me within her an awful
thing--till, in her resignation, she feared to die. But look on that
flower by the hill-side path, withered, as it seems, beyond the power of
sun and air and dew and rain to restore it to life. Next day, you happen
to return to the place, its leaves are of a dazzling green, its
blossoms of a dazzling crimson. So was it with this Orphan. Nature, as
if kindling towards her in sudden love, not only restored her in a few
weeks to life--but to perfect health; and ere long she, whom few had
looked at, and for whom still fewer cared, was acknowledged to be the
fairest girl in all the parish--while she continued to sit, as she had
always done from very childhood, on the _poor's form_ in the lobby of
the kirk. Such a face, such a figure, and such a manner, in one so
poorly attired and so meanly placed, attracted the eyes of the young
Ladies in the Patron's Gallery. Margaret Burnside was taken under their
especial protection--sent for two years to a superior school, where she
was taught all things useful for persons in humble life--and while yet
scarcely fifteen, returning to her native parish, was appointed teacher
of a small school of her own, to which were sent all the girls who could
be spared from home, from those of parents poor as her own had been, up
to those of the farmers and small proprietors, who knew the blessings of
a good education--and that without it, the minister may preach in vain.
And thus Margaret Burnside grew and blossomed like the lily of the
field--and every eye blessed her--and she drew her breath in gratitude,
piety, and peace.

Thus a few happy and useful years passed by--and it was forgotten by
all--but herself--that Margaret Burnside was an orphan. But to be
without one near and dear blood-relative in all the world, must often,
even to the happy heart of youthful innocence, be more than a pensive--a
painful thought; and therefore, though Margaret Burnside was always
cheerful among her little scholars, yet in the retirement of her own
room (a pretty parlour, with a window looking into a flower-garden), and
on her walks among the braes, her mien was somewhat melancholy, and her
eyes wore that touching expression, which seems doubtfully to
denote--neither joy nor sadness--but a habit of soul which, in its
tranquillity, still partakes of the mournful, as if memory dwelt often
on past sorrows, and hope scarcely ventured to indulge in dreams of
future repose. That profound orphan-fee