Aunt Philliss Cabin | Page 7

a stranger stopped his horse in passing
by to wonder at its look of other days; and some, it may be, to wish
they were sleeping in the shades of its mouldering walls.
The slight eminence on which the church was built, commanded a view
of the residences of several gentlemen of fortune who lived in the
neighborhood. To the nearest one, a gentleman on horseback was
directing his way. The horse required no direction, in truth, for so
accustomed was he to the ride to Exeter, and to the good fare he
enjoyed on arriving there, that neither whip nor spur was necessary; he
traced the familiar road with evident pleasure.
The house at Exeter was irregularly built; but the white stone wings and
the look-out over the main building gave an appearance of taste to the
mansion. The fine old trees intercepted the view, though adding greatly
to its beauty. The porter's lodge, and the wide lawn entered by its open
gates, the gardens at either side of the building, and the neatness and
good condition of the out-houses, all showed a prosperous state of
affairs with the owner. Soon the large porch with its green blinds, and
the sweetbrier entwining them, came in view, and the family party that
occupied it were discernible. Before Mr. Barbour had reached the point
for alighting from his horse, a servant stood in readiness to take charge
of him, and Alice Weston emerged from her hiding-place among the
roses, with her usual sweet words of welcome. Mr. Weston, the owner
of the mansion and its adjoining plantation, arose with a dignified but
cordial greeting; and Mrs. Weston, his sister-in-law, and Miss Janet,

united with him in his kind reception of a valued guest and friend.
Mr. Weston was a widower, with an only son; the young gentleman
was at this time at Yale College. He had been absent for three years;
and so anxious was he to graduate with honor, that he had chosen not to
return to Virginia until his course of study should be completed. The
family had visited him during the first year of his exile, as he called it,
but it had now been two years since he had seen any member of it.
There was an engagement between him and his cousin, though Alice
was but fifteen when it was formed. They had been associated from the
earliest period of their lives, and Arthur declared that should he return
home on a visit, he would not be able to break away from its happiness
to the routine of a college life: he yielded therefore to the earnest
entreaties of his father, to remain at New Haven until he graduated.
Mr. Weston will stand for a specimen of the southern gentleman of the
old school. The bland and cheerful expression of his countenance, the
arrangement of his soft fine hair, the fineness of the texture and the
perfect cleanliness of every part of his dress, the plaiting of his
old-fashioned shirt ruffles, the whiteness of his hand, and the sound of
his clear, well-modulated voice--in fact, every item of his
appearance--won the good opinion of a stranger; while the feelings of
his heart and his steady course of Christian life, made him honored and
reverenced as he deserved. He possessed that requisite to the character
of a true gentleman, a kind and charitable heart.
None of the present members of his family had any lawful claim upon
him, yet he cherished them with the utmost affection. He requested his
brother's widow, on the death of his own wife, to assume the charge of
his house; and she was in every respect its mistress. Alice was
necessary to his happiness, almost to his existence; she was the very
rose in his garden of life. He had never had a sister, and he regarded
Alice as a legacy from his only brother, to whom he had been most
tenderly attached: had she been uninteresting, she would still have been
very dear to him; but her beauty and her many graces of appearance
and character drew closely together the bonds of love between them;
Alice returning, with the utmost warmth, her uncle's affection.

Mrs. Weston was unlike her daughter in appearance, Alice resembling
her father's family. Her dark, fine eyes were still full of the fire that had
beamed from them in youth; there were strongly-marked lines about
her mouth, and her face when in repose bore traces of the warfare of
past years. The heart has a writing of its own, and we can see it on the
countenance; time has no power to obliterate it, but generally deepens
the expression. There was at times too a sternness in her voice and
manner, yet it left no unpleasant impression; her general