Mrs. Brigs was some ten years the junior of her partner in life, and was a lady in every sense of the word. It was evident that she had _once_ been beautiful, but that once had been past a long time; and now, where then dangled the glossy curls, (not _false_ curls—girls never wore false curls in those days,) she displayed two huge bows of yellow ribbon. These were necessary ornaments, however, for they were appendages to a very neat frilled cap. Mrs. Brigs had never been known to wear a stay-body frock, or a bustle—indeed, such things were not then in fashion—she never wore sleeves of the mutton-leg cut; nor were they ever so tight as to render the arms useless members, but always large enough and small enough to be comfortable. Mrs. Brigs never could endure small shoes—consequently, she never was compelled to endure the pains incident to corns. She was an inflexible knitter and darner, and though Mr. Brigs never had but one pair of socks, they never had a hole in them, because whenever the legs wore out she would leg them, and when the feet wore out she would foot them. Mrs. Brigs was so good herself—so artless and unsuspecting, that she thought every body else was good, and artless, and unsuspecting too. Mrs. Brigs was literally the very woman for Mr. Brigs, and that gentleman was the very man for Mrs. Brigs. Hence, it can only be inferred that they lived happily together—so happily, indeed, and contentedly, that they were known but to be loved. A peaceful country village was their home. A ten acre farm of fertile land, through which murmured a dear, bright stream “That wound in many a flow’ry nook,”