sense of guilt, loathing itself, conscious of its worthlessness. Her
nature, in truth, seemed to have usurped a sweetness and placidity, the
possession of which, as Mr Clayton afterwards observed, was justifiable
only in those who could find nothing but vileness and depravity in
every thought and purpose of their hearts.

It was a beautiful day in summer, and Margaret was sitting before the
cottage porch, feeling the sun's benevolent warmth, and tempering, with
the closed lid, the hot rays that were directed to her sightless orbs.
She had no power to move, and was happy in the still enjoyment of the
lingering and lovely day. She might have been a statue for her
quietness--but there were curves and lines in the decrepit frame that
art could never borrow. Little there seemed about her to induce a love
of life, and yet a countenance more bright with cheerfulness and mild
content I never met. The healthy and the young might read a lesson on
her blanched and wrinkled cheek. Full of my errand, I did not hesitate
at once to engage her mind on heavenly and holy topics. She did not, or
she would not, understand me. I spoke to her of the degradation of
humanity, our fallen nature, and the impossibility of thinking any thing
but sin--and a stone could not be more senseless than the aged listener.

"Was I sure of it?" she asked. "Did my Bible say it? Much she doubted
it, for she had sometimes, especially since her blindness, clear and
beautiful thoughts of heaven that could not be sinful, they rendered her
so happy, and took away from her all fear. It was so shocking, too," she
thought, "to think so ill of men--our fellow-creatures, and the
creatures of a perfect Father. She loved her brother--he was so
simple-minded, and so kind to her, too; how _could_ she call him wicked
and depraved!"