“More than you think, though, perhaps. There!—now you get a glimpse of the church. Your next wish will be to be in it; but you must not attempt too much at first. In a little while, I hope you may manage it.” Having nearly reached the turnpike, we turned about on our homeward course. And thus ended my pleasant drive. Had I had my choice, my frame of mind would have been serious; as it was, it was cheerful. I felt tired and shaken, but less so than I expected. On saying so to Phillis, she remarked— “Said so—didn’t I? My ’pinion is, if you’d gone afore, it never would have hurted ye.” Kind words cost little: and I had _had_ a good many. I could not help thinking, had Eugenia been alive, how she would have sped me forth with fond solicitude, and tenderly hailed my return!—with some word of thankfulness, too, to Him in whose hand are the issues of life and death—some cheery gratulation that we were to be spared yet a little longer to each other. But I called to mind the substance of a nice little tract called “The Scales Adjusted.” Things are often equalized by roughs and smooths being set against one another. And, though snubbed by my maid, I felt that in this instance my good things predominated. * * * * * “So you’ve been and seen them big stone houses at last!” said Phillis, as she wheeled my little tea-table up to my easy-chair. “They _do_ make ours look small, don’t they?” Now this was a very disagreeable view of the subject. Of course, a little house _does_ look smaller than a large one, turn it which way you will; but mine—Whiterose Cottage—was quite large enough for me, and could not be turned in a prettier direction. As we lost sight of the tall, shapeless stone houses, and came first to the graceful elm avenue, and then to— “Where my cottage-chimney smokes, Fast between two aged oaks,” I could not help thinking how snug and suitable for its mistress it looked. True, it has only one sitting-room, save a little snuggery eight feet by ten; true, it is all built on one floor, and that on the ground: every room in it, but the first and last, opening into a narrow matted passage, or gallery. But to me this seems the very prettiest, most convenient plan, for a single woman with one servant, that could possibly be desired; and my only wonder is, that instead of there not being such another, perhaps, in England, there are not dozens, or hundreds. How many a rich man, now, might run up a little place like this, on some corner of his estate, for a widowed aunt, or old maiden sister or cousin, where she might be as happy as the day is long, and live on next to nothing, quite respectably; and, when she dropped off, like a ripe acorn from the oak, and almost as noiselessly, the “Old Maid’s Home” might revert in perpetuity to a succession of decayed gentlewomen, whose simple, yet genteel tastes would thereby be met by their modest means.