hings which are its own--among the rest, the Lost Ages.
BLIGHTED FLOWERS.
The facts of the following brief narrative, which are very few, and of but
melancholy interest, became known to me in the precise order in which they
are laid before the reader. They were forced upon my observation rather
than sought out by me; and they present, to my mind at least, a touching
picture of the bitter conflict industrious poverty is sometimes called
upon to wage with "the thousand natural shocks which flesh is heir to."
It must be now eight or nine years since, in traversing a certain street,
which runs for nearly half a mile in direct line southward, I first
encountered Ellen ----. She was then a fair young girl of seventeen, rather
above the middle size, and with a queen-like air and gait, which made her
appear taller than she really was. Her countenance, pale but healthy and
of a perfectly regular and classic mould, was charming to look upon from
its undefinable expression of lovableness and sweet temper. Her tiny feet
tripped noiselessly along the pavement, and a glance from her black eye
sometimes met mine like a ray of light, as, punctually at twenty minutes
to nine, we passed each other near ---- House, each of us on our way to the
theatre of our daily operations. She was an embroideress, as I soon
discovered from a small stretching-frame, containing some unfinished work,
which she occasionally carried in her hand. She set me a worthy example of
punctuality, and I could any day have told the time to a minute without
looking at my watch, by marking the spot where we passed each other. I
learned to look for her regularly, and before I knew her name, had given
her that of "Minerva," in acknowledgment of her efficiency as a mentor.
A year after the commencement of our acquaintance, which never ripened
into speech, happening to set out from home one morning a quarter of an
hour before my usual time, I made the pleasing discovery that my juvenile
Minerva had a younger sister, if possible still more beautiful than
herself. The pair were taking an affectionate leave of each other at the
crossing of the New Road, and the silver accents of the younger as kissing
her sister, she laughed out, "Good-by, Ellen," gave me the first
information of the real name of my pretty mentor. The little Mary--for so
was the younger called, who could not be more than eleven years of age--was
a slender, frolicsome sylph, with a skin of the p
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