A look of disappointment passed over the face of Agnes, as, without intruding upon her mother by even a word of farewell, she turned, and put her hand once more in that of her aunt. And now, as, comfortably wrapped in buffalo skins, Mrs. Wharton and the little girls are flying over the country roads, to the sound of the merry sleigh-bells, we will relate a conversation which took place between Mammy and Bridget; and by so doing, will give a little insight into the history of the young widow, whom we have introduced to the reader. II. Brook Farm. “By the gathering round the winter hearth, When twilight called unto household mirth; By the fairy tale, or the legend old, In that ring of happy faces told; By the quiet hours when hearts unite In the parting prayer and the kind “good night”, By the smiling eye and the loving tone, Over thy life has the spell been thrown.”—SPELLS OF HOME. When Mammy left little Agnes in the north room, and descended to the kitchen, she found Bridget, who had already been made acquainted with, passing events by Anne, the chambermaid, in a state of great wrath and indignation. The china must have been strong that stood so bravely the rough treatment it received that morning, and the tins kept up a continued shriek of anguish as they were dashed against each other in the sink; while every time Bridget set down her foot as she stamped about the kitchen, it was done with an emphasis that made itself felt throughout the whole house. “And so ye’ve been locking up that swate crathur again, have ye, Mrs. McCrae?” were the words with which, in no gentle tones, she assailed Mammy as she entered the kitchen. “I did as I was bid, Bridget,” said Mammy, with a sigh. “And indade it wouldn’t be me would do as I was bid, if I was bid to do the like o’ that. I’d rather coot off my right hand than use it to turn the kay on the darlint.” “I always mind my mistress, Bridget,” said Mammy, “though it’s often I’m forced to pray for patience wi’ her.” “And indade I don’t ask for patience wid her at all, anny how,” stormed Bridget. “To think of sending the swate child, that never has anny but a kind an’ a pleasant word for _iverybody_, away to the cold room, just because the brat she doats on chooses to _yowl_ in the fashion he did the morn. I don’t know, indade, what’s the matther with the woman! I think it’s a quare thing, and an _on nattheral_ thing, _anny how_!”