First, there is himself, as glorious a type of manhood as ever stood in the exposed outer circle of existence, interposing his own body between the storms and cares of life and the cowering forms of women and children. Then, there was his pupil, Hugh Hutton— “As tall, as sinewy, and as strong As earth’s first kings—the Argo’s gallant sailors; Heroes in history, and gods in song,” and bearing, in that genial dignity of form, countenance, and manner which was the natural expression of great conscious power and goodness, a general resemblance to his master. There was Mrs. Garnet, in her simple widow’s dress of black silk, with surplice bosom, inside handkerchief, and little lace cap—somewhat jaded, yet with her graceful form, fair complexion, delicate features, and pensive thoughtfulness of expression, presenting a pleasing image of the “intellectual system of beauty.” In charming contrast to her was her daughter, Mrs. Hardcastle, in the full bloom of perfectly developed vital beauty, revealing that marriage and maternity had been to her healthful, sanguine, and joyous organization, what they should be to all women, a continuous accession of new life, health, and happiness. She had made no mistake in the calculation of her future. Active, bustling, often very laborious her lot had been indeed, but suited to her strong and cheerful nature. Her life had been guided, besides, by almost unerring intelligence, sustained by undying love, and cheered by unfailing hope. Anxieties had come, indeed, but these had not been suffered to grow into corroding cares. Sorrow had visited them, too, but this had not been permitted to crush them with despair, or even bow them long in despondency. In the second year of their married life the Angel of Death had entered their dwelling and lifted their only child from its mother’s bosom. Yes, the firstling of their little flock—the first-born of their youthful love, the strong and beautiful child, so full of glorious promise, whose health and life seemed so secure, who was, besides, so watched and tended—that idolized child was borne away from their arms, and the hearts of the parents long writhed in the anguish of bereavement before they could understand and receive the divine message in the infant’s little life and death. They had been so independent, so confiding, so happy in their earthly lot, so absorbed in their worldly plans, that they might never even have lifted their eyes to Heaven but for gazing after the soaring wing of their cherub; might never have lifted their hearts to Heaven, but for yearning after the ascended and glorified child; for “where the treasure is, there will the heart be also.”