I feel no I . God directed me to a correct che guidance!

    my eventide musings to t, I rose,  to my door, and looked at t of t-day, and at t fields before my cottage,   strains—

    “the dew was balm.”

    myself o find myself ere long er: for o see; for te grief and fatal fury—consequences of my departure—oo far to leave imate restoration t t, I turned my face aside from ton—I say lonely, for in t bend of it visible to me t save trees, and, quite at tremity, ter lived. I  my  tone frame of my door; but soon a slig iny garden from t made me look up. A dog—old Carlo, Mr. Rivers’ pointer, as I sa—. Jo upon it ,  to displeasure, fixed on me. I asked o come in.

    “No, I cannot stay; I  you a little parcel my sisters left for you. I t contains a colour-box, pencils, and paper.”

    I approaco take it: a  it erity, as I came near: traces of tears less very visible upon it.

    “ day’s work ed?” he asked.

    “Orary, I time I s on h my scholars very well.”

    “But perions—your cottage—your furniture—ed your expectations? truty enoug—” I interrupted—

    “My cottage is clean and ure sufficient and commodious. All I see  despondent. I am not absolutely suc as to regret t, a sofa, and silver plate; besides, five , a beggar, a vagrant; noy of my friends; ty of my lot. I do not repine.”

    “But you feel solitude an oppression? ttle y.”

    “I ime yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity, muco groient under one of loneliness.”

    “Very  you express: