Of all men that ever I saw, Cousin George came the nearest to my idea of a clergyman, at least in appearance and manners. He was a tall, slender man, with curling hair as white as snow. His face had that hale, healthful red, like that of a winter apple, which is so beautiful in old age, and shone with a benignancy and purity that I cannot describe. It was the light within shining out which did so illumine his countenance, for a sweeter, more godly, and withal more kind and genial soul never inhabited a mortal tenement. There was nothing of the sour ascetic about Cousin George, though he could fast at proper times, and was self-denying by habit; but he loved to see and to promote innocent enjoyment. If ever any man fulfilled the command to rejoice with those that rejoiced, and weep with those that wept, he did, and he was equally at home at the bridal or in the house of mourning. My other cousins all rose when we came in, and remained standing while their father greeted my mother with a tenderly spoken blessing, and led her to a seat by his side. They looked at us with a sort of reverence and awe, as young folks of any feeling are apt to do upon those who have just come through any great danger or affliction. There were five of them—three girls, and two little boys much younger. I found out afterward that the birth of these two twin boys cost the life of their mother. As soon as we were seated, my Cousin George read the tenth chapter of St. Matthew. Then all together sang a version of the twenty-third Psalm: "My shepherd is the living Lord. Nothing therefore I need; In pastures green near pleasant streams He setteth me to feed." Then my cousin read prayers. Nobody who has not been placed in like circumstances can guess how strange it seemed to me to be reading the holy Word and singing psalms with open windows and in absolute security. I saw the girls look at one another and smile, but by no means unkindly, when I started nervously at a passing footstep outside. It all added to that bewilderment which had been stealing over me all the morning, and which seemed now and then to quite take away all knowledge of where I was or what I was doing. The breakfast was very nice, with abundance of cream and new milk, fresh-laid eggs, and brown and white bread, but I could take nothing save a glass of milk, which I had hard work to dispose of. I saw them all look at me with concern, and again Cousin Marianne asked me whether I were ill. "No, madame," I answered; "I am not ill at all." I caught a look of surprised reproof from my mother, and became aware that I had answered pettishly. "Indeed, I am not ill," I said more gently; "please do not think so." I suppose it was a part of the bewilderment of my head that I somehow felt annoyed and hurt that any one should think I was not well. My cousins came round me after breakfast, and carried me off to the room I had seen in the morning.