About twenty years ago, there lived near the pretty town of Launceston, in Cornwall, an elderly maiden lady named La Vellette. She was of French origin, and had emigrated to England about the commencement of the first French Revolution. She was remarkable for the simplicity of her manner, and the amiability of her character. Exhibiting but little of that vivacity which usually characterizes her fair countrywomen, she nevertheless displayed a subdued cheerfulness, which, while it did not stimulate mirth, never tended to arrest a merry laugh or an innocent joke. In person she was small, and her features, though marked by age, and saddened by care, still bore the lingering traces of beauty. Her neat, retired, and snug little cottage, which, in summer, used to peep forth beneath a forest of honeysuckle and ivy, and her prim and Quaker-like simplicity of dress, were in happy harmony with her disposition. Living in my youthful days within a few yards of her residence, I was frequently invited with my playmates to visit her garden. Gradually I became an especial favorite; and I used to feel so much at home in her company, that I needed no invitation to pay her frequent visits. She seemed to take a high degree of interest in my amusements, and that of my companions; and when any conflicts arose from the mysteries of a game at marbles, or from the strategy in hide-and-seek, she would be the first to heal up the difficulty, and restore amicability. Another valuable trait, which, boy as I was, I could not help observing, was the unwavering resignation which she always exhibited; while on the other hand, I was remarkable for my impatience, and a somewhat irritable disposition. And when, as often I did, I laid my complaints before her, when I grieved about the loss of a favorite top, or the death of a favorite pigeon, I was always met with her sympathy, and gently chid for my discontentment. Soothing me with her mild but sorrowful smile, she would draw me to her bosom, and strive to show me the folly of grieving for an unavoidable loss, and the duty of submitting manfully to misfortune. To her neighbors her early history was involved in some degree of obscurity. They knew she was a French _emigré_, that many years ago a favorite sister had died, and that she had been deprived of her parents at an early age. They had heard it rumored that she had suffered from severe misfortunes—that her connections had been people of rank, and while they all knew she enjoyed a competence, some conjectured she was even wealthy. Other stories of a romantic character were sometimes circulated, but unsupported by any degree of certainty.