the end of our garden; but no, I would not go that way neither:
letting go his hand, I said, "You do not know the way--I will shew
you:" and making what haste I could among the long grass and thistles,
and jumping over the low graves, he said, as he followed what he
called my _wayward steps_, "What a positive soul this little niece of
mine is! I knew the way to your mother's house before you were born,
child." At last I stopped at my mother's grave, and, pointing to the
tombstone, said, "Here is mamma," in a voice of exultation, as if I
had now convinced him that I knew the way best: I looked up in his
face to see him acknowledge his mistake; but Oh, what a face of
sorrow did I see! I was so frightened, that I have but an imperfect
recollection of what followed. I remember I pulled his coat, and cried
"Sir, sir," and tried to move him. I knew not what to do; my mind
was in a strange confusion; I thought I had done something wrong in
bringing the gentleman to mamma to make him cry so sadly; but what it
was I could not tell. This grave had always been a scene of delight
to me. In the house my father would often be weary of my prattle, and
send me from him; but here he was all my own. I might say anything
and be as frolicsome as I pleased here; all was chearfulness and good
humour in our visits to mamma, as we called it. My father would tell
me how quietly mamma slept there, and that he and his little Betsy
would one day sleep beside mamma in that grave; and when I went to
bed, as I laid my little head on the pillow, I used to wish I was
sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma; and in my childish
dreams I used to fancy myself there, and it was a place within the
ground, all smooth, and soft, and green. I never made out any figure
of mamma, but still it was the tombstone, and papa, and the smooth
green grass, and my head resting upon the elbow of my father.

How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief I know not; to me
it seemed a very long time: at last he took me in his arms, and held
me so tight, that I began to cry, and ran home to my father, and told
him, that a gentleman was crying about mamma's pretty letters.

No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my father and my
uncle. I remember that it was the first day I ever saw my father weep:
that I was in sad trouble, and went into the kitchen and told Susan,
our servant, that papa was crying; and she wanted to keep me with her
that I might not distur