AGNES. 21

trees, or else she would go down to the old quarters where
Mammy Pris and Uncle ’Rius lived; they were the only ser-
vants left on the place, and loved every inch of it, still holding
to the greatness of the “fam’ly,” from which the glory had
indeed departed, for the old house had seen its best days,—
pieces of plaster were continually falling, floors were sunken,
and stairways unsteady ; but Uncle ’Rius still maintained it
was the finest place in the land, and Mammy Pris drew herself
up proudly when she talked of “we-alls” former grandeur.

Old Judge Nelson, bent with the weariness of years and
the weight of sorrow, lived in the past, and sat by the open
fire day in and day out, once in a while taking his stick and
walking to the back porch, where he would feast his eyes on
the view, give a long sigh, and then return to his old leather
chair by the chimney corner.

Agnes’s mother was a sweet, sad woman, who had lost hus-
band and brothers in the war, and in trying to keep together
the clothing and household linen of the family found her time
fully occupied in mending and patching.

Agnes had lessons every day from old-fashioned books,
such as her father had studied in his boyhood, and which, even
then, were somewhat out of date; but her store of knowledge
was sound, and gave a soberer bent to her thoughts than more
modern study would have done. Lessons done, she ran, often
barefooted, over the place, picking berries, rambling through
the garden, or she sat by the hour perched ona high rock