came, and
how sorry I still was whenever I thought of the many quarrels I had
had with him.

My father smiled, and took hold of my hand, saying, "I will tell you
all about this, my little penitent. This is the sort of way in which
we all feel, when those we love are taken from us.--When our dear
friends are with us, we go on enjoying their society, without much
thought or consideration of the blessing we are possessed of, nor do
we too nicely weigh the measure of our daily actions;--we let them
freely share our kind or our discontented moods; and, if any little
bickerings disturb our friendship, it does but the more endear us to
each other when we are in a happier temper. But these things come over
us like grievous faults when the object of our affection is gone for
ever. Your dear mamma and I had no quarrels; yet in the first days of
my lonely sorrow, how many things came into my mind that I might have
done to have made her happier. It is so with you, my child. You did
all a child could do to please your uncle, and dearly did he love
you; and these little things which now disturb your tender mind, were
remembered with delight by your uncle; he was telling me in our last
walk, just perhaps as you were thinking about it with sorrow, of the
difficulty he had in getting into your good graces when he first came;
he will think of these things with pleasure when he is far away. Put
away from you this unfounded grief; only let it be a lesson to you to
be as kind as possible to those you love; and remember, when they are
gone from you, you will never think you had been kind enough. Such
feelings as you have now described are the lot of humanity. So you
will feel when I am no more, and so will your children feel when you
are dead. But your uncle will come back again, Betsy, and we will now
think of where we are to get the cage to keep the talking parrot in,
he is to bring home; and go and tell Susan to bring the candles, and
ask her if the nice cake is almost baked, that she promised to give us
for our tea."

At this point, my dear miss Villiers, you thought fit to break off
your story, and the wet eyes of your young auditors, seemed to
confess that you had succeeded in moving their feelings with your
pretty narrative. It now fell by lot to the turn of miss Manners
to relate her story, and we were all sufficiently curious to know
what so very young an historian had to tell of herself.--I shall
cont