With women he was no favourite. He had no respect for the sex, and I question whether he was ever in love in his life. If he had ever owned a tender passion, it must have been in very early youth, before his heart got hardened and iced in the world. My aunt seemed necessary to his comfort, his convenience, his vanity: however he might be disliked by others he was certain of her fidelity and attachment. His respect for her was the one bright spot in his character, and even that was tarnished by a refined system of selfishness. The only comfort I enjoyed during my cheerless childhood, I derived from her silent attention to my wants and wishes, which she gratified as far as she dared, without incurring the jealous displeasure of her exacting husband. In private, Mrs. Moncton always treated me as her own child. She unlocked the fountains of natural affection, which my uncle's harshness had sealed, and love gushed forth. I dearly loved her, and longed to call her mother; but she forbade all outward demonstration of my attachment, which she assured me would not only be very offensive to Mr. Moncton, but would draw down his displeasure upon us both. The hours I spent with my good aunt were few: I only saw her at meals, and on the Sabbath-day, when I accompanied her to church, and spent the whole day with her and her only son--a cross, peevish boy, some four years older than myself--but of him anon. During the winter, she always sent for me into the parlour, during the dark hour between dinner and tea, when I recited to her the lessons I had learned with my cousin's tutor during the day. My uncle was always absent at that hour, and these were precious moments to the young heart, which knew no companionship, and pined for affection and sympathy. My worthy aunt! it is with heartfelt gratitude I pay this slight tribute to your memory. But for your gentle love and kind teachings, I might have become as cold and tyrannical as your harsh lord--as selfish and unfeeling as your unnatural son. How I delighted to sit by your side, in the warm, red light of a cheerful fire, in that large, dusky room, and hold your small white hand in mine, while I recounted to you all the beautiful and shadowy reminiscences of my happy infancy--to watch the pensive smile steal over your lips, as I described the garden in which I played, the dear little white bed in which I slept, and where my own dear mother nightly knelt beside me, to hear me repeat my simple prayers and hymns, before she kissed and blessed me, and left me to the protecting care of the great Father in Heaven. "Ah!" I exclaimed one evening, while sitting at my aunt's feet, "why did she die and leave me for ever? I am nobody's child. Other little boys have kind mothers to love them, but I am alone in the world. Aunt, let me be your boy--your own dear little boy, and I will love you almost as well as I did my poor mamma!"