not one, young miss,” said the soldier. “O, but then mamma will give milk to the child, for we have plenty, and no child.” “O dear, pretty miss, don’t mind that at all, at all.” “Come,” said the mistress of the hovel, “we have got fine buttermilk here from Stephen’s; come in and take a drink.” I civilly declined this invitation, being wholly intent on the child, who appeared to me like a smiling love, and at once seized on my affection. Patrick Coonie, for such was the name of our new neighbour, gave us his history in a very few words. He had married Kate in Pennsylvania, who, young as she looked, had three children, from ten to fourteen, or thereabouts; he had some trade which had not thriven, he listed in the provincials, spent what he had on his family, hired again, served another campaign, came down pennyless, and here they had come for a temporary shelter, to get work among their neighbours. The excavation existed before, Patrick happily discovered it, and added the ingenious roof which now covered it. I asked for their other children—they were in some mean service. I was all anxiety for Patrick, so was not he; the lilies of the field did not look gayer, or more thoughtless of to-morrow, and Kate seemed equally unconcerned. Hastily were the cows driven home that night, and to prevent reproaches for delay, I flew to communicate my discovery; eager to say how ill off we often were for an occasional hand to assist with our jobs, and how well we could spare a certain neglected log-house on our premises, &c. This was treated as very chimerical at first, but when Patrick’s family had undergone a survey, and Kate’s accomplishments of spinning, &c. were taken into consideration, to my unspeakable joy, the family were accommodated as I wished, and their several talents made known to our neighbours, who kept them in constant business. Kate spun and sung like a lark; little Paddy was mostly with us, for I taught every one in the house to be fond of him. I was at the utmost loss for something to cherish and caress, when this most amusing creature, who inherited all the gaiety and good temper of his parents, came in my way, as the first of possible play-things. Patrick was, of all beings, the most handy and obliging; he could do every thing, but then he could drink too, and the extreme cheapness of liquor was a great snare to poor creatures addicted to it. Patrick, however, had long lucid intervals, and I had the joy of seeing them comparatively happy. To this was added, that of seeing my father recover his spirits, and renew his usual sports, and moreover, I was permitted to return to aunt Schuyler’s. I did not fail to entertain her with the history of my discovery, and its consequences, and my tale was not told in vain. Aunt weighed and balanced all things in her mind, and drew some good out of every thing.