114 THE VINE. 



traiture, a scene never to be forgotten ; nor ever to be 

 recalled without a glow of heart, which, to be sure, 

 I cannot hope to comnuinicate to my readers; 

 though nriost of thenn will be able to conceive how 

 little peril I am in of overstating the matter, when 

 they have the particulars, which I will faithfully 

 relate. 



It was on a very bright and gladsome morning 

 that I set out, accompanied by my own, my pre- 

 cious brother, and his little girl, and my dumb boy, 

 on an excursion fraught with very delightful anti- 

 cipations. We readied the end of our journey, 

 and were ushered into a room well furnished with 

 books, adorned with tasteful prints, and wearing 

 the aspect, yea, breathing the very soul of elegant 

 retirement, hallowed into something far beyond the 

 reach of this world's elegancies. At the further 

 end of the apartment was a recess, almost of suf- 

 ficient size to be called an additional room, throv.'n 

 boldly forward beyond the hne of the building, 

 and forming in four compartments, one large semi- 

 circular window, scarcely a pane of which was 

 unadorned by some stray leaf or tendril of the vine 

 that rested its swelling bunches in profusion against 

 the glass. Beyond, the eye might find much of 

 sylvan beauty whereon to rest : but to me, no at- 

 traction lay beyond it; for, in the light and cheer- 

 ful little sanctuary, there sat a lady, whose snow- 

 white locks — " a crown of glory" — shaded, w 



