On one fine evening in the month of August, seven years ago, I was depositing my watering-pot in the tool-house, when I observed a gig drive up to the inn; it contained a young lady and a gentleman. According to my usual habit of conjecture, I settled in my own mind that they were husband and wife: bride and bridegroom they could not be, as they were in deep mourning. They seated themselves by an open window till it grew dark, and I saw no more of them that night. In my early watch the next morning, I passed them twice, and changed my opinion respecting them. They were evidently brother and sister: there was a strong resemblance between them, and a slight difference in years--the young man appearing to be about eighteen, his sister one or two and twenty. She was not handsome; but the expression of melancholy on her countenance, and an undefinable air of superiority about her, engaged my attention. The brother _was_ handsome--very handsome. His features were fine, but their expression was finer still. He had taken off his hat, and I had a full view of him. What an intellect did that forehead bespeak! what soul was in those eyes! "Why," thought I, "does she look so melancholy, while leaning on the arm of such a brother?" But a glance at her dress let me into the cause of her sorrow. A father or a mother, or perhaps such another brother, has been taken from her. Whatever the cause of their common grief might be, it seemed only to knit them more closely together; for never did I see a brother and sister so attached. They were inseparable: and during the many days which they spent at the inn, the interest of their conversations never seemed to flag. They were always talking; and always, apparently, with animation and sympathy.