"

"But why do you not break open the spinnet? Do break it open, aunt; I
want to see the inside of it so much."

"No, Mabel; the lock is a peculiar one, and could not be broken
without defacing the marquetre on the cover, which I should not like
to do. My poor mother was so proud of that cover, and used to dust and
polish it with her own hands."

"What! herself?" exclaimed the pretty Mabel; "why did not her servants
do it?"

"Because, my dear, she had but one."

"But one! I remember when my poor mamma had none," sighed Mabel, "and
we were _so_ miserable."

"But not from lack of attendants, I think," answered Sarah Bond. "If
they _are_ comforts, they are careful ones, and sadly wasteful. We
were never so happy as we were then. Your mother and I used to set
the milk, and mind the poultry, and make the butter, and cultivate the
flower-garden, and help to do the house work; and then in the evening
we would run in the meadows, come home laden with wild flowers, and
tired as we were by alternate work and play, my dear mother would play
on that old instrument, and my poor father sing, and we sisters wound
up the evening by a merry dance, your mother and myself trying hard
which could keep up the dance longest."

Mabel resumed her embroidery without once speaking. Sarah Bond laid
down the book she had been reading, and moved restlessly about; her
manner, when either thoughtful or excited, prevented her features
from being disturbed; so her feelings were soothed by wandering from
place to place, or table to table; but after a considerable pause,
she said--"I wish you were a little older, Mabel; I wish you to be
older, that I might convince you, dear, that it is in vain to expect
happiness from the possession of wealth, unless we circulate it, share
it with others, and yet do so prudently and watchingly. Yet, my poor
dear father would be very angry if he heard me say that, Mabel."

"Yes, I know," interrupted the thoughtless girl, "_for he was a
miser_."

"Hush, Mabel!" exclaimed her aunt; "how can you say anything so harsh
of him from whom we inherit all we have. He was careful, peculiar,
very peculiar; but he saved all for me; and may God judge mercifully
between him and me if I cannot in all things do as he would have had
me," and then she paused, as if reasoning and arguing with herself;
apologising for the human throes in her own bosom that led her to act
so frequently in direct opposition to her father's desires;