Sophie Churchill was a pretty girl of round _petite_ form, of clear pale olive complexion, large, soft brown eyes, and dark chestnut hair. Had her position been different she would have been much admired and courted—as it was she was neglected and even slandered—yes, slandered—after the death of her brother, and the marriage of her only sister, she had, in pure ignorance of the world, kept up exactly the same manner of life as before. Instead of engaging some respectable elderly female as housekeeper and companion (which indeed her limited means did not allow), she preferred remaining alone, and continued to receive the visits not only of ladies, which of course was in perfect propriety, but of _gentlemen_—that is to say, of her own and her father’s familiar friends—the sons and brothers of their near neighbors, who testified their remembrance of the dead, and their respect for the living, by sometimes calling to see Sophie and her little charge, and by sometimes bringing her a brace of wild fowl, a pair of pigeons, or some other such game from their morning sport upon the moor; until at last they found that their well meant kindness to the young and pretty orphan was subjecting her to the invidious remarks of all the thoughtless or the malicious gossips of the neighborhood. Then their occasional visits were discontinued, and the poor girl was left almost entirely alone, especially as the advancing winter and the increasing severity of the weather precluded the visits of _ladies_ to that desolate heath. And desolate indeed it was upon this first winter that Sophie passed alone at the Hall.