he brilliance of whose gem-like character has been increased
by the hard rubs of the world. She has experienced much of Time's
chance and change--experiences and trials which deserve relating at
large, and which I shall hereafter give, as they were told me by
herself. Traces of the beauty she once possessed are yet pourtrayed on
her faded but placid brow, and appear in brighter lines on the fair
faces of her daughters. Her husband is from home, and the boys are gone
to the frolic, so we will have a quiet evening to ourselves. The
arrangement of this dwelling, although similar in feature to Sybel
Gray's, is yet, as it were, different in expression; for instance, there
is not such a display made of the home-manufactured garments, which it
is the pride of her heart to look upon. These, of course, are here in
existence, but are placed in another receptacle; and the place they hold
along the walls of Sybel's dwelling is here occupied by a book-case, in
which rests a store of treasured volumes; our conversation, too, is of a
different cast from the original, yet often commonplace, remarks of
Melancthon. 'Tis most likely a discussion of the speculative fancies
contained in those sweet brighteners of our solitude, the books; or in
tracing the same lights and shadows of character described in them, as
were occurring in the passages of life around us; or, perhaps, something
leads us to talk of him whose portrait hangs on the wall, the peasant
bard of Scotland, whose heart-strung harp awakens an answering chord in
every breast. The girls--who although born in this country and now
busied in its occupations, one in guiding the revolving wheel, and the
other in braiding a hat of poplar splints--join us in a manner which
tells how well they have been nurtured in the lore of the "mountain
heathery land," the birth-place of their parents; and the younger sister
Helen's silvery voice breathes a soft strain of Scottish melody.

Meanwhile a pleasant interruption occurs in the post-horn winding loud
and clear along the settlement. This is an event of rare occurrence in
the back woods, where the want of a regular post communication is much
felt, not so much in matters of worldly importance in business--these
being generally transacted without the medium of letters--as by those
who have loved ones in other lands. Alas! how often has the heart pined
with the sickness of hope deferred, in waiting in vain for those
long-expected lines, from the d