And still it was her nightly prayer To live to close his sightless eyes; For this her torturing pains to bear, Then sink in death ere morning rise. Who, were she gone, the staff would guide With which he feels, amiss, his way? Who, careful, lay the stone aside, That might his tottering footstep stay? Who lead him to the shelter'd stile That fronts the sun at noontide hour, And watch the western clouds the while To warn him of the gathering shower? _Unpublished Ballad from Nature._ In one of the last cottages of the village of Overhurst, dwelt Nicholas and Sarah Foster. There, in their accustomed seats, did the neighbours for many years find old Nicholas, still bending over the embers of his humble hearth, and Sarah still gazing through the casement window, in patient endurance of the evils with which each was visited. They rest now in their quiet graves; but those who have known that ancient couple will not easily forget their appearance, or that of all around them: they will remember the well-polished wooden chair in which the old woman sat, both her hands pressed tightly against her right side, as if to quell the tortures of an agonizing and mortal complaint which had long preyed upon her: they will remember the very dress she wore,--such as is rarely seen of late years. But Sarah was an English peasant of the olden time, and she changed not with the fashion of the day. Her cap had a narrow, close, stiff border; the crown was high and well-starched; and round it was tightly pinned a broad piece of dark-purple ribbon. Her grey hair was turned back over a roll,--one of the last remaining specimens of that mode of dressing the hair. Her waist reached to her hips; her sleeves were tight, and ended at the elbow. The gown was open in front; and the apron, which was of spotless white, always seemed to be just out of the folds. Her usual seat, by the long casement of their clean and decent kitchen, commanded a view down the village street; before her was a clean deal table, which ran the whole length of the window, and upon it lay her spectacles and a book of prayer. Her countenance bore the traces of extreme suffering, and her brows were always contracted; but on her lips dwelt a patient smile. She swayed her body incessantly backwards and forwards, as if to allay her pain; but her voice was invariably cheerful, and even lively,--for Nicholas was blind;--and to cheer his days of darkness was her constant task of love. Nicholas in his youth had been a hedger, and he still wore the brown leather coat peculiar to his calling. His place was in the chimney-corner; his back towards the light, his two hands resting on his staff, his chin upon his hands, and his sightless eyes fixed on vacancy.