Agnes was the daughter of a baronet, to whom my father was head gardener; her mother resigned her existence in giving birth to her child, and the first tears of the infant were shed upon the cold inanimate bosom of that being to whom she was indebted for her life. My maternal parent having been confined about the same time, was selected as wet-nurse on account of her excellent health and gentleness of disposition, and the little Agnes was removed to our cottage, which was surrounded by a shrubbery tastefully laid out, and situated in the most delightful and romantic part of the grounds. Sir Edward Melville was generous, and even condescending, to his inferiors, as long as they preserved an unqualified respect for his dignified rank; but if any one aimed at superior station, or failed in due reverence to himself, he became vindictive and revengeful. His principles were of so aristocratic a nature, that he considered it an ordination of divine authority for riches and titles to rule, and for humble obscurity to be content with tacit submission. Soon after the decease of his lady, he was appointed envoy to a foreign court, and a maiden aunt officiated as mistress at the castle during his absence; but the pride and malice of her heart rendered her hated and feared by all around her, and it was only at the cottage of her nurse in which Agnes always found an affectionate bosom as a depository for her griefs, and where the soothings of tenderness were ever ready to calm the perturbation of her mind. It is impossible to define the feelings of childhood, for, as we grow more advanced in years, the softer sympathies become deadened by intercourse with the world and witnessing the scenes of misery which every where present themselves. Solomon hath said, “Childhood and youth are vanity;” yet what would I not give to possess the same innocence of heart, the same purity of thought which I enjoyed in my early years. In our amusements, Agnes and myself were inseparable; and when removed from the haughty control of her aunt, we indulged in those little endearments which innocence inspires. Although my father’s condition in life was humble, he nevertheless possessed a cultivated taste, and was well acquainted with the works of the best writers of the day,--his leisure hours being occupied in reading (for through the kindness of the steward, he had free access to Sir Edward’s library and could obtain the loan of any book he wanted) and imparting instruction to myself. At the age of six, I could read tolerably well and understand what I read; but no book delighted me so much as the affecting tale of Paul and Virginia, which was my favourite volume, and often has the sweet Agnes mingled her tears with mine while perusing its pages.