s a widow, and she had followed the fortunes of
her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her husband. Love
for her only brother induced her to forsake the peaceful village of
Maryland and enter upon the wild life of a backwoods settlement.
Dick's mother was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was
stamped with a species of beauty which _never_ fades--the beauty of a
loving look. Ah! the brow of snow and the peach-bloom cheek may snare
the heart of man for a time, but the _loving look_ alone can forge
that adamantine chain that time, age, eternity shall never break.

Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt to analyze this
look which characterized Mrs. Varley. A rare diamond is worth stopping
to glance at, even when one is in a hurry. The brightest jewel in the
human heart is worth a thought or two. By _a loving_ _look_ we do not
mean a look of love bestowed on a beloved object. _That_ is common
enough; and thankful should we be that it is so common in a world
that's overfull of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile and look
of intense affection with which some people--good people too--greet
friend and foe alike, and by which effort to work out their _beau
ideal_ of the expression of Christian love they do signally damage
their cause, by saddening the serious and repelling the gay. Much less
do we mean that _perpetual_ smile of 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