tified me with very sensible and pious conversation. He related some
remarkable testimonies of the excellent disposition of the Dairyman's
daughter, as they appeared from recent intercourse which he had had with
her.

"She is a bright diamond, sir," said the soldier, "and will soon shine
brighter than any diamond upon earth."

We passed through lanes and fields, over hills and through valleys, by
open and retired paths, sometimes crossing over, and sometimes following
the windings of a little brook, which gently murmured by the road-side.
Conversation beguiled the distance, and shortened the apparent time of
our journey, till we were nearly arrived at the Dairyman's cottage.

As we approached it, we became silent. Thoughts of death, eternity, and
salvation, inspired by the sight of a house where a dying believer lay,
filled my own mind, and, I doubt not, that of my companion also.

No living object yet appeared, except the Dairyman's dog, keeping a kind
of mute watch at the door; for he did not, as formerly, bark at my
approach. He seemed to partake so far of the feelings appropriate to the
circumstances of the family, as not to wish to give a hasty or painful
alarm. He came forward to the little wicket-gate, then looked back at
the house-door, as if conscious there was sorrow within. It was as if he
wanted to say, "Tread softly over the threshold, as you enter the house
of mourning; for my master's heart is full of grief."

The soldier took my horse, and tied it up in a shed. A solemn serenity
appeared to surround the whole place; it was only interrupted by the
breezes passing through the large elm-trees, which stood near the house,
and which my imagination indulged itself in thinking were plaintive sighs
of sorrow. I gently opened the door; no one appeared; and all was yet
silent. The soldier followed; we came to the foot of the stairs.

"They are come," said a voice, which I knew to be the father's "they are
come."

He appeared at the top. I gave him my hand, and said nothing. On
entering the room above, I saw the aged mother and her son supporting the
much-loved sister: the son's wife sat weeping in a window-seat, with a
child on her lap; two or three persons attended in the room to discharge
any office which friendship or necessity might require.

I sat down by the bed-side. The mother could not weep, but now and then
sighed deeply, as she alternately looked at Elizabeth and at me. The big
tear