herself, with her knitting-work, at the opposite corner of the
fireplace. I changed to the other end of the settle: sitting long in one
position is tiresome. She was knitting a gray woollen stocking. I think
she must have been "setting the heel," for she kept counting the
stitches. I had often noticed Fanny doing the same thing, at this
turning-point in the progress of a stocking; but then it never took her
half as long. After knitting so many feet of leg, though, any change
must have been pleasant.

A mug of cider stood near one andiron; leaning against the other was a
flat stone,--the Squire's "Simon." It would soon be needed, for he was
already nodding,--nodding and brightening up,--nodding and brightening
up. While he slept, the room was still, unless the fire snapped, or a
brand fell down. I said within myself, "This is a pleasant time! It is
good to be here!" That cozy settle, that glowing fire, that good old
man, that pure-hearted girl,--how distinctly do they now rise before me!
It seems such a little, little while ago! For I feel young. I like to be
with young folks; I like what they like. Yet deep lines are set in my
forehead, the veins stand out upon my hands, and my shadow is the shadow
of a stooping old man; and when, from frequent weariness, I rest my head
on my hand, the fingers clasp only smoothness, or, at best, but a few
scattered locks,--_wisps_, I might as well say. If ever I took pride in
anything, it was in my fine head of hair. Well, what matters it? Since
_heart_ of youth is left me, I'll never mind the _head_.

Many writers speak well of age, and it certainly is not without its
advantages, meeting everywhere, as it does, with respect and indulgence.
Neither is it, so the books say, without its own peculiar beauty. An old
man leaning upon his staff, with white locks streaming in the wind, they
call a picturesque object. All this may be; still, I have tried both,