This was the last letter Elinor received in Philadelphia, for
early in the spring the family returned to the country. She was
never happier than at Wyllys-Roof, and resumed with delight
occupations and amusements, which would have appeared very
insipid to many elegant belles whom she left behind her--since
the mornings were to be passed without visiting or shopping, the
evenings without parties or flirtations. In a quiet country
house, with no other young person in the family, there was of
course, at Wyllys-Roof, very little excitement--that necessary
ingredient of life to many people; and yet, Elinor had never
passed a tedious day there. On the longest summer morning, or
winter evening, she always found enough to occupy her time and
attention.

To her, Wyllys-Roof was home; and that is a word of a broader and
more varied meaning in the country than in a town. The cares, the
sympathies of a country home, embrace a wide circle, and bring
with them pleasures of their own. People know enough of all their
neighbours, to take part in any interesting event that may befall
them; we are sorry to hear that A., the shoemaker, is going to
move away; we are glad to find that B., the butcher, has made
money enough to build a new house. One has some acquaintance with
everybody, from the clergyman to the loafer; few are the faces
that one does not know. Even the four-footed animals of the
neighbourhood are not strangers: this is the Doctor's
Newfoundland dog; that is some old lady's tortoise-shell cat. One
knows the horses, as well as the little urchins who ride them to
water; the cows, and those who milk them. And then, country-folks
are nature's freeholders; they enjoy a full portion of the earth,
the air, the sky, with the thousand charms an ever-merciful