It was a cold and wet morning, in the month of April, when Mary Cuthbert got into the stage-coach which was destined to convey her many miles from the place of her nativity, and the friends of her infantine days and her juvenile years. Deprived of both her parents at the early age of eighteen, this young and beautiful orphan had felt the heavy stroke of calamity; and though she had sustained herself under affliction, through a firm belief in a superintending Providence, with the resignation of a Christian, yet her whole deportment had evinced that she had greatly suffered – for that she had fondly loved, all who had beheld the dove-like eyes of Mary, when, turned with filial affection on her parents, they swam in ‘liquid lustre,’ would have given voluntary testimony! Mr. Cuthbert had long been the pastor of a small parish in Somersetshire, where his worth had endeared him to his parishioners; and their respect and reverence had so conciliated his regard, that he wished not to emerge into a more conspicuous walk of life; but, with his gentle and amiable partner, was contented with the small emoluments of his living. Their mutual love, and mutual cares, devolved on their only child, and Mary Cuthbert's improvement had kept pace with their wishes. If perfect happiness resided upon earth, it had surely fixed its residence at Woodberry, till the fading form, the hectic colour of Mrs. Cuthbert told a ‘trembling tale’ to her fond husband. A cold, taken by walking in the wet to visit a poor woman during the painful hour of labour, laid the foundation of a disorder which baffled all human skill. Mr. Cuthbert never recovered the loss of his wife; from that dreadful moment, he seemed to have lost the elasticity of his mind, with the activity of his body; and even the desolate and orphan state in which his poor girl would be left had not power to stimulate his exertions for life, though the acuteness of his parental reflections contributed to bend him in anguish still nearer to the grave.