nded by hope--a penury so extreme that every
succeeding day seemed as if won by some providential interference from
absolute want. And she was now, to all appearance, fast sinking in the
struggle. The autumn was well nigh over: she had been weak and ailing
for months before, and had now become so feeble as to be confined for
days together to her bed. But, happily, the poor solitary woman had, at
least, one attached friend in the daughter of a farmer of the parish, a
young and beautiful girl, who, though naturally of no melancholy
temperament, seemed to derive almost all she enjoyed of pleasure from
the society of the widow. Helen Henry was in her twenty-third year; but
she seemed older in spirit than in years. She was thin and pale, though
exquisitely formed; there was a drooping heaviness in her fine eyes, and
a cast of pensive thought on her forehead, that spoke of a longer
experience of grief than so brief a portion of life might be supposed to
have furnished. She had once lovers; but they had gradually dropped away
in the despair of moving her, and awed by a deep and settled pensiveness
which, in the gayest season of youth, her character had suddenly but
permanently assumed. Besides, they all knew her affections were already
engaged, and had come to learn, though late and unwillingly, that there
are cases in which no rival can be more formidable than a dead one.

Autumn, I have said, was near its close. The weather had given
indications of an early and severe winter; and the widow, whose worn-out
and delicate frame was affected by every change of atmosphere, had for a
few days been more than usually indisposed. It was now long past noon,
and she had but just risen. The apartment, however, bore witness that
her young friend had paid her the accustomed morning visit; the fire was
blazing on a clean comfortable-looking hearth, and every little piece of
furniture it contained was arranged with the most scrupulous care. Her
devotions were hardly over, when the well-known tap was again heard at
the door.

"Come in, my lassie," said the widow, and then lowering her voice, as
the light foot of her friend was heard on the threshold--"God," she
said, "has been ever kind to me--far, very far aboon my best deservings;
and, oh, may He bless and reward her who has done so meikle, meikle for
me!" The young girl entered and took her seat beside her.

"You told me, mother," she said, "that to-morrow is Earnest's birthday.
I have b