When we began to explore the neighbourhood, we found scarcely any wild-flowers, save now and then a daisy or sprig of gorse, or that common-looking nettle that bears the splendid name of white archangel. But we could say “a good time is coming!” and cheerfully await it. Meanwhile the horse-chestnut, hazel, and honeysuckle were budding, and the chickweed was putting forth its small white flowers; while the robin, sparrow, wren, and thrush sang blithely among the bushes, and the lark poured forth a short but lively song over our heads. Mr. Cheerlove had accumulated a great many books, which, on wet days, it was his delight to arrange. We had two country maids and a boy, who found enough to do, but were not overworked. The first year we made scarcely any acquaintances; but my sister Eugenia, many years younger than myself (now, alas! no more), was frequently with us; and, after our loved mother’s death, lived with us entirely. Before she did so, Mr. Cheerlove and I used frequently to take little journeys in our one-horse carriage, jogging on from one place to another, putting-up, when it suited us, at some neat inn, and there spending a day, half-day, or two or three days, according to the attractions of the neighbourhood. In this way we strayed through many counties, and made acquaintance with many rivers, towns, villages, churches, cathedrals, old castles, and abbeys. At the end of seven years, my good husband died. He was several years my senior, but I loved him—oh so dearly! and respected him so deeply! He was not what is called a shining man, but with the kindest heart, an equable temper, well-stored mind, a deliberate manner that gave great impression to what he said or read, without being in the least tedious, and a habit of employing himself beyond all praise. He was gone; and the sunshine of my life was gone too! It seemed to me as though I had never valued him enough while he was alive—might have expressed more demonstrative affection. We never had an unkind word. Dear man! how I love to think of him! The memory of his dear, placid face, his harmonious voice, his gentle touch, and tread, and tone, makes my heart swell! Eugenia and I were then left together. She had nothing; I was not rich; and we quitted Nutfield, and went into a country town. We had once been members of a large, cheerful family, but death had mown them all down, and reserved his keenest, most relentless edge for the last. After a few uneventful years, Eugenia became fatally ill. She died; and I was left alone! And then I came here.