whose memory lingers the fragrance of deeds of kindness.  Here, by special invitation, I had come on a visit—­my first visit from home.  I had passed through no small excitement in the prospect of that event.  I had anxiously watched every little preparation made for it, and my own small packing had seemed momentous.  I felt to the full the dignity of the occasion.  The father and mother, the brothers and sisters, the inseparable and often tedious nursery-maid, Harriet, were all left behind.

I stood for the first time on my individual responsibility among persons of whom I had known but little.  The monotony of home-life was broken in upon, and my eyes and ears were both open to receive new impressions.  Doubtless, the careful mother, who permitted me to be placed in this new situation, was well satisfied that I should be subjected only to good influences, but had they been evil, I should certainly have been lastingly affected by them, since every thing connected with the house and its inmates, the garden, the fields, the walks in the village, lives still a picture of vivid hues.

What induced the family to desire my company, I do not know; I have an idea that I was invited because, like many other good people, they liked the company of children, and in the hope that I might contribute to the element of home-cheerfulness, with which they liked to surround their only daughter, my Cousin Mary Rose, whose tall shadowy figure occupies in my recollections, as it did in reality, the very center of this household group.  That she was an invalid, I gather from many remembered trifles, such as the constant consideration shown for her strength in walks and rides, the hooks in the ceiling from which her swing-chair had formerly hung (at which I used to gaze, thinking it such a pity that it had ever been removed); her quiet pursuits, and her gentle, and rather languid manner.  She must have been simple and natural, as well as refined in her tastes, and of a delicate neatness and purity in her dress.  If she was a rose, as her name would indicate, it must have been a white rose; but I think she was more like a spotted lily.  There was her father, of whom I remember little, except that he slept in his large arm-chair at noontide, when I was fain to be quiet, and that he looked kindly and chatted pleasantly with me, as I sat on his knee at twilight.  I found my place at once in the household.  If I had any first feelings of strangeness to be overcome, which is probable, as I was but a timid child, or if I wept any tears under deserved reproof, or was in any trouble from childish indiscretions, the traces of these things have all vanished; nothing remains but the record of long summer-days of delight.  Up and down, in and out, I wandered, at will, within certain limits.