popular mind,
there is none that takes such strong hold as jealousy, the terrible
hydra of the human heart.

I believe I was generally beloved, and that a deep feeling of sympathy
for my misfortunes pervaded the community, for I had never been elated
by prosperity; but Ernest, whose exclusiveness and reserve was deemed
haughtiness, was far from being popular. Mrs. Linwood was revered by
all, and blessed as the benefactress of the poor and the comforter of
the afflicted; but she was lifted by fortune above the social level of
the community, and few, very few were on terms of intimacy with the
inmates of the Granite Castle, as Grandison Place was often called. Its
massy stone walls, its turreted roof, sweeping lawn, and elevated
position, seemed emblematic of the aristocracy of its owners; and though
the blessings of the lower classes, and the respect and reverence of the
higher, rested upon it, there was a mediocral one, such as is found in
every community, that looked with envy on those, whose characters they
could not appreciate, because they were lifted so high above their own
level.

I have spoken of Dr. Harlowe and Mr. Regulus as the most valued friends
of the family; but there was one whom it would be ungrateful in me to
omit, and whose pure and sacred traits came forth in the dark hours
through which I had just passed, like those worlds of light which _are
never seen by day_. I allude to Mr. Somerville, the pastor of the
parish, and who might truly be called a man of God. The aged minister,
who had presided over the church during my mother's life, had been
gathered to his fathers, and his name was treasured, a golden sheaf, in
the garner of memory. The successor, who had to walk in the holy
footprints he had left in the valley, was obliged to take heed to his
steps and to shake the dust of earth from his sandals as he went along.
In our day of sunshine he had stood somewhat aloof, for he felt his
mission was to the poor and lowly, to the sons and daughters of want and
affliction; but as soon as sickness and sorrow darkened the household,
he came with lips distilling balm, and hands ready to pour oil on the
bruised and wounded heart.

Methinks I see him now, as when he knelt by my bedside, after I aroused
from my long and deadly trance. No outward graces adorned his person,
but the beauty of holiness was on his brow, and its low, sweet music in
his somewhat feeble accents. It seemed to me as if an angel were
p