o you, his pigs run to you,
rather disappointed, for you have not his stick to rub their backs with.
Rise in the early morning, when the dew is sparkling on the lawn, and
his spaniel greets you, runs round and round you with a bark of joyous
welcome; and even his cat will, as no other cat will, show you round the
gravel walks. And thrice happy are all when their expected master
appears, somewhat limping in his gait, (and how few, under his continual
pain, would preserve his cheerfulness as he does!) Every creature looks
up into his face as better than sunshine, and he forgets none. He has a
good word for all, and often more than that in his pockets. The alms
beggar, the Robin, is remembered and housed. There is his little
freehold of wood raised some feet from the ground opposite the breakfast
room window--an entrance both ways--there is he free to come and go, and
always find a meal laid for him. Happy bird, he pays neither window-tax
nor servant's tax, and yet who enjoys more daylight, or is better
served?

Our good old friend still goes on improving this and improving that--has
his little farm and his garden all in the highest perfection. Nor is the
_least_ care bestowed on the greenhouse, and the little aviary
adjoining; for here are objects of feminine pleasure, and he loves not
himself so well as he does the mistress of all, the mother and the
partner. O the terrestrial paradise, in which to wait old age, and still
enjoy, and breathe to the last the sunshiny breath of heaven, and feel
that all is blessed and blessing; for there is peace, and that is the
true name for goodness within! You shall have, my dear Eusebius, no
farther description. A drop-scene, however, is not amiss to any little
conversational drama. You may shift it, if you like, occasionally to the
small snug library--just such a one as you would have for such a
retreat. Our excellent friend took less part in our talk than we could
have wished; for it began generally at night, and his infirmity sent
him to bed early. But in spite of a little remnant of influenza, I and
the Curate often kept it up to a late hour, which you, Eusibius, will
construe into an _early_ one. Never mind; though, perhaps, it was
whispered to his discredit that the Curate kept bad hours. Those,
however, who _knew_ the fact did not keep better, and so he thought all
safe. How sweet and consoling is sometimes ignorance!

Now, the Curate--let me introduce you,--"My dear Eusebius,