The Good Samaritan

"Lawyerly! ergo, absurd and unsatisfactory!" pronounced the reader,
to whom the foregoing leaf had been committed on the morning of her
brother's departure with his slowly-convalescing wife for their
Albany home. "But until the nettle pricks more nearly, I shall
continue to enjoy my roses."

They had blossomed thickly about her path during this decade. Her
matronly beauty was the wonder and praise of the community. The
changing seasons that had bleached the locks upon her husband's
temples and heightened his forehead had spared the bronzed chestnut
of her luxuriant tresses. Her figure was larger and fuller, but
graceful, and more queenly than of yore--if that could be. There
was not an untuneful inflection in her voice, or a furrow between
her brows. Under her careful management the homestead wore every
year an air of increased elegance. No other furniture for many miles
on both sides of the river could compare with hers; no other
servants were so well-trained, no grounds so beautifully ornamented
and trimly kept.

"But for all that Ridgeley is a lonely, desolate place to me," said
Mrs. Sutton, one early spring morning to her niece and crony, Mrs.
William Sutton. "A house without children is worse than a last
year's bird's nest. It is a riddle to me how Clara Aylett contrives
to occupy her time."

"She should have some of these socks to darn, if it hangs upon her
hands," replied Mrs. William, humorously, running her five fingers
through the toe of one she had just picked up from the great willow
basket set between the two upon the porch-floor.