THE KNIFE.
What a pretty, fair, delicate-looking girl was Harriet Lynn! how well I remember her, with her small black silk bonnet, casting a deeper shadow on the light-brown hair that escaped in waves rather than curls from the bondage of her cap; the neat white handkerchief, the dark stuff dress, the full sleeves a little turned back from the slender wrist, and hands whose softness had been uninjured by their ordinary employment—that of plaiting the finest straw. Many a summer's evening have I seen her stand at the gate of the cottage-garden, over which hung a cherry-tree, the pride of her uncle; indeed, rather a source of congratulation to the village at large, so much was its size and fertility admired by strangers—so beautiful in spring, with its avalanche of white blossom—so rich in summer, with its multitude of crimson berries. There would Harriet stand, the shining straws passing with rapidity
