urest carnation, and a
face like that of Sir Joshua's seraph in the National Gallery, but with
larger orbs and longer lashes shading them. As she danced and leaped
before me on her way home again, I could not but admire the natural ease
and grace of every motion, nor fail to comprehend and sympathize with the
anxious looks of the sisters' only parent, their widowed mother, who stood
watching the return of the younger darling at the door of a very humble
two-storied dwelling, in the vicinity of the New River Head.

Nearly two years passed away, during which, with the exception of Sundays
and holidays, every recurring morning brought me the grateful though
momentary vision of one or both of the charming sisters. Then came an
additional pleasure--I met them both together every day. The younger had
commenced practicing the same delicate and ingenious craft of embroidery,
and the two pursued their industry in company under the same employer. It
was amusing to mark the demure assumption of womanhood darkening the brows
of the aerial little sprite, as, with all the new-born consequence of
responsibility, she walked soberly by her sister's side, frame in hand,
and occasionally revealed to passers-by a brief glimpse of her
many-colored handiwork. They were the very picture of beauty and
happiness, and happy beyond question must their innocent lives have been
for many pleasant months. But soon the shadows of care began to steal over
their hitherto joyous faces, and traces of anxiety, perhaps of tears, to
be too plainly visible on their paling cheeks. All at once I missed them
in my morning's walk, and for several days--it might be weeks--saw nothing
of them. I was at length startled from my forgetfulness of their very
existence by the sudden apparition of both, one Monday morning, clad in
the deepest mourning. I saw the truth at once: the mother, who, I had
remarked, was prematurely old and feeble, was gone, and the two orphan
children were left to battle it with the world. My conjecture was the
truth, as a neighbor of whom I made some inquiries on the subject was not
slow to inform me. " Ah, sir," said the good woman, "poor Mrs. D---- have
had a hard time of it, and she born an' bred a gentleooman."

I asked her if the daughters were provided for.

"Indeed, sir," continued my informant, "I'm afeard not. 'Twas the most
unfortunatest thing in the world, sir, poor Mr. D----'s dying jest as a'
did. You see, sir, he war a soldier, a