ituations
sheltered from the winds; one of the few fine days just before the
rushing in of winter. They had milked their cows, and had just turned
them out again, when they both sat down with their pails before them on
a log, which was in front of Malachi's lodge, now used as a cow-house.

"Do you know, Mary," said Emma, after a pause, "I'm almost sorry that I
have received a letter from Miss Paterson."

"Indeed, dear Emma!"

"Yes, indeed, it has unsettled me. I did nothing but dream all last
night. Everything was recalled to my mind--all that I most wished to
forget. I fancied myself again engaged in all the pursuits of our
much-loved home; I was playing the harp, you were accompanying on the
piano as usual; we walked out in the shrubberies; we took an airing in
the carriage; all the servants were before me; we went to the village
and to the almshouses; we were in the garden picking dahlias and roses;
I was just going up to dress for a very large dinner-party, and had rung
the bell for Simpson, when I woke up, and found myself in a log-hut,
with my eyes fixed upon the rafters and bark covering of the roof,
thousands of miles from Wexton Hall, and half-an-hour longer in bed than
a dairy-maid should be."

"I will confess, my dear Emma, that I passed much such a night; old
associations will rise up again when so forcibly brought to our
remembrance as they have been by Miss Paterson's letters, but I strove
all I could to banish them from my mind, and not indulge in useless
repining."

"Repine, I do not, Mary, at least, I hope not, but one cannot well help
regretting; I cannot help remembering, as Macduff says, that `such
things were.'"

"He might well say so, Emma; for what had he lost? his wife and all his
children, ruthlessly murdered; but what have we lost in comparison?
nothing--a few luxuries. Have we not health and spirits? Have we not
our kind uncle and aunt, who have fostered us--our cousins so attached
to us?

"Had it not been for the kindness of our uncle and aunt, who have
brought us up as their own children, should we, poor orphans, have ever
been partakers of those luxuries which you now regret? Ought we not
rather to thank Heaven that circumstances have enabled us to shew some
gratitude for benefits heaped upon us? How much greater are these
privations to my uncle and aunt now that they are so much more advanced
in years, and have been so much longer accustomed to competence and
ease; and sh