Our good, neighbour, Mrs. W----, had presented her with an old sky-blue drawn-silk bonnet, as a parting benediction. This, by way of distinction, for she never had possessed such an article of luxury as a silk bonnet in her life, Jenny had placed over the coarse calico cap, with its full furbelow of the same yellow, ill-washed, homely material, next to her head, over this, as second in degree, a sun-burnt straw hat, with faded pink ribbons, just showed its broken rim and tawdry trimmings, and, to crown all, and serve as a guard to the rest, a really serviceable gray beaver bonnet, once mine, towered up as high as the celebrated crown in which brother Peter figures in Swift's “Tale of a Tub.” “Mercy, Jenny! Why, old woman, you don't mean to go with us that figure?” “Och, my dear heart! I've no bandbox to kape the cowld from desthroying my illigant bonnets,” returned Jenny, laying her hand upon the side of the sleigh. “Go back, Jenny; go back,” cried my brother. “For God's sake take all that tomfoolery from off your head. We shall be the laughing-stock of every village we pass through.” “Och, shure now, Mr. S----, who'd think of looking at an owld crathar like me! It's only yorsel' that would notice the like.” “All the world, every body would look at you, Jenny. I believe that you put on those hats to draw the attention of all the young fellows that we shall happen to meet on the road. Ha, Jenny!” With an air of offended dignity, the old woman returned to the house to rearrange her toilet, and provide for the safety of her “illigant bonnets,” one of which she suspended to the strings of her cloak, while she carried the third dangling in her hand; and no persuasion of mine would induce her to put them out of sight. Many painful and conflicting emotions agitated my mind, but found no utterance in words, as we entered the forest path, and I looked my last upon that humble home consecrated by the memory of a thousand sorrows. Every object had become endeared to me during my long exile from civilized life. I loved the lonely lake, with its magnificent belt of dark pines sighing in the breeze; the cedar swamp, the summer home of my dark Indian friends; my own dear little garden, with its rugged snake-fence, which I had helped Jenny to place with my own hands, and which I had assisted the faithful woman in cultivating for the last three years, where I had so often braved the tormenting mosquitoes, black-flies, and intense heat, to provide vegetables for the use of the family. Even the cows, that had given a breakfast for the last time to my children, were now regarded with mournful affection. A poor labourer stood in the doorway of the deserted house, holding my noble water-dog, Rover, in a string. The poor fellow gave a joyous bark as my eyes fell upon him. “James J----, take care of my dog.” “Never fear, ma'am, he shall bide with me as long as he lives.”