from, I believe, the age of
three, and now was by no means tired of it at sixty. My father, who
was to have inherited the paternal property, was, as I hear, a terrible
scamp and scapegrace, quarrelled with his family, and disappeared
altogether, living and dying at Paris; so far we knew through my mother,
who came, poor woman, with me, a child of six months, on her bosom, was
refused all shelter by my grandfather, but was housed and kindly cared
for by my good uncle Jacob.

Here she lived for about seven years, and the old gentleman, when she
died, wept over her grave a great deal more than I did, who was then too
young to mind anything but toys or sweetmeats.

During this time my grandfather was likewise carried off: he left, as I
said, the property to his son Edward, with a small proviso in his will
that something should be done for me, his grandson.

Edward was himself a widower, with one daughter, Mary, about three years
older than I, and certainly she was the dearest little treasure with
which Providence ever blessed a miserly father; by the time she was
fifteen, five farmers, three lawyers, twelve Protestant parsons, and a
lieutenant of Dragoons had made her offers: it must not be denied that
she was an heiress as well as a beauty, which, perhaps, had something
to do with the love of these gentlemen. However, Mary declared that she
intended to live single, turned away her lovers one after another, and
devoted herself to the care of her father.

Uncle Jacob was as fond of her as he was of any saint or martyr. As for
me, at the mature age of twelve I had made a kind of divinity of her,
and when we sang "Ave Maria" on Sundays I could not refrain from turning
to her, where she knelt, blushing and praying and looking like an angel,
as she was. Besides her beauty, Mary had a thousand good qualities; she
could play better on the harpsichord, she could dance more lightly, she
could make better pickles and puddings, than any girl in Alsace; there
was not a want or a fancy of the old hunks her father, or a wish of mine
or my uncle's, that she would not gratify if she could; as for herself,
the sweet soul had neither wants nor wishes except to see us happy.

I could talk to you for a year of all the pretty kindnesses that she
would do for me; how, when she found me of early mornings among my
books, her presence "would cast a light upon the day;" how she used to
smooth and fold my little surplice, and embroider me caps an