In the afternoon she invited me to accompany her to the room which had been her daughter’s.  The room was tastefully, though not richly furnished.

“This,” said my aunt, “was Caroline’s room from her childhood.  I have never allowed anything to be disturbed in the room since her death, except that I occasionally air and dust it.  I suppose I am somewhat childish and fanciful; but it would pain me to see this room occupied by another.”

Over the mantel-piece—­for almost every room in my uncle’s house contained a fire-place—­there hung a picture of my cousin Caroline, taken six months previous to her death.  I drew nigh to look at the picture.  One glance told me that she had indeed been a beautiful child.  The picture was enclosed in a beautiful frame of leather-work, which had been the work of her own hands.  I gazed long upon the fair picture, fondly hoping that the loss her friends had sustained, by her death, was her eternal gain, by being thus early removed from a world of sin and sorrow to her home in Heaven.  Opening a drawer in a small bureau, my aunt told me to look at her school-books.

By examining the books I was convinced that she must have been a child of no ordinary capacity, for her age.  I also examined some of her apparel, with many other articles, which had been presents to her from friends.

Seeing the tears, which I found impossible to repress, my aunt became so much affected that I made some pretext for hastening our departure from the room; and, when we went down stairs, I endeavored to turn our conversation to some cheerful subject, to divert her mind from her sorrow, which had been vividly recalled by our visit to that lonely room.

The view which my uncle’s residence afforded of the surrounding country was very pleasing to the beholder.  Whatever way the eye turned, it rested upon well-cultivated farms, on which were erected comfortable and, in many instances, handsome and commodious dwellings.

In the distance, the summits of the White Mountains were distinctly visible, they being about twenty miles distant from my uncle’s residence.

Mr. and Mrs. Egmont, according to promise, paid us a visit before leaving Littleton.  My uncle and aunt were much pleased by their friendly and social manner; and, when they took their leave, we parted from them with sincere regret.  They left Littleton soon after, on their homeward journey.

Three weeks had now passed since my arrival at my uncle’s home, and I found myself daily becoming more and more attached to my kind uncle and aunt.  Obadiah appeared to feel much more at his ease in my presence than at the first.  When I learned that he was an orphan-boy and had no home, I felt a deep sympathy for him; but still, when I encountered one of those glances, I often found it very difficult to avoid laughter.  I learned from my aunt that he, being left an orphan, had been put to work at a very early age; and, consequently, had had but few