She thought and avowed herself extravagantly fond of her niece, during her early childhood, and imagined that she displayed a graceful enthusiasm in exclaiming, every now and then, in her presence, and in that of others, “Oh! you angel child! I do think she is the sweetest creature! Come here and kiss me, you beauty!” &c. &c. But no one ever saw Aunt Eloise taking care of the child, attending to its little wants, or doing any thing for its benefit. The only tangible proof of her affection for her niece, was in the shape of bonbons and candy, which she was in the habit of bringing home from her frequent walks in Tremont street. Harriet regularly handed these forbidden luxuries to her mother, and Mrs. Carlton as regularly threw them in the fire. “Isn’t it a pity to waste such nice things, mother? Why not give them to some poor child in the street?” asked the little girl one day, as she watched, with longing eyes, a paper full of the tempting poison, which her mother was quietly emptying into the grate. Mrs. Carlton did not disdain to reason with her child— “That would be _worse_ than wasted, dear. It would be cruel to give to another what I refuse to you on account of its unwholesomeness.” But Harriet had now been for a long time out of the spinster’s books—as the saying is—and this misfortune occurred as follows— One morning, when she was about six years old, the child came into her mother’s room from her aunt’s, where she had been alternately pelted, scolded, and teased, till she was weary, and, seating herself in a corner, remained for some time absorbed in thought. She had been reading to her mother that morning, and one sentence, of which she had asked an explanation, had made a deep impression upon her. It was this—“God sends us trials and troubles to strengthen and purify our hearts.” She now sat in her corner, without speaking or stirring, until her mother’s voice startled her from her reverie. “Of what are you now thinking, Harriet?” “Mother, did God send Aunt Eloise to strengthen and purify my heart?” “What do you mean, my child?” “Why, the book says he sends trials for that, and she is the greatest trial _I_ have, you know.” The indignant maiden was just entering the room as this dialogue began, and hearing her own name, she had stopped, unseen, to listen. Speechless with rage, she returned to her chamber, and was never heard to call Harriet an angel child again. But we have wasted more words on the fair Eloise’s follies than they deserve. Let us return to Harriet’s all-important composition. The maiden-lady, selfish and indolent as she was, took it into her head sometimes to be exceedingly inquisitive; and officious too, particularly where she thought her literary talents could come into play. She walked up to Harriet and looked over her shoulder.