ood of considerable
extent, which formed the boundary of the grounds, and, after some time
passed in agreeable conversation, emerged upon a common of no ordinary
extent or beauty, for it was thickly studded in some parts with lofty
timber, while in others the furze and fern gave richness and variety
to the vast wilderness of verdant turf, scarcely marked, except by the
light hoof of Miss Temple's palfrey.

'It is not so grand as Armine Park,' said Miss Temple; 'but we are proud
of our common.'

The thin grey smoke that rose in different directions was a beacon to
the charitable visits of Miss Temple. It was evident that she was a
visitor both habitual and beloved. Each cottage-door was familiar to her
entrance. The children smiled at her approach; their mothers rose and
courtesied with affectionate respect. How many names and how many wants
had she to remember! yet nothing was forgotten. Some were rewarded for
industry, some were admonished not to be idle; but all were treated with
an engaging suavity more efficacious than gifts or punishments. The
aged were solaced by her visit; the sick forgot their pains; and, as
she listened with sympathising patience to long narratives of rheumatic
griefs, it seemed her presence in each old chair, her tender enquiries
and sanguine hopes, brought even more comfort than her plenteous
promises of succour from the Bower, in the shape of arrowroot and gruel,
port wine and flannel petticoats.

This scene of sweet simplicity brought back old days and old places to
the memory of Ferdinand Armine. He thought of the time when he was a
happy boy at his innocent home; his mother's boy, the child she so loved
and looked after, when a cloud upon her brow brought a tear into his
eye, and when a kiss from her lips was his most dear and desired reward.
The last night he had passed at Armine, before his first departure, rose
up to his recollection; all his mother's passionate fondness, all her
wild fear that the day might come when her child would not love her so
dearly as he did then. That time had come. But a few hours back, ay! but
a few hours back, and he had sighed to be alone in the world, and had
felt those domestic ties which had been the joy of his existence a
burthen and a curse. A tear stole down his cheek; he stepped forth from
the cottage to conceal his emotion. He seated himself on the trunk of
a tree, a few paces withdrawn; he looked upon the declining sun that
gilded the distant l