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Rh, not a grandfather or grandmother, not an uncle or aunt of her race, had ever, by common report, remained quiet in their graves. Early as it was next morning, not a cottage-door but sent forth its inhabitants to take a farewell look at Miss Emily. Many a little sun-burnt face ran beside the carriage, and many a little hand, which had since sun-rise been busily employed in selecting her favourite flowers, threw nosegays in at the window. Emily eagerly caught them, and her eyes filled with tears, as, at a turning in the road which hid the village, she threw herself back on the seat. How many years of youth and of happiness—how many ties of those small kindnesses, stronger than steel to bind—how many memories of early affection, was she leaving behind! At that moment the beautiful answer of the Shunamite woman seemed to her the very morality of happiness and certainty of content—"I dwell among mine own people." How many familiar faces, rejoicing in our joy, sorrowing with our sorrow—how many cares, pleasant from habit—sickness, whose suffering gave a tenderer character to love—mirth, the mirth of the cheerful hearth or the daily meal—mirth, like home-made bread, sweeter from its very