about him, despondency fled from his
presence and gave place to hope.

I love to recall this era of my life. If I have known deeper happiness,
more exalted raptures, they were dearly purchased by the sacrifice of
the peace, the salubrity of mind I then enjoyed. I had a little room of
my own there, where I was as much at home as I was at Mrs. Linwood's.
There was a place for my bonnet and parasol, a shelf for my books, a low
rocking-chair placed at the pleasantest window for me; and, knowing Mrs.
Harlowe's methodical habits, I was always careful to leave every thing,
as I found it, in Quaker-like order. This was the smallest return I
could make for her hospitality, and she appreciated it far beyond its
merits. The good doctor, with all his virtues, tried the patience of his
wife sometimes beyond its limits, by his excessive carelessness. He
_would_ forget to hang his hat in the hall, and toss it on the bright,
polished mahogany table. He _would_ forget to use the scraper by the
steps, or the mat by the door, and leave tracks on the clean floor or
nice carpet. These little things really worried her; I could see they
did. She never said any thing; but she would get up, take up the hat,
brush the table with her handkerchief, and hang the hat in its right
place, or send the house-girl with the broom after his disfiguring
tracks.

"Pardon me, my dear," he would say with imperturbable
good-nature,--"really, I am too forgetful. I must have a self-regulating
machine attached to my movements,--a portable duster and hat-catcher.
But, the blessed freedom of home. It constitutes half its joy. Dear me!
I would not exchange the privilege of doing as I please for the
emperorship of the celestial realms."

But, pleasant as were my noon rests, my homeward walks were pleasanter
still. The dream-girl, after being awake for long hours to the practical
duties of life, loved to ramble alone, till she felt herself involved in
the soft haziness of thought, which was to the soul what the blue
mistiness was to the distant hills. I could wander then alone to the
churchyard, and yield myself unmolested to the sacred influences of
memory. Do you remember my asking Richard Clyde to plant a white rose by
my mother's grave? He had done so, soon after her burial, and now, when
rather more than a year had passed, it was putting forth fair buds and
blossoms, and breathing of renovation over the ruins of life. I never
saw this rose-tree without blessing