There was an air of refinement about the master and mistress of that little domicil, that contrasted somewhat strangely with their rude home and its appurtenances. The dress of the wife, although coarse and plain, was arranged so tastefully, so _genteely_, as the young ladies of the present day would say, that you would scarcely have noted its texture, or the absence of ornament. Her slight figure, and the faint color upon her cheek, spoke of a delicacy of constitution hardly suited for the hardships and trials of an emigrant’s life; but the meek light within her eye, her calm, broad forehead, and the slight smile that lingered upon her lip, told that she possessed that truest of all strength—strength of mind and heart. There was something in the face of Andrew Gordon that, to a close observer, was not exactly pleasing; and yet you could not have denied that it was a very handsome face—quite sufficiently so to warrant the unmistakable look of admiration that his wife occasionally cast upon it. Intellect was there—courage was there—firmness of purpose, and a resolute will; and there was a depth of affection in his eye whenever it dwelt upon the group around him that proved him the possessor of a kindly heart. Perhaps it was some early disappointment—some real or fancied wrong—some never-to-be-forgotten act of harshness or injustice on the part of another that, once in a while, cast such a shadow over his fine face, and gave such a bitter expression to his well formed mouth. For half an hour they remained as we have pictured them above; and then the mother tenderly placed her little one upon the bed that stood in one corner of the room—cradles were a luxury unknown in those days—and glancing at the clock that pointed to the hour of eight, said, “Come, Frederick, put away your cobs, dear. It is bed-time for little boys.” “Oh, I wish it wouldn’t be eight o’clock so soon when I am making cob-houses,” replied the child; “just wait one minute, mamma, until I make a chimney—then my house will be done. There, now—isn’t it a nice one?” So saying, Freddy gave the finishing touch to his edifice—looked at it admiringly for a moment, then giving it a light pressure with his hand, his evening’s work was demolished in an instant. Laughing heartily at the havoc he had made, he hastily gathered the cobs in a basket near him, and sprang to his mother’s side. Ah, Freddy, Freddy! how like you are to many a “child of larger growth,” who toils, month after month, year after year, building a temple, it may be to love, or wealth, or fame; and then, when it is nearly or quite completed, by a single false step, or a single ill-regulated action, destroys the shrine he has been rearing with so much care and labor! But here the similitude ceases. You laugh and clap your hands in childish glee at the downfall of _your_ house, _he_ sits down desolate and alone by the ruin he has made, and mourns over hopes and prospects buried beneath it.