The course of the young rustic was pursued for half a mile further
till he came to a little cottage of which the eye could take no
cognizance from any part of the village. It was embowelled in a
glen of its own--a mere cup of the slightly-rising hills, and so
encircled by foliage that it needed a very near approach of the
stranger before he became aware of its existence. The structure was
very small, a sort of square box with a cap upon it, and consisted
of two rooms only on a ground floor, with a little lean-to or
shed-room in the rear, intended for a kitchen. As you drew nigh
and passed through the thick fringe of wood by which its approach
was guarded, the space opened before you, and you found yourself
in a sort of amphitheatre, of which the cottage was the centre. A
few trees dotted this area, large and massive trees, and seemingly
preserved for purposes of shade only. It was the quietest spot in
the world, and inspired just that sort of feeling in the contemplative
stranger which would be awakened by a ramble among the roofless
ruins of the ancient abbey. It was a home for contemplation--in
which one might easily forget the busy world without, and deliver
himself up, without an effort, to the sweetly sad musings of the
anchorite.

The place was occupied, however. A human heart beat within the
humble shed, and there was a spirit, sheltered by its quiet, that
mused many high thoughts, and dreamed in equal congratulation and
self-reproach, of that busy world from which it was an exile. The