der than myself, and yet I had
begun to live far earlier.

In the later part of the day, Mrs. Linwood, who had also remained at
home, asked me to accompany her in a ride. She wished to visit several
who were sick and afflicted, and I always felt it a privilege to be her
companion.

"Will you object to calling here?" she asked, when we approached the old
gray cottage, once my mother's home and my own. "There is a sick woman
here, whom I wish to see. You can walk about the green skirting the
woods, if you prefer. This enchanting breeze will give new life to your
body and new brightness to your spirits."

I thanked her for the permission, knowing well the kind regard to my
feelings which induced her to give it. She knew sad memories must hang
around the apartments where my mother and the faithful Peggy had
suffered and died; and that it would be a trial to me to see strangers
occupying the places so hallowed by association.

Time had been at work on that old cottage, with its noiseless but
effacing fingers. And its embroidering fingers too, for the roof from
which many a shingle had fallen, was green with garlands of moss,
wrought into the damp and mouldering wood with exquisite grace and
skill. I turned away with a sigh, and beheld infancy by the side of the
humble ruin, the oriental palace which was my bridal home, and wondered
at the marvellous changes of life.

I wandered to the welling spring by whose gushing waters I had so often
sat, indulging the wild poetry of my childish imagination. I gazed
around, scarcely recognizing the once enchanting spot. A stone had
literally rolled against the mouth of the fountain, and the crystal
diamonds no longer sparkled in the basin below. An awkward pump, put up
near the cabin, explained this appearance of neglect and wildness. The
soft grassy slope where I used to recline and watch the fountain's
silvery play, was overgrown with tall, rank, rustling weeds, among which
I could distinguish the deadly bloom and sickening odor of the
nightshade. There was a rock covered with the brightest, richest
covering of dark green moss, on which I seated myself, and gave myself
up to the memories of the past. Perhaps this was the same rock on which
Richard Clyde and I had often sat side by side, and watched the shadows
of twilight purple the valley.

I untied my bonnet and laid it on the long grass, for I was shaded from
the western sun, and the breeze blew fresh and pure from the hills