cottage is in existence; and of the thousand sketches which artists and
amateurs have carried away with them, perhaps not one bears any trace of
the lowly chimneys, or the humble porch of my dwelling.

On one fine evening in the month of August, seven years ago, I was
depositing my watering-pot in the tool-house, when I observed a gig
drive up to the inn; it contained a young lady and a gentleman.
According to my usual habit of conjecture, I settled in my own mind that
they were husband and wife: bride and bridegroom they could not be, as
they were in deep mourning. They seated themselves by an open window
till it grew dark, and I saw no more of them that night. In my early
watch the next morning, I passed them twice, and changed my opinion
respecting them. They were evidently brother and sister: there was a
strong resemblance between them, and a slight difference in years--the
young man appearing to be about eighteen, his sister one or two and
twenty. She was not handsome; but the expression of melancholy on her
countenance, and an undefinable air of superiority about her, engaged my
attention. The brother _was_ handsome--very handsome. His features
were fine, but their expression was finer still. He had taken off his
hat, and I had a full view of him. What an intellect did that forehead
bespeak! what soul was in those eyes! "Why," thought I, "does she look
so melancholy, while leaning on the arm of such a brother?" But a glance
at her dress let me into the cause of her sorrow. A father or a mother,
or perhaps such another brother, has been taken from her. Whatever the
cause of their common grief might be, it seemed only to knit them more
closely together; for never did I see a brother and sister so attached.
They were inseparable: and during the many days which they spent at the
inn, the interest of their conversations never seemed to flag. They were
always talking; and always, apparently, with animation and sympathy.