It was my first realization of death—­the first corpse I had ever seen; and as I knelt beside the coffin, where the pale hands that lay cross-folded on the breast, the motionless features, and the dreadful stillness of the whole figure, spoke eloquently of the change that had taken place, I thought of my many acts of wilfulness, ingratitude, and unkindness, which had often pained the loving heart that had now forever ceased to beat.  Could I but see those still features again animated with life, I felt that never again would my tongue utter aught but words of kindness; but it was now too late for amendment—­there was nothing left me but repentance.

My parents too grieved at her death; she had been in the family so long that they were loathe to miss the old familiar face from its post in the nursery.  She was buried from our own house; and there were more true mourners at her funeral than often fall to the lot of the great and gifted.

CHAPTER XV.

“Papa, have you any relations?” I asked one evening rather suddenly, after pondering over the subject and wondering why it was that our family consisted of no one but papa, and mamma, and us children; while other people always had aunts, or uncles, or cousins living with them.  We had plenty, to be sure, who came and made visits at different times; but I meant some one to live with us altogether.

“What a curious question!” said my father, smiling, “And how suddenly you bolted out with it, Amy, after at least half an hour’s silence.  You must have thought deeply on the subject, but what put it into your head just now?”

Not knowing exactly what to say, I wisely remained silent; and turning to my mother, he continued in a low tone:  “Do you know that this random question of Amy’s has awakened some not very welcome reminiscences, and pointed out a line of duty which does not promise much pleasure beyond the consciousness of doing right?  I ought to invite an addition to the family without delay.”

“Are you joking, or in earnest?” inquired my mother, “And if in earnest, pray whom do you refer to?”

“You will soon find it to be most solid, substantial earnest,” rejoined my father, “for I must this very evening write a letter to Mrs. Chesbury, senior, the step-mother of whom you have heard me speak, inviting her to spend the summer with us.  She has, you know, resided at the South since my father’s death, occasionally visiting her relatives at the North; and as we have never yet been honored with her company, that pleasure is still in store for us.  My recollections of her, to be sure, are not so very delightful.  She was very severe in her discipline, and continually checked my pleasures and enjoyments, which she usually exchanged for some long, heavy, incomprehensible task; and at the first blunder in recitation, off came her shoe, which she immediately laid across my shoulders with the most unremitting