A month or two back her grandmother had been giving her the strictest prohibitions, in her walks, not to go near a certain spot, which was dangerous from the circumstance of a huge overgrown oak-tree spreading its prodigious arms across a deep chalk-pit, which they partly concealed. To this fatal place Rosamund came one day--female curiosity, we know, is older than the flood--let us not think hardly of the girl, if she partook of the sexual failing. Rosamund ventured further and further--climbed along one of the branches--approached the forbidden chasm--her foot slipped--she was not killed--but it was by a mercy she escaped--other branches intercepted her fall--and with a palpitating heart she made her way back to the cottage. It happened that evening, that her grandmother was in one of her best humors, caressed Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a blessing it was they two found a shelter in their little cottage, and in conclusion told Rosamund, "she was a good girl, and God would one day reward her for her kindness to her old blind grandmother." This was more than Rosamund could bear. Her morning's disobedience came fresh into her mind; she felt she did not deserve all this from Margaret, and at last burst into a fit of crying, and made confession of her fault. The old gentlewoman kissed and forgave her. Rosamund never went near that naughty chasm again. Margaret would never have heard of this, if Rosamund had not told of it herself. But this young maid had a delicate moral sense, which would not suffer her to take advantage of her grandmother, to deceive her, or conceal anything from her, though Margaret was old, and blind, and easy to be imposed upon. Another virtuous _trait_ I recollect of Rosamund, and now I am in the vein will tell it. Some, I know, will think these things trifles--and they are so--but if these _minutiæ_ make my reader better acquainted with Rosamund, I am content to abide the imputation. These promises of character, hints, and early indications of a _sweet nature_, are to me more dear, and choice in the selection, than any of those pretty wild flowers, which this young maid, this virtuous Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine May morning, to make a posy to place in the bosom of her old blind friend. Rosamund had a very just notion of drawing, and would often employ her talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery. On a landscape, a larger piece than she had ever yet attempted, she had now been working for three or four months. She had taken great pains with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly finished. For _whose_ particular inspection it was designed, I will not venture to conjecture. We know it could not have been for her grandmother's. One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on the table. When she returned, she found it _gone_.