This Bible Rosamund, when a child, had never dared to open without permission; and even yet, from habit, continued the custom.  Margaret had parted with none of her authority; indeed it was never exerted with much harshness; and happy was Rosamund, though a girl grown, when she could obtain leave to read her Bible.  It was a treasure too valuable for an indiscriminate use; and Margaret still pointed out to her grand-daughter where to read.

Besides this, they had the “Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man’s Recreation,” with cuts—­“Pilgrim’s Progress,” the first part—­a Cookery Book, with a few dry sprigs of rosemary and lavender stuck here and there between the leaves, (I suppose to point to some of the old lady’s most favorite receipts,) and there was “Wither’s Emblems,” an old book, and quaint.  The old-fashioned pictures in this last book were among the first exciters of the infant Rosamund’s curiosity.  Her contemplation had fed upon them in rather older years.

Rosamund had not read many books besides these; or if any, they had been only occasional companions:  these were to Rosamund as old friends, that she had long known.  I know not whether the peculiar cast of her mind might not be traced, in part, to a tincture she had received, early in life, from Walton and Wither, from John Bunyan and her Bible.

Rosamund’s mind was pensive and reflective, rather than what passes usually for clever or acute.  From a child she was remarkably shy and thoughtful—­this was taken for stupidity and want of feeling; and the child has been sometimes whipt for being a stubborn thing, when her little heart was almost bursting with affection.

Even now her grandmother would often reprove her, when she found her too grave or melancholy; give her sprightly lectures about good-humor and rational mirth; and not unfrequently fall a-crying herself, to the great discredit of her lecture.  Those tears endeared her the more to Rosamund.

Margaret would say, “Child, I love you to cry, when I think you are only remembering your poor dear father and mother;—­I would have you think about them sometimes—­it would be strange if you did not; but I fear, Rosamund—­I fear, girl, you sometimes think too deeply about your own situation and poor prospects in life.  When you do so, you do wrong—­remember the naughty rich man in the parable.  He never had any good thoughts about God, and his religion:  and that might have been your case.”

Rosamund, at these times, could not reply to her; she was not in the habit of arguing with her grandmother; so she was quite silent on these occasions—­or else the girl knew well enough herself, that she had only been sad to think of the desolate condition of her best friend, to see her, in her old age, so infirm and blind.  But she had never been used to make excuses, when the old lady said she was doing wrong.

The neighbors were all very kind to them.  The veriest rustics never passed them without a bow, or a pulling off of the hat—­some show of courtesy, awkward indeed, but affectionate—­with a “Good-morrow, madam,” or “young madam,” as it might happen.