stations in life, from camping out with a husband at the mines in Nevada
to acting the part of chief lady of the land in the White House at
Washington.

Midway between the two extremities, on the eastern shore of the lake, is
a valley between two hills, which come down to the very edge of the lake,
leaving only room enough for a road between their base and the water.
This valley, half a mile in width, has been long settled, and here for a
century or more has stood the old Anchor Tavern. A famous place it was
so long as its sign swung at the side of the road: famous for its
landlord, portly, paternal, whose welcome to a guest that looked worthy
of the attention was like that of a parent to a returning prodigal, and
whose parting words were almost as good as a marriage benediction; famous
for its landlady, ample in person, motherly, seeing to the whole
household with her own eyes, mistress of all culinary secrets that
Northern kitchens are most proud of; famous also for its ancient servant,
as city people would call her,--help, as she was called in the tavern
and would have called herself,--the unchanging, seemingly immortal
Miranda, who cared for the guests as if she were their nursing mother,
and pressed the specially favorite delicacies on their attention as a
connoisseur calls the wandering eyes of an amateur to the beauties of a
picture. Who that has ever been at the old Anchor Tavern forgets
Miranda's

"A little of this fricassee?-it is ver-y nice;"

or

"Some of these cakes? You will find them ver-y good."