We may fancy that by her husband's sick-bed the first beginning of this quilt was made--how, in the intervals of watching the invalid, a few sprays and scrolls were delicately traced. But the summons had gone forth, and, as death approached, the work, which had been in part the occupation of happier days, and a resource in affliction, was thrown aside. When the widowed Countess had settled in a new home, and again faced the ordinary duties of life, we need not wonder that she thought no more of the discarded work left at Haddo House, but set herself to design afresh and embroider the curtains which have ever since (until recently) adorned a bed-room in Fyvie Castle. Into these no doubt was woven many a thought for the Jacobite cause, and many an anxiety for dear ones, as her own family, the ducal house of Gordon, had been keen supporters of the Stuarts, and it is said that the Countess came out on the road-side, near Fyvie Castle, with her children, to see the Duke of Cumberland's troops pass on their way to Culloden to put down the Scotch rebellion, and boldly avowed to him her sympathy with his foe. But what of the work the Countess left at Haddo House? As to it, our history is silent for more than a hundred years. It has lain folded by the fingers of the busy worker that have long been still. Sorrow and joy have come by turns to the house--birth and death. Children have prattled, and statesmen have discussed the affairs of nations. Those who have made history have come and gone; philanthropy and romance have alike been woven into the family story; but the piece of discarded broderie has been unheeded. At length the present Countess of Aberdeen, whose name will ever be associated with earnest desire and effort for the good of others, and whose taste and love of the beautiful led to her interest in such work, unfolding the long-forgotten quilt, conceived the idea of having it completed, if possible. To whom, however, could the beautiful work be entrusted to be finished, by deft fingers and graceful appreciation? [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A CROFTER'S COTTAGE.] We now turn to another scene. About five-and-twenty years ago, on the top of a bare hill in Fyvie, Aberdeenshire, stood a cottage, tenanted by a crofter named Sandieson, with his wife and family. Though at a comparatively high elevation, the land around was all cultivated, but, arid and stony as the soil was, it seemed as if cultivation were one long struggle against Nature, rather than aided by it. Life was hard; still, contentment sweetened the peasant's lot, and they got on pretty well till sickness during three successive winters told hardly on his means. Father, mother, and children all worked; still the wolf was at the door. Bed clothing was scant, and money to buy still scantier. A mother's love and care quickened thought.