or axe in hand felled the trees for fuel.  The females received them on their return with the simple and affectionate welcome known before only to the lowly cottage—­a clean hearth and bright fire; the supper ready cooked by beloved hands; gratitude for the provision for to-morrow’s meal:  strange enjoyments for the high-born English, yet they were now their sole, hard earned, and dearly prized luxuries.

None was more conspicuous for this graceful submission to circumstances, noble humility, and ingenious fancy to adorn such acts with romantic colouring, than our own Clara.  She saw my despondency, and the aching cares of Idris.  Her perpetual study was to relieve us from labour and to spread ease and even elegance over our altered mode of life.  We still had some attendants spared by disease, and warmly attached to us.  But Clara was jealous of their services; she would be sole handmaid of Idris, sole minister to the wants of her little cousins; nothing gave her so much pleasure as our employing her in this way; she went beyond our desires, earnest, diligent, and unwearied,—­

  Abra was ready ere we called her name,
  And though we called another, Abra came.[2]

It was my task each day to visit the various families assembled in our town, and when the weather permitted, I was glad to prolong my ride, and to muse in solitude over every changeful appearance of our destiny, endeavouring to gather lessons for the future from the experience of the past.  The impatience with which, while in society, the ills that afflicted my species inspired me, were softened by loneliness, when individual suffering was merged in the general calamity, strange to say, less afflicting to contemplate.  Thus often, pushing my way with difficulty through the narrow snow-blocked town, I crossed the bridge and passed through Eton.  No youthful congregation of gallant-hearted boys thronged the portal of the college; sad silence pervaded the busy school-room and noisy playground.  I extended my ride towards Salt Hill, on every side impeded by the snow.  Were those the fertile fields I loved—­was that the interchange of gentle upland and cultivated dale, once covered with waving corn, diversified by stately trees, watered by the meandering Thames?  One sheet of white covered it, while bitter recollection told me that cold as the winter-clothed earth, were the hearts of the inhabitants.  I met troops of horses, herds of cattle, flocks of sheep, wandering at will; here throwing down a hay-rick, and nestling from cold in its heart, which afforded them shelter and food—­there having taken possession of a vacant cottage.  Once on a frosty day, pushed on by restless unsatisfying reflections, I sought a favourite haunt, a little wood not far distant from Salt Hill.  A bubbling spring prattles over stones on one side, and a plantation of a few elms and beeches, hardly deserve, and yet continue the name of wood.  This spot had for me peculiar charms.  It had