We now approached a stile communicating with a footpath that conducted to a farm-house, where I suppose Mr. Weston purposed to make himself "useful," for he presently took leave of me, crossed the stile, and traversed the path with his usual firm, elastic tread, leaving me to ponder his words as I continued my course alone.
I had heard before that he had lost his mother not many months before he came. She then, was the last and dearest of his early friends; and he had no home. I pitied him from my heart; I almost wept for sympathy. And this, I thought, accounted for the shade of premature thoughtfulness that so frequently clouded his brow, and obtained for him the reputation of a morose and sullen disposition with the charitable Miss Murray and all her kin.
"But," thought I "he is not so miserable as I should be under such a deprivation: he leads an active life; and a wide field for useful exertion lies before him, he can make friends—and he can make a home too, if he pleases, and doubtless he will please sometime; and God grant the partner of that home may be worthy of his choice, and make it a happy one. . .such a
