If Sarah Bond ministered to her sister’s necessities, she did so secretly, hardly venturing to confess she did so, but shielding herself from her father’s curse, by sending to her sister’s child, and not her sister.  Receiving few letters, the village postman grumbled far more at having to walk out to Greenfield, than if he was accustomed to do so every day; and one morning in particular; when he was obliged to do so while the rain poured, he exhibited a letter, sealed with a large black seal, to the parish-clerk, saying he wished with all his heart Miss Bond had remained at the old manor-house up street, instead of changing; and where was the good of taking her a mourning letter such a gloomy day? it would be very unkind, and he would keep it “till the rain stopped;” and so he did, until the next morning; then taking back word to the village postmaster that Miss Bond wanted a post-chaise and four horses instantly, which intelligence set not only the inn, but the whole village in commotion.  She, who had never wanted a post-chaise before, to want four horses to it now, was really wonderful.

“Which road shall I take, Miss?” inquired the post-boy, turning round in his saddle, and touching his cap.

“On straight,” was the answer.  Such a thrill of disappointment as ran through the little crowd, who stood at the door to witness her departure.  “On straight!” Why, they must wait the post-boy’s return before they could possibly know which way she went.  Such provoking suspense was enough to drive the entire village demented.

Miss Bond remained away a month, and then returned, bringing with her her niece, a girl of about eight years old—­her deceased sister’s only child, Mabel Graham.

The following Sunday Sarah Bond went to church, leading her young companion by the hand; both were in deep mourning, and yet the very least observant of the congregation remarked, that they had never seen Miss Bond look so happy as when, coming out after service, and finding that the wind had changed to the north-east, she took off her scarf in the church porch, and put it round the neck of the lovely girl, who strongly remonstrated against the act.  It was evident that Mabel had been accustomed to have her own way; for when she found her aunt was resolved her throat should be protected, she turned round, and in a moment tore the silk into halves.  “Now, dear aunt, neither of our throats will suffer,” she exclaimed; while Sarah Bond did not know whether she ought to combat her wilfulness or applaud the tender care of herself.  It was soon talked of throughout the village, how wonderfully Sarah Bond was changed; how cheerful and even gay she had become.  Instead of avoiding society, how willingly, yet how awkwardly, she entered into it; how eagerly she sought to learn and to make herself acquainted with every source and system of education.  No traveller in the parchy desert ever thirsted more for water than she did for knowledge, and her desire seemed to increase with what