racked by rheumatic pains, and quarrelling with the world, let him
answer to the question. He recollects something of a favourite
playmate; her name was Lucy--so they tell him. He is not sure
whether she was married, or went abroad, or died. It is a long
while ago, and he don't remember.

Is nothing as it used to be; does no one feel, or think, or act, as
in days of yore? Yes. There is an aged woman who once lived
servant with the old lady's father, and is sheltered in an alms-
house not far off. She is still attached to the family, and loves
them all; she nursed the children in her lap, and tended in their
sickness those who are no more. Her old mistress has still
something of youth in her eyes; the young ladies are like what she
was but not quite so handsome, nor are the gentlemen as stately as
Mr. Harvey used to be. She has seen a great deal of trouble; her
husband and her son died long ago; but she has got over that, and
is happy now--quite happy.

If ever her attachment to her old protectors were disturbed by
fresher cares and hopes, it has long since resumed its former
current. It has filled the void in the poor creature's heart, and
replaced the love of kindred. Death has not left her alone, and
this, with a roof above her head, and a warm hearth to sit by,
makes her cheerful and contented. Does she remember the marriage
of great-grandmamma? Ay, that she does, as well--as if it was only
yesterday. You wouldn't think it to look at her now, and perhaps
she ought not to say so of herself, but she was as smart a young
girl then as you'd wish to see. She recollects she took a friend
of hers up-stairs to see Miss Emma dressed for church; her name
was--ah! she forgets the name, but she remembers that she was a