CHAPTER IX.
A PEEP INTO THE RICH POOR MAN'S HOUSE.
Seven years had not passed over without those precious accumulations to Aikin that constitute the poor man's wealth; for, save a conscience void of offence, there is no treasure comparable to healthy, bright, well-trained children. Our friend Harry and his wife had kept the even tenour of their way—no uncommon event had happened to them; but,
as the river of life glides through a varied country, the aspect of their's now varied from what it was when we last saw them.
The floor of the room was partly covered with a carpet, and the part visible as clean as hands could make it. It was summer, and the blinds were closed, admitting only light enough to enable the persons within to carry on their occupations. Uncle Phil is sitting by the half-opened window, with a year-old baby on his lap, telling over on its toes that charming lyric, "this pig went to market, and that pig stayed at home"—Aunt Lottie was preparing a pot of wholesome soup, which, like a judicious housewife, having boiled the day before, she was freeing from every particle of fat—a little girl, six years old, was tacking worsted binding together for Venitian blinds, whereby she got from a manufacturer (working only at odd intervals)
