feels how soon the icy bands of
winter will stay its free course, and hush its low whisperings. The soft
breeze sighs as sadly through the vines which still wreath themselves
around the window; though seemingly conscious they have ceased to adorn
it, they are striving to loosen their hold, and bow themselves to the
earth; and the chirping of a cricket in the chimney is as sad and
mournful as it was then. But the low moan of the sufferer, the but
half-smothered, agonized sobs of those fair girls, the deep groan
which all my proud cousin's firmness could not hush, and the words of
reproach, which, though I was so guilty myself, and though I saw them so
repentant, I could not withhold, are all stilled now.

Ada and Mary have just left m