The old lady sat silently by.

She was a trembling, timid body, thin, pale, and emaciated, who appeared to have suffered much, and certainly stood in as much awe of the man whose name she bore as it was well fitting in such a relationship to permit.

She said as little as Forrester, but seemed equally well pleased with the attentions and the conversation of the youth.
"Find you not this place lonesome, Miss Munro?
You have been used, or I mistake much, to a more cheering, a more civilized region." "I have, sir; and sometimes I repine--not so much at the world I live in, as for the world I have lost.

Had I those about me with whom my earlier years were passed, the lonely situation would trouble me slightly." She uttered these words with a sorrowful voice, and the moisture gathering in her eyes, gave them additional brightness.

The youth, after some commonplace remark upon the vast difference between moral and physical privations, went on-- "Perhaps, Miss Munro, with a true knowledge of all the conditions of life, there may be thought little philosophy in the tears we shed at such privations.