ABSTRACT
In a beautiful village, near one of the most populous towns25 in the west of England, lived the only unmarried sister of an ancient family – Mrs. Trevyllian,26 (for she had for some years ceased to write herself Miss) was near fifty; she had never been handsome, but there was something in her countenance more interesting than even the remains of beauty – an expression of goodness, sense, and candour, which seemed to mark her as the friend of the unfortunate, and the guide of the innocent – her person was elegant, and her manners remarkably conciliating and attractive. The small house she inhabited was fitted up with so much taste, that she was become a sort of oracle among those who wished to exhibit elegance in their apartments: she had an excellent collection of books, in a room which opened into a small, but very pretty garden, filled with the sweetest shrubs and flowers. Books and plants supplied to her the place of society, which she was rarely mixed in; and to the gratification of these attachments she applied what others in her situation usually bestow on cards and company. Still, however, she had always a purse in reserve for the necessitous; and her active spirit and sound judgement often did more service than mere pecuniary assistance. Extremely beloved by her friends, living in a course of cheerful and rational piety, enjoying tolerable health, and a competent income, Mrs. Trevyllian knew no other uneasiness than that which arose from her reflections on the future fate of a lovely girl, to whom she had been more than a mother, and for whom she felt all a mother’s tenderness.
