oupled
the setting of the delicate little stitches with the idea of doing a
service or giving a pleasure to somebody. This was a bag for Nancy.
To-morrow, it was a cravat for Chauncey. Now, this same Chauncey was my
special delight, he being a lively youth of eighteen, the only son at
home, with whom, after tea, I had always a merry race, or some
inspiriting game of romps. And then, feat of all, came the hemming of a
handkerchief for Mr. Williams.

But who was Mr. Williams? I had no manner of idea who he was, or what
relation he held to the family, which entitled him to come in
unceremoniously at breakfast, dinner or tea-time, and gave him the
privilege of driving my Cousin Mary Rose over hill and valley for the
benefit of her health. In these rides I often had my share, for my
little bench fitted nicely into the old-fashioned chaise, where I sat
quietly between the two, looking out for wonders with which to interrupt
the talk going on above my head. Not that the talk was altogether
unintelligible to me. It often turned on themes of which I had heard
much. It spoke of God, of heaven, of the goodness and love of the
blessed Savior, of the hopes and privileges of the Christian. I liked
to hear it; there was no constraint in it. They might have talked of any
thing else; but I knew they chose the topic because they liked it,--I
felt that they were true Christians, and that it was safe and good to be
near them. Sometimes the conversation turned on earthly hopes and plans,
and then it became less intelligible to me.

One ride, I remember, which occupied a long summer afternoon. We left
home after an early dinner, and wound our way over hills rocky and
steep, from which we would catch views of the river, keeping always near
its bank, till we came to Mr. Williams's own home, or rather that of his
mother. What a pleasant visit was that! How Mr. Williams's mother and
sisters rejoiced over our coming! What a pet they made of me! and how
much they seemed inclined to pet my Cousin Mary Rose. I have an
indistinct idea of a faint flush passing now and then over the White
Rose. What a joyous, bountiful time it was! Such pears, and peaches, and
apples as were heaped up on the occasion! How social and cheerful was
the gathering around the teatable, lavishly spread with dainties!

How golden and glorious looked the hills, the trees, and the river in
the last rays of the setting sun, as we started from the door on our
return! How the su