Sarah took me to the imaginary step-mother with whom she had once terrified me. Miss Murray was a pale, fair-haired, invalid lady of thirty, who resided in a neat hive-looking little place, called Honeysuckle Cottage; there she dwelt like a solitary bee, sitting in her chair and working the whole day long, with slow industry, or conning over her ailments in a faint, murmuring voice, that reminded one of the hum of a distant hive. She disliked sound, motion, and light; and kept her floors soft, and her windows shrouded and dim. Pets were her horror,-- they made a noise and moved about; flowers she tolerated,--they were quiet and silent. She neither went out nor received visits, but lived in a hushed, dreamy, twilight way, suited to her health, mind, and temper. We found Miss Murray already apprised of my father's death. She sat in her parlour, with a soft cambric handkerchief to her eyes; near her stood her servant Abby, suggesting consolation. A lamp with a dark green shade, burned dimly on the table. "I cannot survive it, Abby, I cannot," faintly sighed Miss Murray; "a friend--" "The best friends must part, Ma'am." "A friend, Abby, who understood my constitution so well. Abby, who is that?" "Please, Ma'am," said Sarah, leading me in, "Mr. O'Reilly will take it so kind if you--" "You need not mention it, Sarah, I understand; the subject is a painful one. You may leave the dear child to me. I am sure she will forbear to distress me, in my weak state, by unavailing regrets. No one can have more cause than I have, to regret the invaluable friend to whom I owe years of existence." "She doesn't cry!" said Abby, looking at me. "She never cries," emphatically observed Sarah; "that child is dreadful proud, Ma'am." "She is quite right," gravely remarked Miss Murray; "tears are most injurious to the system. Come here, my dear, and sit by me." She pointed to a low stool near her chair. I did not move. Sarah had to lead me to it; as I sat down apathetically, she made a mysterious sign to the lady. "Not insane, surely?" exclaimed Miss Murray, wheeling off her chair with sudden alarm and velocity. "Oh dear no, Ma'am! rather idiotic; always thought so from her dreadful stubbornness." "Sad," sighed Miss Murray, "but quiet at least. Good evening, Sarah. Abby, pray keep a look-out for that dreadful boy: my nerves are unusually weak." The two servants left on tiptoe, and softly closed the door. I remained alone with Miss Murray.