erhaps
had Clinton been spared, he might have imbibed some sentiment of evil,
which would have poisoned his beautiful nature and prompted him away
into paths of sin. Young Walter Mowry was a prodigal, and likely to
bring down his poor old mother in sorrow to the grave. George Richmond
had no idea of the value of the money left him as a father's
hard-earned legacy; no self-reliance; and was likely to die miserable
and poor. Perhaps, had Clinton lived to enjoy the blessings of such a
home, he had been a poor prodigal, or met misfortunes and griefs.

Then she must acknowledge, that while her heart had been afflicted, it
had been softened and refined; while her faith had been tried, it had
grown strong and buoyant as an eagle's wings. Heaven seemed all about
her now, as it had not seemed before her bereavement; the lights of its
holy joy came gleaming through the veil; and its pure inhabitants were
felt to range around, and sympathize, and bless.

As a central bliss of existence, Fanny had grown to early womanhood,
while her mother seemed still young to be her companion, and Fanny was
blooming as the flowers and trees that had been her communicants, pure
as the fountains that mirrored her loveliness, and blithe as the birds
that welcomed her rural walks. Fanny stood above a medium height, and
though she stooped a little at the wool-wheel, and in a ramble on the
hills, she presented a comely figure and interesting mien.

She was too white to please all tastes; her hair was almost a
cream-color; yet it was long, abundant and glossy, and was greatly
admired by some. Her eyes were the lightest sky-blue, yet they were
full and quick, and flashed the fire of a luminous soul; and not glassy
and languid, as blue eyes often are. She had a nose, mouth and teeth,
like her father's, with her mother's cheeks, all ruddy-red with her
mother's maiden blushes. She had hands and feet for a Bloomer, had
Bloomers bloomed in her time. She had a round, clear, hilarious voice,
that gave the birds lessons in melody, softened and sweetened the
gentlest gales, and gladdened the day and the night on the farm. She
loved her home and friends; she loved Irving, and Scott, and Goldsmith;
she loved Beattie's Minstrel, Milton's Comus, and Campbell's Wyoming;
she loved the garden and fields; she loved the woods, and lake, and
sky; she loved bee-balm and clover; she loved double-pinks, and
double-roses; she tasted the fragrance of peaches and app