Mrs. Wilmot was left a widow when her two daughters, Grace and Lucy, were very young—so young that Lucy, who is now ten years old, does not remember her father at all, and Grace, who is twelve, has only a very faint recollection of a gentleman, who, when he was lying on a couch in the parlor, used to have her brought to him, and kiss her, and give her some of the candies which he always seemed to have near him. Mrs. Wilmot found herself not very rich on the death of her husband, and as she was a very highly educated and accomplished woman, she was advised to keep a school for young ladies. She did not remove into a city to do this, for her own pleasant house is near enough to a large town to admit of her having day scholars from it; and she took no boarders, but four girls, the children of friends who had known her long, and who were glad to have their daughters under her care, on any terms. These four girls are about the age of her own children, and have been educated with them as sisters. Indeed, as they call her "Mamma Wilmot," but for their being so much of the same age, a stranger might suppose them all her own children. Their names are Clara Devaux, Martha Williams, and Kate and Emma Ormesby. These two last-named girls are twin sisters, and so much alike that it was formerly frequent sport with them to perplex their young companions by answering to each other's names. This they can no longer do, as Kate has grown tall and thin, while Emma is still a fat, chubby little girl. Mrs. Wilmot, about two years ago, had some property left her, which would have supported herself and her daughters very comfortably without the profits of her school, but she had become so much interested in her young boarders, that she was not willing to part with them. She gave up, however, all her day scholars, and then wrote to me requesting that I would visit her, as she would now, she said, have only her six little girls to teach, and would therefore have leisure enough to admit of her enjoying a friend's society. As soon as possible after I received this letter, I went to Hazel Grove, the name of Mrs. Wilmot's place, taking Harriet with me.

We arrived at noon of a bright day in October. We had already begun to enjoy the glow of a fire in the chill mornings and evenings, but, at that hour, the sun was so warm that it might almost have cheated us, as well as the little birds and insects, into believing that summer was not quite gone.

Hazel Grove is a very pretty place. It fronts a fine, bold river, to whose very edge the lawn, on which the house stands, slopes gently down. On the opposite side of the river, the banks are steep and thickly wooded. On the left of the house, as we approached, lay a large orchard, which still looked inviting, with its yellow pears and its red or speckled apples. On the right, was a fine old wood of oak and maple and beach trees, intermingled with the smaller hazels, from which the place takes its name. Have you ever, in Autumn, when the nights became cold, watched the trees, as their green first grew deeper and more vivid, and then was changed from day to day into every varying shade of color, from russet brown to pale yellow—from deep rich crimson, to bright scarlet and flaunting orange? If you have, you may know how gayly this wood was looking when first we saw it.

But pleasant as all this was, there was something in the old stone cottage, with its yard bordered with flowers and shaded with large black-walnut trees, which pleased me yet better; and best of all was the view which I caught of the parlor through the open windows. There sat Mrs. Wilmot in a rocking-chair, with six little girls around her, to whom she was reading. These girls were all busily at work, except one bright-eyed, curly-headed little thing, seated on a low stool at Mrs. Wilmot's feet, whom I afterwards found to be her youngest daughter, Lucy. She, too, had some work in her hand, but she was so much interested in what she was hearing, that her needle stood still, while she looked up into her mother's eyes, as if she would read the story in them. I had only a single minute to see all this, for the noise of letting down the carriage steps caused Mrs. Wilmot to look out, and in an instant the book was laid aside, the work thrown down, and she hastened to meet us, followed by her children.

The rest of this day was a holiday to the children, and while Mrs. Wilmot and I sat talking over old friends and old times, they led Harriet to their gardens and their baby-houses, their swing, and the playground where they were accustomed to trundle their hoops and jump the rope,—showed her the calf, Martha's pet lamb, Kate's and Emma's English rabbits, Clara's dove, Lucy's kitten, and Grace's puppy, which were each the most beautiful of their kind that had ever been seen. The next morning I was introduced to all these beauties, and quite won the hearts of their owners by my evident admiration of them. When my visits were over, Mrs. Wilmot called her little girls to their lessons, in which Harriet, at her own request, joined them. Mrs. Wilmot had a good library, and while she and the girls were engaged with their studies in the morning, I was generally there, reading or writing. At dinner we met again, and the afternoon was passed together in some entertaining and pleasant way at home, or in driving, walking, or visiting some of the agreeable people with whom Mrs. Wilmot was acquainted in the town.