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 tasks in the fields were now seated in the open air before their own doors, the women spinning and chatting gaily, and the men sharpening their scythes or repairing their different implements of husbandry. Every where nothing met my eye but comfort and neatness; but I remarked that all wore a piece of crape or a black ribbon around their hats and bonnets.

“What is the meaning of this,” I inquired at the young and pretty hostess who now presented herself with the goblet of Kalte Schale, and whose cap bore the general emblem of mourning,—“is this the universal fashion here,—are you all in mourning?”

“Ah, sir,” replied the hostess, casting down her eyes to the ground, “the lady of the manor, Mrs Milbirn, died only six months ago, and she was so kind to us, and we were all so warmly attached to her,—none of us told another what we meant to do, but on the evening of the same day on which she died, every person in the village appeared in mourning, as you now see them. Alas, we shall never have such another kind mistress!” The good woman would have said more—but her heart was full and choked her utterance, and she returned towards the inn wiping the tears from her eyes.

I rose from my seat, leaving the cup untasted before me, and leant my forehead on the railing to conceal my agitation from the rest of the company, for the simple words of the young woman had deeply affected me. The feeling that I now stood on my own grounds, and within sight of a whole village simultaneously evincing their respect in so simple a manner for the memory of my noble-minded relative, powerfully touched me. I had never before visited the spot on which I now stood,—and yet I felt at once as if I had lived all my days there, and as if all these good simple people had been my own relatives. I could have indulged much longer in this delicious melancholy, but the presence of third third parties forbade.