and sorrow is as the angel that sits at the gates of heaven.
Many kindly greetings awaited Emily in the churchyard—the more cordial, perhaps, that the givers were inferiors; for, with the exception of the apothecary's lady, who was thinking that Miss Arundel, just from London, ought not to have come to church in a large straw-bonnet; Mrs. Smith was one of those quick-eyed persons who take a pattern, or something like it, at a glance;—and the lawyer's feminine representative, an expansive and comely dame—one who looked little accustomed to act, still less to think, but with the scarlet-shawled (it was July), silk-bonneted air of one well to do in the world—and truly, as the husbands of these ladies could have witnessed, those have a thriving harvest who reap from human sickness and sin;—with these exceptions, the whole congregation belonged to the order of the respectable rather than the genteel—though that word now is so ramified in its branches as to include far more than our most speculative ancestors ever dreamed of in their philosophy. But those now assembled decidedly belonged to what a patriot from the hustings would call "that inestimable class of indivi-
