Years rolled on, and Elizabeth Morton grew in stature and in beauty, the
pride of her protector, and the joy of her age. But the infirmities of
years grew upon her foster-mother, and, disabling her from following her
habits of industry, stern want entered her happy cottage. Still
Elizabeth appeared only as a thing of joy, contentment, and gratitude;
and often did her evening song beguile her aged friend's sigh into a
smile. And to better their hard lot, she hired herself to watch a few
sheep upon the neighbouring hills, to the steward of a gentleman named
Sommerville, who, about the time of her mother's death, had purchased
the estate of Thorndean. He was but little beloved, for he was a hard
master, and a bad husband; and more than once he had been seen at the
hour of midnight, in the silent churchyard, standing over the grave of
Mrs. Morton. This gave rise to not a few whisperings respecting the
birth of poor Elizabeth. He had no children; and a nephew, who resided
in his house, was understood to be his heir. William Sommerville was
about a year older than our fair orphan; and ever, as he could escape
the eye of his uncle, he would fly to the village to seek out Elizabeth
as a playmate.
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