the last remaining relative of her family, and the only one who
can still find interest in the traditional stores which she
hoards, as some miser hides the gold which he desires that no one
should enjoy after his death.

My conversation with Aunt Margaret generally relates little
either to the present or to the future. For the passing day we
possess as much as we require, and we neither of us wish for
more; and for that which is to follow, we have, on this side of
the grave, neither hopes, nor fears, nor anxiety. We therefore
naturally look back to the past, and forget the present fallen
fortunes and declined importance of our family in recalling the
hours when it was wealthy and prosperous.

With this slight introduction, the reader will know as much of
Aunt Margaret and her nephew as is necessary to comprehend the
following conversation and narrative.

Last week, when, late in a summer evening, I went to call on the
old lady to whom my reader is now introduced, I was received by
her with all her usual affection and benignity, while, at the
same time, she seemed abstracted and disposed to silence. I
asked her the reason. "They have been clearing out the old
chapel," she said; "John Clayhudgeons having, it seems,
discovered that the stuff within--being, I suppose, the remains
of our ancestors--was excellent for top-dressing the meadows."

Here I started up with more alacrity than I have displayed for
some years; but sat down while my aunt added, laying her hand
upon my sleeve, "The chapel has been long considered as common