Uncle Peter, who had a high opinion of Sally's abilities, always did his best to converse as she directed, but in her "inspired days" even he became utterly confounded, and once when in one of her lofty strains, she had labored hard to impress upon him the all-important fact that adjectives are frequently changed into adverbs by the suffix "ly," the old man, quite out of his wits with his efforts to understand and profit by her teachings, was guilty of a laughable blunder.

"Uncle Peter," said she, "did you notice how unusually funnily Miss Grundy's wig was arranged at dinner to-day?"

Thinking that he fully understood the reply which he was expected to make, and anxious to make amends for his former stupidity, Uncle Peter promptly replied, "No, madam I did not-ly.'"

The look of horror which Sally's face assumed, convinced Uncle Peter that he had failed in his attempts at speaking grammatically, and with a sudden determination never again to try, he precipitately left the house, and for the next two hours amused himself by playing "Bruce's Address" upon his old cracked fiddle. From that time Sal gave up all hopes of educating Uncle Peter, and confined herself mostly to literary efforts, of which we shall speak hereafter.

The night following Sal's first acquaintance with Mary, Alice cried until nearly day dawn. The milk which Miss Grundy's stinginess allowed her, was not particularly conducive to her health, and besides that, she missed the invigorating bath to which she had been accustomed during her mother's lifetime. Mary had spoken of it two or three times, but Miss Grundy only jerked her shoulders, saying, "she guessed she wasn't going to have such a slush around the house. You can bring her down," said she, "to the sink, and pump as much water on her as you like;" so Mary said no more about it until the night of which we have spoken, and then she determined on making one more effort. But her heart almost failed her, when, on entering the kitchen, she saw how the chairs and Miss Grundy's shoulders danced round. She well knew that something was wrong, and attributing it to Alice's crying, she awaited in silence for the storm to burst.

"Rind," said Miss Grundy to the girl with crooked feet, who was washing the milk-pail, "ain't there nary spare room in the dark passage?"

"None but the wool room, as I know on," was Rind's sullen response.

"Well, wool room 'tis then,—for, as for my being kep' awake night after night, by a good for nothin' young one, that hain't no business here, any way, I shan't do it. So (speaking to Mary) you may just pick up your duds and move this very morning."

"Going to put 'em in with the wool?" asked Rind, suspending operations, and holding up the pail so that the water ran out of the spout.

"You shet up," said Miss Grundy, "and wait until you're invited to speak. Goodness alive, look at that slop! Tip up the pail, quick."

By this time Mary had found courage to say she thought Alice would be better if she could have her usual bath every morning. This only increased Miss Grundy's wrath, and she whirled round so swiftly, that her forehead came in contact with the sharp edge of the cellar door, which chanced to be open.

"Good," softly whispered Rind, while the shuffling motion of her club feet showed how pleased she was.

Mary, on the contrary, was really distressed, for she knew the bumped head would be charged to her, and felt sure that she was further than ever from the attainment of her object. Still, after Miss Grundy's forehead was duly bathed in cold water, and bound up in a blue cotton handkerchief (the lady's favorite color), she again ventured to say, "Miss Grundy, if you will only let me wash Alice in my room, I'll promise she shan't disturb you again."

After a great deal of scolding and fretting about whims stuck-up notions, and paupers trying to be somebody, Miss Grundy, who really did not care a copper where Alice was washed, consented, and Mary ran joyfully up stairs with the bucket of clear, cold water, which was so soothing in its effects upon the feeble child, that in a short time she fell into a deep slumber. Mary gently laid her down, and then smoothing back the few silken curls which grew around her forehead, and kissing her white cheek, she returned to the kitchen, determined to please Miss Grundy that day, if possible.

But Miss Grundy was in the worst of humors, and the moment Mary appeared she called out, "Go straight back, and fetch that young one down here. Nobody's a goin' to have you racin' up stairs every ten minutes to see whether or no she sleeps with her eyes open or shet. She can stay here as well as not, and if she begins to stir, Patsy can jog the cradle."

Mary cast a fearful glance at Patsy, who nodded and smiled as if in approbation of Miss Grundy's command. She dared not disobey, so Alice and her cradle were transferred to the kitchen, which was all day long kept at nearly boiling heat from the stove room adjoining. Twice Mary attempted to shut the door between, but Miss Grundy bade her open it so she could "keep an eye on all that was going on." The new sights and faces round her, and more than all, Patsy's strange appearance, frightened Alice, who set up such loud screams that Miss Grundy shook her lustily, and then cuffed Patsy, who cried because the baby did, and pulling Mary's hair because she "most knew she felt gritty," she went back to the cheese-tub, muttering something about "Cain's being raised the hull time."

At last, wholly exhausted and overcome with the heat Alice ceased screaming, and with her eyes partly closed, she lay panting for breath, while Mary, half out of her senses tipped over the dishwater, broke the yellow pitcher, and spilled a pan of morning's milk.

"If there's a stick on the premises, I'll use it, or my name isn't Grundy," said the enraged woman, at the same time starting for a clump of alders which grew near the brook.

At this stage of affairs, Sal Furbush came dancing in curtseying, making faces, and asking Mary if she thought "the temperature of the kitchen conducive to health."

Mary instinctively drew nearer to her, as to a friend, and grasping her dress, whispered, "Oh, Sally, Aunt Sally, don't let her whip me for nothing," at the same time pointing towards Miss Grundy, who was returning with an alder switch, stripping off its leaves as she came.

"Whip you? I guess she won't," said Sal, and planting herself in the doorway as Miss Grundy came up, she asked, "Come you with hostile intentions?"

"Out of my way," said Miss Grundy. "I'll teach, that upstart to break things when she's mad." Pushing Sal aside, she entered the kitchen.

Mary retreated behind the cupboard door, and Miss Grundy was about to follow her, when Sal, with a nimble bound, sprang upon her back, and pulling her almost to the floor, snatched the whip from her hand, and broke it in twenty pieces. How the matter would have ended is uncertain, for at that moment Mr. Parker himself appeared, and to him Miss Grundy and Sal detailed their grievances, both in the same breath.

"I can't get at a word," said he, and turning to the pleasant-looking woman, who was quietly paring apples, he asked what it meant.

In a plain, straightforward manner, she told all, beginning from the time when Alice was first brought into the kitchen, and adding, as an opinion of her own, that the child was suffering from heat. Mr Parker was a good-natured, though rather weak man, and in reality slightly feared Miss Grundy. On this occasion, however, he did not take sides with her but said, "It was ridiculous to have such works, and that if Mary wanted whipping, he would do it himself."

"But Sal Furbush," said Miss Grundy, as she adjusted her head-gear, which was slightly displaced, "can't she be shut up? There's bedlam to pay the whole durin' time when she's loose."

Mr. Parker knew this very well, but before he had time to answer, Mary looked pleadingly in his face, and said, "if you please, don't shut her up. She was not to blame, for I asked her to help me."

"Wall, wall, we'll let her off this time, I guess," said he; and as Uncle Peter just then put his head into the window, saying that "the lord of the manor was wanted without," Mr. Parker left, glad to get out of the muss so easily. No sooner was he gone, than Sal, catching up the cradle, sorted for the stairs, saying, "I won't work, but I can, and will take care of little Willie, and I choose to do it in a more congenial atmosphere." Then, as Mary looked a little startled, she added, "Never you fear, dearie, Sal knows what she's about, and she won't make the little boy the least bit of a face."

From that time there was no more trouble with Alice during the day, for she seemed to cling naturally to Sally, who hour after hour rocked and took care of her, while Mary, in the kitchen below, was busy with the thousand things which Miss Grundy found for her to do.



CHAPTER VII.

THE LINCOLNS

Mary had been at the poor-house about three weeks, when Miss Grundy one day ordered her to tie on her sun-bonnet, and run across the meadow and through the woods until she came to a rye stubble, then follow the footpath along the fence until she came to another strip of woods, with a brook running through it. "And just on the fur edge of them woods," said she, "you'll see the men folks to work; and do you tell 'em to come to their dinner quick."

Mary tied her sun-bonnet and hurried off, glad to escape for a few moments from the hot kitchen, with its endless round of washing dishes, scouring knives, wiping door-sills, and dusting chairs. She had no difficulty in finding the way and she almost screamed for joy, when she came suddenly upon the sparkling brook, which danced so merrily beneath the shadow of the tall woods.

"What a nice place this would be to sit and read," was her first exclamation, and then she sighed as she thought how small were her chances for reading now.

Quickly her thoughts traversed the past, and her tears mingled with the clear water which flowed at her feet, as she recalled the time when, blessed with a father's and mother's love, she could go to school and learn as other children did. She was roused from her sad reverie by the sound of voices, which she supposed proceeded from the men, whose tones, she fancied, were softer than usual. "If I can hear them, they can hear me," thought she, and shouting as loud as she could, she soon heard Mr. Parker's voice in answer, saying he would come directly.

It was a mild September day, and as Mary knew that Sal would take care of Alice, she determined not to hurry, but to follow the course of the stream, fancying she should find it to be the same which ran through the clothes-yard at home. She had not gone far, when she came suddenly upon a boy and two little girls, who seemed to be playing near the brook. In the features of the boy she recognized Henry Lincoln, and remembering what Billy had said of him, she was about turning away, when the smallest of the girls espied her, and called out, "Look here, Rose, I reckon that's Mary Howard. I'm going to speak to her."

"Jenny Lincoln, you mustn't do any such thing. Mother won't like it," answered the girl called Rose.

But whether "mother would like it," or not, Jenny did not stop to think, and going towards Mary she said, "Have you come to play in the woods?"

"No," was Mary's reply. "I came to call the folks to dinner."

"Oh, that was you that screamed so loud. I couldn't think who it was, but it can't be dinner time?"

"Yes 'tis; it's noon."

"Well we don't have dinner until two, and we can stay here till that time. Won't you play with us?"

"No, I can't, I must go back and work," said Mary.

"Work!" repeated Jenny. "I think it's bad enough to have to live in that old house without working, but come and see our fish-pond;" and taking Mary's hand, she led her to a wide part of the stream where the water had been dammed up until it was nearly two feet deep and clear as crystal. Looking in, Mary could see the pebbles on the bottom, while a fish occasionally darted out and then disappeared.

"I made this almost all myself," said Jenny. "Henry wouldn't help me because he's so ugly, and Rose was afraid of blacking her fingers. But I don't care Mother says I'm a great,—great,—I've forgotten the word, but it means dirty and careless, and I guess I do look like a fright, don't I?"

Mary now for the first time noticed the appearance of her companion, and readily guessed that the word which she could not remember, was "slattern." She was a fat, chubby little girl, with a round, sunny face and laughing blue eyes, while her brown hair hung around her forehead in short, tangled curls. The front breadth of her pink gingham dress was plastered with mud. One of her shoe strings was untied, and the other one gone. The bottom of one pantalet was entirely torn off, and the other rolled nearly to the knee disclosing a pair of ankles of no Liliputian dimensions. The strings of her white sun-bonnet were twisted into a hard knot, and the bonnet itself hung down her back, partially hiding the chasm made by the absence of three or four hooks and eyes. Altogether she was just the kind of little girl which one often finds in the country swinging on gates and making mud pies.

Mary was naturally very neat; and in reply to Jenny's question as to whether she looked like a fright, she answered, "I like your face better than I do your dress, because it is clean."

"Why, so was my dress this morning," said Jenny, "but here can't any body play in the mud and not get dirty. My pantalet hung by a few threads, and as I wanted a rag to wash my earthens with, I tore it off. Why don't you wear pantalets?"

Mary blushed painfully, as she tried to hide her bare feet with her dress, but she answered, "When mother died I had only two pair, and Miss Grundy says I sha'nt wear them every day. It makes too much washing."

"Miss Grundy! She's a spiteful old thing. She shook me once because I laughed at that droll picture Sal Furbush drew of her on the front door. I am afraid of Sal, ain't you?"

"I was at first, but she's very kind to me, and I like her now."

"Well, I always run when I see her. She makes such faces and shakes her fist so. But if she's kind to you, I'll like her too. You go away (speaking to Henry), and not come here to bother us."

Henry gave a contemptuous whistle, and pointing to Mary's feet, said, "Ain't they delicate? Most as small as her teeth!"

The tears came into Mary's eyes, and Jenny, throwing a stick at her brother, exclaimed, "For shame, Henry Lincoln! You always was the meanest boy. Her feet ain't any bigger than mine. See," and she stuck up her little dumpy foot, about twice as thick as Mary's.

"Cracky!" said Henry, with another whistle. "They may be, too, and not be so very small, for yours are as big as stone boats, any day, and your ankles are just the size of the piano legs." So saying, he threw a large stone into the water, spattering both the girls, but wetting Jenny the most. After this he walked away apparently well pleased with his performance.

"Isn't he hateful?" said Jenny, wiping the water from her neck and shoulders; "but grandma says all boys are so until they do something with the oats,—I've forgot what. But there's one boy who isn't ugly. Do you know Billy Bender?"

"Billy Bender? Oh, yes," said Mary quickly, "he is all the friend I've got in the world except Sal Furbush."

"Well, he worked for my pa last summer, and oh, I liked him so much. I think he's the bestest boy in the world. And isn't his face beautiful?"

"I never thought of it," said Mary. "What makes you think him so handsome?"

"Oh, I don't know unless it's because he makes such nice popple whistles!" and as if the argument were conclusive, Jenny unrolled her pantalet, and tried to wipe some of the mud from her dress, at the same time glancing towards her sister, who at some little distance was reclining against an old oak tree, and poring intently over "Fairy Tales for Children."

Seeing that she was not observed, Jenny drew nearer to Mary and said, "If you'll never tell any body as long as you live and breathe, I'll tell you something."

Mary gave the required promise, and Jenny continued: "I shouldn't like to have my mother know it, for she scolds all the time now about my 'vulgar tastes,' though I'm sure Rose likes the same things that I do, except Billy Bender, and it's about him I was going to tell you. He was so pleasant I couldn't help loving him, if mother did say I mustn't. He used to talk to me about keeping clean, and once I tried a whole week, and I only dirtied four dresses and three pair of pantalets in all that time. Oh, how handsome and funny his eyes looked when I told him about it. He took me in his lap, and said that was more than he thought a little girl ought to dirty. Did you ever see any boy you loved as well as you do Billy Bender?"

Mary hesitated a moment, for much as she liked Billy, there was another whom she loved better, though he had never been one half as kind to her as Billy had. After a time she answered, "Yes, I like, or I did like George Moreland, but I shall never see him again;" and then she told Jenny of her home in England, of the long, dreary voyage to America, and of her father's death; but when she came to the sad night when her mother and Franky died, she could not go on, and laying her face in Jenny's lap, she cried for a long time. Jenny's tears flowed, too, but she tried to restrain them, for she saw that Rose had shut her book and was watching her movements.

Ere long, however, she resumed her reading, and then Jenny, softly caressing Mary, said, "Don't cry so, for I'll love you, and we'll have good times together too. We live in Boston every winter, but it will be most six weeks before we go and I mean to see you every day."

"In Boston?" said Mary, inquiringly. "George lives in Boston."

Jenny was silent a moment, and then suddenly clapping her hands together, she exclaimed. "I know George Moreland. He lives just opposite our house, and is Ida Selden's cousin. Why he's most as handsome as Billy Bender, only he teases you more. I'll tell him about you, for mother says he's got lots of money, and perhaps he'll give you some."

Mary felt that she wouldn't for the world have George know she was in the poor-house, and she quickly answered, "No, no, you mustn't tell him a word about me. I don't want you to. Promise that you won't."

Loth as Jenny was to make such a promise, she finally did, adding, "I guess I won't tell Rose either, for she and Ida are great friends. George says he don't know which he likes best, though he thinks Rose the handsomest. He like handsome girls, and so do I."

Mary knew she had no beauty of which to boast, but Ella had, so she very naturally mentioned her sister, saying how much she wished to see her.

"Why, you can see her at church," answered Jenny. "Why don't you ever go?"

"I am going next Sunday, Sally and I," was Mary's reply. "Billy told me the last time he was here that he would come and stay with Alice."

"Oh, I'm glad, and I hope they'll put you in my Sabbath school class, for Ella is in it, but if they do I'll contrive to have Rose sit off a good ways because,—because—"

Here Jenny paused, but seeing that Mary was waiting for her to finish the sentence, she added, "She's proud, and sometimes laughs at poor girls."

"Thank you, Miss Jenny Lincoln," said Rose, coming forward. "I'll tell mother of this new intimacy, and she'll put a stop to it, I'll assure you. But come along, I'm going home."

Jenny arose to obey, but whispered to Mary, "You'll find me most any time in these woods. I'd ask you to come to our house, only mother wouldn't let you sit in the parlor. I shall see you Sunday,—Good-bye."

Mary watched her until she disappeared among the bushes and then she too started for home, with a lighter heart than she had known before for many a day. She had found a new friend, and though Miss Grundy scolded because she had been gone so long, and threatened to shut her up in Sal Furbush's cage, she did not mind it and actually commenced humming a tune while Miss Grundy was storming about a bowl of sour milk which she had found in the cupboard. A sharp box on her ears brought her song to an end and the tears into her eyes, but she thought of Jenny, and the fact that she too knew George made him seem nearer, and when Miss Grundy did not see her she hastily drew the golden locket from her bosom, and glancing at the handsome, boyish face it revealed, quickly thrust it back as she heard a quick step in the passage.

She had no opportunity of seeing Jenny again that week, for she was kept busy from morning till night, running here and there, first after eggs, then after water, next for potatoes, and then after wood. And still Miss Grundy told her fifty times a day that "she didn't half pay her way, to say nothing about the young one."

"Bolt at once," said Sal. "Bolt, and say you didn't come here to work: that's the way I did."

Mary was willing to do whatever she could, but she often wished Mrs. Parker were able to be round, for then she was sure she would not have to work so hard. She had several times been sent of errands to Mrs. Parker's room, and that lady had always spoken kindly to her, asking her if she was tired, or what made her look so pale. It was through Mrs Parker's influence, too, that she had obtained permission to attend church the following Sabbath. Mrs. Parker was a professor of religion, and before her illness, some of the family had attended church every Sunday. But since she had been sick, her husband had thought it hardly worth while to harness up his horses, though he said any one might go who chose to walk. Few, however, were able to walk; so they remained at home, and Sunday was usually the noisiest day in the week. Sal Furbush generally took the lead, and mounting the kitchen table, sung camp meeting hymns as loud as she could scream. Uncle Peter fiddled, Patsy nodded and laughed, the girl with crooked feet by way of increasing the bedlam would sometimes draw a file across the stove-pipe, while Miss Grundy scolded, and declared "she could not and would not have such a noise."

"Shut your head, madam, and there'll be less," was Sal's ready rejoinder, as at the end of a verse she paused for breath.

The first Sabbath Mary looked on in perfect amazement, but the next one she spent in her own room, and after a deal of trouble, succeeded in coaxing Sal to stay there too, listening while she read to her from her little Bible. But the reading was perplexing business, for Sal constantly corrected her pronunciation, or stopped her while she expounded Scripture, and at last in a fit of impatience Mary tossed the book into the crazy creature's lap, asking her to read her self.

This was exactly what Sal wanted, and taking the foot of Mary's bed for her rostrum, she read and preached so furiously, that Mary felt almost glad when Miss Grundy came up to stop the racket, and locked Sal in her own room.



CHAPTER VIII.

AT CHURCH.

The Sabbath following Mary's first acquaintance with Jenny was the one on which she was to go to church. Billy Bender promised that if his mother were not suffering from any new disease, he would come to stay with Alice, and in case he failed, the pleasant-looking woman was to take his place. Mary would have preferred going alone, but Sally begged so hard, and promised so fairly "not to make a speck of a face at the preacher, provided he used good grammar," that Mary finally asked Mr. Parker to let her go.

He consented willingly, saying he hoped the house would be peaceable for once. And now, it was hard telling which looked forward to the next Sunday with the most impatience, Mary or Sal, the latter of whom was anxious to see the fashions, as she fancied her wardrobe was getting out of date. To Mary's happiness there was one drawback. A few weeks before her mother's death she had given to Ella her straw hat, which she had outgrown, and now the only bonnet she possessed was the veritable blue one of which George Moreland had made fun, and which by this time was nearly worn out. Mrs. Campbell, who tried to do right and thought that she did, had noticed Mary's absence from church, and once on speaking of the subject before Hannah, the latter suggested that probably she had no bonnet, saying that the one which she wore at her mother's funeral was borrowed Mrs. Campbell immediately looked over her things, and selecting a straw which she herself had worn three years before, she tied a black ribbon across it, and sent it as a present to Mary.

The bonnet had been rather large for Mrs. Campbell, and was of course a world too big for Mary, whose face looked bit, as Sal expressed it, "like a yellow pippin stuck into the far end of a firkin." Miss Grundy, however, said "it was plenty good enough for a pauper," reminding Mary that "beggars shouldn't be choosers."

"So it is good enough for paupers like you," returned Sal, "but people who understand grammar always have a keen sense of the ridiculous."

Mary made no remark whatever, but she secretly wondered if Ella wore such a hat. Still her desire to see her sister and to visit her mother's grave, prevailed over all other feelings, and on Sunday morning it was a very happy child which at about nine o'clock bounded down the stairway, tidily dressed in a ten cent black lawn and a pair of clean white pantalets.

There was another circumstance, too, aside from the prospect of seeing Ella, which made her eyes sparkle until they were almost black. The night before, in looking over the articles of dress which she would need, she discovered that there was not a decent pair of stockings in her wardrobe. Mrs. Grundy, to whom she mentioned the fact, replied with a violent shoulder jerk, "For the land's sake! ain't you big enough to go to meetin' barefoot, or did you think we kept silk stockin's for our quality to wear?"

Before the kitchen looking-glass, Sal was practising a courtesy which she intended making to any one who chanced to notice her next day; but after overhearing Miss Grundy's remark, she suddenly brought her exercises to a close and left the kitchen. Arrived at her room, she commenced tumbling over a basket containing her wearing apparel, selecting from it a pair of fine cotton stockings which she had long preserved, because they were the last thing Willie's father ever gave her. "They are not much too large for her now," thought she, "but I guess I'll take a small seam clear through them." This being done, she waited until all around the house was still, and then creeping stealthily to Mary's room, she pinned the stockings to the pantalets, hanging the whole before the curtainless window, where the little girl could see them the moment she opened her eyes! Mary well knew to whom she was indebted for this unexpected pleasure, and in her accustomed prayer that morning she remembered the poor old crazy woman, asking that the light of reason might again dawn upon her darkened mind.

On descending to the kitchen, Mary found Sal waiting for her, and, as she had expected, rigged out in a somewhat fantastic style. Her dress, which was an old plum-colored silk, was altogether too short-waisted and too narrow for the prevailing fashion. A gauze handkerchief was thrown across her neck, and fastened to her belt in front by a large yellow bow. Her bonnet, which was really a decent one, was almost entirely covered by a thick green veil, and notwithstanding the sun was shining brightly, she carried in her hand a large blue cotton umbrella, for fear it would rain!

"Come, child," said she, the moment Mary appeared, "put on your tea-kettle (referring to the bonnet which Mary held in her hand), and let us start."

There was no looking-glass in Mary's room, and she stepped before the one in the kitchen while she adjusted her hat, but her courage almost failed her as she saw the queer-looking image reflected by the mirror. She was unusually thin, and it seemed to her that her teeth were never so prominent before. Her eyes, always large, now looked unnaturally so and as she placed what Sal had termed a "tea-kettle" upon her head, she half determined not to go. But Sal caught her hand, saying, "Come, child, it's time we were off. They'll all know it's Mrs. Campbell's old bonnet, and will laugh at her for giving it to you."

Billy had not come, but the pleasant-looking woman had succeeded in making friends with Alice, and as Mary passed out of the yard she saw her little sister spatting the window sill, and apparently well pleased with her new nurse. Scarcely were they out of sight of the house, when Sal, seating herself upon a large stone, commenced divesting her feet of her shoes and stockings.

"What are you doing?" asked Mary, in great surprise.

"I guess I know better than to wear out my kid slippers when I've got no Willie's father to buy me any more," answered Sal. "I'm going barefoot until I reach the river bridge, and then I shall put them on again."

The shoes and stockings being carefully rolled up in a paper which Sal produced from her pocket, they walked briskly forward, and reached the village some time before the first bell rang for church.

"Come down this street, please," said Mary to her companion, who with slippers readjusted and umbrella hoisted was mincing along, courtesying to every one she met, and asking them how they did—"Come down this street; I want to see my old home."

Sal readily complied, saying as they drew near the low brown house, in which a strange family were now living, "There is nothing very elegant in the architecture of this dwelling."

Mary made no reply. With her head resting upon the garden fence, and one hand clasped around a shrub which Franky had set out, she was sobbing as though her heart would break. Very gently Sal laid her hand on Mary's shoulder, and led her away, saying, "What would I not have given for such a command of tears when Willie's father died. But I could not weep; and my tears all turned to burning coals, which set my brain on fire."

The next time Mary raised her head they were opposite Mrs. Bender's, where Sal declared it her intention to stop. As they were passing up to the side door, Billy, who heard their footsteps, came out, and shaking hands with Mary, and trying hard to keep from laughing at the wonderful courtesy, which Sal Furbush made him. On entering the house they found Mrs. Bender flat on her back, the pillow pulled out from under her head, and the bed clothes tucked closely up under her chin.

"Mother was so sick I couldn't come," said Billy to Mary, while Sal, walking up to the bedside, asked, "Is your sickness unto death, my good woman?"

"Oh, I am afeard not," was the feeble response. "Folks with my difficulty suffer for years."

Mary looked inquiringly at Billy, and a smile but little according with his mother's seeming distress parted his lips as he whispered, "She was reading yesterday about a woman that had been bed-ridden with a spinal difficulty, and now she declares that she too 'has got a spine in her back,' though I fancy she would be in a pretty predicament without one. But where did you get that fright of a bonnet?" he continued. "It's like looking down a narrow lane to see your face."

Mary knew that Billy was very observing of dress, and she blushed painfully as she replied, that Mrs. Campbell gave it to her.

"Well, she ought to be ashamed," said he, "with all her money to give you a corn-basket of a thing like that. Ella doesn't wear such a one, I can tell you."

Just then the first bell rang, and Sal, who had mischievously recommended a mustard poultice, as being the most likely to draw Mrs. Bender's spine to a head, started to go saying, "she wanted to be there in season, so as to see the folks come in."

Accordingly they again set forward, attracting more attention, and causing more remarks, than any two who had passed through Chicopee for a long time. On reaching the church, Sal requested the sexton to give her a seat which would command a view of the greater part of the congregation, and he accordingly led them to the farthest extremity of one of the side galleries. Mary had been there at church before, but as she had always sat near the door, she did not know in what part of the building Mrs. Campbell's pew was located. As she leaned over the railing, however, she concluded that the large square one with crimson velvet cushions must be hers. Erelong the bell began to toll, and soon a lady dressed in deep mourning appeared, and passing up the middle aisle, entered the richly cushioned pew. She was accompanied by a little girl, tastefully dressed in a frock of light-blue silk tissue. A handsome French straw hat was set jauntily on one side of her head, and her long curls hung over her white neck and shoulders. Mary knew that this was Ella, and involuntarily starting up, she leaned forward far enough to bring her bonnet directly in sight of some thoughtless girls, who immediately commenced tittering, and pointing her out to those near them.

Blushing scarlet, the poor girl sank back into the seat, saying half aloud, "O, I wish I hadn't come."

"What's the matter?" said Sal. "Has somebody laughed at you? I'll warrant there has;" and leaning over the railing herself, she shook her fist threateningly at the girls, whose eyes were still directed that way.

Mary felt instinctively that her companion was attracting more attention than her bonnet; and twitching her dress bade her sit down. Sal obeyed; but she had no opportunity that morning of deciding whether the sermon were grammatical or not, for she was constantly on the look out, and whenever she saw any one scrutinizing Mary or herself more closely than they ought, a shake of her fist and a horrid face warned them to desist. Twice during church time Mary thought, nay felt sure that she caught her sister's eye, but it was quickly withdrawn, as if unwilling to be recognized.

When church was out, Sal insisted upon going down immediately; so they descended together to the porch below, reaching it just as Mrs. Campbell appeared in the doorway. Had she chosen, Mary could have touched the lady's dress as she passed; but she rather shrank from being seen, and would probably not have been observed at all, had not Sal planted herself directly in front of Mrs. Campbell, saying loudly enough for all near her to hear, "Madam, do you not recognize your munificent gift of charity in yonder amazing bonnet?" at the same time pointing towards Mary, who nervously grasped the strings of her hat, as if to remove the offensive article.

Mrs. Campbell haughtily pushed Sal aside, and advancing towards the child, said, "I am glad to see you at church Mary, and hope you will now come regularly. You can accompany Ella home after the Sabbath school, if you like."

The words and manner were so cold and formal, that Mary was obliged to force down her tears before she replied, that she was going to her mother's grave, and wanted Ella to go with her.

"It is pretty warm to walk so far, but if Ella wishes it she has my permission. Only tell her not to get red and heated," said Mrs. Campbell; and gathering up the folds of her rich silk, the texture of which Sal Furbush had been examining, and comparing with her own plum-color, she walked away.

Scarcely was she gone, when Jenny Lincoln came tripping up, and seizing both Mary's hands, exclaimed, "I am real glad you are here. I thought you hadn't come, until I heard them talking about a crazy woman. But let's go to my class, and you'll have a chance to see Ella while the scholars are getting their seats."

Mary accompanied her young friend to a pew, at the door of which she met her sister face to face. There was a sudden exclamation of joy on Mary's part, and an attempt to throw her arms around Ella's neck, but the little girl drew back, and merely offering her hand, said, "Oh, it's you, isn't it? I didn't know you, you looked so queer."

"Heavens! what a head-dress! Big as our carriage top any day!" was the next exclamation which reached Mary's ear, as Rose Lincoln brushed past. Glancing from her sister to Rose, Mary half determined to tear the bonnet from her head and trample it under her feet, but Jenny softly squeezed her hand, and whispered, "Don't mind what Rose says; I love you, and so does Billy Bender. I saw him in the village yesterday, and asked him if he didn't, and he said he did."

It required more than Billy Bender's love to soothe Mary then. Her sister's cool reception, so different from what she had anticipated, had stung her heart; and sitting down near the door, she burst into a passionate fit of tears. Jenny, who was really distressed, occasionally pressed her hand in token of sympathy, at the same time offering her cloves, peanuts and sugar-plums. There was a brighter flush, too, than usual, on Ella's cheek, for she knew that she had done wrong, and she so jumbled together the words of her lesson, that the teacher made her repeat it twice, asking her what was the matter.

By the time Sabbath school was over, Mary had dried her tears; and determining to make one more advance towards her sister, she said, "Won't you go to mother's grave with me? I want to tell you about little Allie. I have taught her to call your name most as plain as I can."

Ella looked down at her embroidered pantalets, and hanging her head on one side, said, "Oh, it's so dusty. I'm afraid I'll get all dirt,—and hot, too. Mamma doesn't like to have me get hot."

"Why not?" asked Jenny, who always wished to know the reason of things.

"'Cause it makes folks' skin rough, and break out," was Ella's reply.

"Oh, pshaw!" returned Jenny, with a vain attempt to turn up her little bit of a nose. "I play every day till I am most roasted, and my skin ain't half as rough as yours. But say, will you go with Mary? for if you don't I shall!"

"I guess I won't," said Ella, and then, anxious to make Mary feel a little comfortable, she added, "Mamma says Mary's coming to see me before long, and then we'll have a real good time. I've lots of pretty things—two silk dresses, and I wear French gaiters like these every day."

Glancing first at Mary, and then at Ella, Jenny replied, "Pho, that's nothing; Mary knows more than you do, any way. Why, she can say every speck of the multiplication table, and you only know the 10's!"

When Ella was angry, or felt annoyed, she generally cried; and now declaring that she knew more than the 10's she began to cry; and announcing her intention of never speaking to Jenny again "as long as she lived and breathed," she walked away, while Mary and Jenny proceeded together towards the burying ground. With a bitter cry Mary threw herself upon her mother's grave, and wept for a long, long time.

"It would not be so bad," said Mary, "if there was any body left, but I am all alone in the world. Ella does not love me—nobody loves me."

It was in vain that Jenny told her of Billy Bender's love, of her own, and George Moreland's too. Mary only wept the more, wishing that she had died, and Allie too. At last remembering that she had left Sal Furbush behind her, and knowing that it was time for her to go, she arose, and leaning on Jenny, whose arm was passed lovingly about her, she started to return.

Afternoon service had commenced ere they reached the church, and as Mary had no desire of again subjecting her bonnet to the ridicule of Rose Lincoln, and as Jenny had much rather stay out doors in the shade, they sat down upon the steps, wondering where Sal Furbush had taken herself. "I mean to look in and see if she is here," said Jenny, and advancing on tiptoe to the open door, she cast her eye over the people within; then clapping her hand over her mouth to keep back a laugh, she returned to Mary, saying, "Oh, if it isn't the funniest thing in the world. There sits Sal in Mrs. Campbell's pew, fanning herself with that great palm-leaf, and shaking her fist at Ella every time she stirs!"

It seems that Sal had amused herself during the intermission by examining and trying the different pews, and taking a fancy to Mrs. Campbell's, she had snugly ensconced herself in one corner of it, greatly to the fear and mortification of Ella, who chanced to be the only one of the family present. When service was out, Sal gathered up her umbrella and courtesying her way through the crowd, soon found Mary and started for home, declaring the clergyman to be "a well-read grammarian, only a trifle too emphatic in his delivery."

As they were descending the long hill which led to the river bridge, Mr. Lincoln's carriage passed them, and Jenny, who was inside, seized the reins, saying, "Please, pa, stop and let them ride—there's nobody but Rose and me in here, and it is so hot and so far."

Mr. Lincoln might possibly have complied with his daughter's request, had not Rose chirrupped to the spirited horses, and said, "Don't, father, for mercy's sake! ask those paupers to ride."

So the carriage dashed on, but Mary forgot the long walk by remembering the glance of affection which Jenny gave her as she looked back from the window. Sal seemed unusually silent, and even forgot to take off her shoes and stockings when she reached the river bridge. Mary saw there was something weighing upon her mind, but she forbore asking any questions, knowing that Sal would in her own good time make her thoughts known. They had nearly reached home, when Sal suddenly turned aside, and seating herself upon a rock under a white beech-tree, said, "Miss Howard, I've been thinking what a splendid minister was spoiled when they put dresses on me! Oh how hard I had to hold myself to-day to keep from extemporizing to the congregation. I reckon there wouldn't have been quite so many nodding as there were."

In the excitement of the moment Sal arose, and throwing out her eyes, gesticulated in a manner rather alarming to Mary, who had never before seen so wild a look in the crazy woman's eyes. Soon, however, her mood changed, and resuming her seat, she continued in a milder tone, "Did you ever hear that I was an authoress?"

"An authoress!" repeated Mary—"an authoress! Why no; are you?"

"To be sure I am," answered Sal. "What's to hinder. Haven't I told you repeatedly, that I once possessed an unusually large amount of judgment; and this, added to my knowledge of grammar, and uncommon powers of imagination, enabled me to produce a work which, but for an unaccountable freak of the publisher, would have rendered my name immortal."

"I don't understand," said Mary, and Sally continued: "You see, I wrote about six hundred pages of foolscap, which the publisher to whom it was sent for examination was impolite enough to return, together with a note, containing, as I suppose, his reasons for rejection; but if he thinks I read it he's mistaken. I merely glanced at the words, 'Dear Madam—We regret—' and then threw it aside. It was a terrible disappointment, and came near turning my brain; but there are other publishing houses in the world, and one of these days I shall astonish mankind. But come, we must hasten on, or the gormandizers will eat up those custard pies which I found in the cellar with the brass-kettle covered over them."

Accordingly they started for home, but found, as Sal had predicted, that supper was over and the pies all gone. By a little dexterous management, however, she managed to find half of one, which Miss Grundy had tucked away under an empty candle-box for her own future eating.



CHAPTER IX.

THE NEW BONNET.

The next morning, for a wonder. Jenny Lincoln was up before the sun, and in the large dark closet which adjoined her sleeping room, she rummaged through band-boxes and on the top shelves until she found and brought to light a straw hat, which was new the fall before, but which her mother had decided unfit to appear again in the city. Jenny had heard the unkind remarks which Mary's odd-looking bonnet elicited, and she now determined to give her this one, though she did not dare to do so without her mother's consent. So after breakfast, when her mother was seated at her work in the parlor, Jenny drew near, making known her request, and asking permission to carry the bonnet to Mary herself.

"Mercy on me!" said Mrs. Lincoln, "what won't you think of next, and where did you get such vulgar taste. It must have been from your father, for I am sure you never took it from me. I dare say, now, you had rather play with that town pauper than with the richest child in Boston."

For a moment Jenny was silent, and then as a new idea came into her head, she said, "Ma, if you should die, and pa should die, and every body should die, and we hadn't any money, wouldn't I have to be a town pauper?"

"What absurd questions you ask," said Mrs. Lincoln, overturning a work-box to find a spool of cotton, which lay directly on top. "Do what you please with the bonnet, which I fancy you'll find as much too small for Mary as the one she now has is too large."

Jenny felt fearful of this, but "where there's a will there's a way;" and after considering a moment, she went in quest of her sister, who had one just like it. Rose did not care a fig for the bonnet, and after a while she agreed to part with it on condition that Jenny would give her a coral bracelet, with gold clasps, which she had long coveted. This fanciful little ornament was a birth-day present from Billy and at first Jenny thought that nothing would tempt her to part with it, but as Rose was decided, she finally yielded the point, brushing away a tear as she placed the bracelet in her sister's hand. Then putting the bonnet in a basket, and covering it with a newspaper, she started for the poor-house.

"Good morning, Miss Grundy," said she, as she appeared in the doorway. "May I see Mary, just a little minute? I've got something for her."

Miss Grundy was crosser than usual this morning on account of a sudden illness which had come upon Patsy, so she jerked her shoulders, and without turning her head, replied, "It's Monday mornin', and Mary ain't goin' to be hindered by big bugs nor nobody else. Here 'tis goin' on nine o'clock, and them dishes not done yet! If you want to see her, you can go into the back room where she is."

Nothing daunted by this ungracious reception, Jenny advanced towards the "back room," where she found Mary at the "sink," her arms immersed in dishwater, and a formidable pile of plates, platters and bowls all ready to be wiped, standing near her. Throwing aside her bonnet and seizing the coarse dish towel, Jenny exclaimed, "I'm going to wipe dishes Mary, I know how, and when they are done, if Miss Grundy won't let you go up stairs a minute, I'll ask Mr. Parker. I saw him under the woodshed grinding an axe."

It was a rare thing to see Jenny Lincoln in the kitchen at the poor-house, and now the fact that she was there, and wiping dishes too, circulated rapidly, bringing to the spot the sour-faced woman, the pleasant-looking woman, the girl with the crooked feet, and half a dozen others, each of whom commented upon the phenomenon after her own fashion.

"Do see the little thing," said one; "handles the wiping rag just like any body!"

"And look there," cried a second; "setting them up in the cupboard! Did you ever!" While a third remarked that she wore silk stockings, wondering whether they were bought on purpose for her, or had been cut over from a pair of her mother's.

Thus noticed and flattered Jenny worked away, assisting in scouring knives and washing spiders, until her dress was splashed with dishwater, and her white apron crocked by the kettles.

"Won't your marm scold you for getting so dirty?' asked the girl with the crooked feet.

"I s'pose so," said Jenny, carelessly; "but then she scolds most all the time, so I don't mind it!"

The dishes being done, and Miss Grundy making no objections, Mary accompanied Jenny up stairs, where the latter, opening her basket, held to view a neat-looking straw hat, far prettier than the one which Mrs. Campbell had presented.

"See," said she, placing it upon Mary's head; "this is for you. I wanted to give you mine, but 'twasn't big enough, so Rose let you have hers. It's real becoming, too."

The tears which fell from Mary's eyes were caused not less by Jenny's kindness, than by the thought that the haughty Rose Lincoln had given her a bonnet! She did not know of the sacrifice which the noble-hearted Jenny had made to obtain it, and it was well she did not, for it would have spoiled all the happiness she experienced in wearing it.

"Thank you, Jenny, and Rose too," said she. "I am so glad, for I love to go to church, and I surely would never have gone again and wore that other bonnet."

"I wouldn't either," returned Jenny. "I think it was ridiculous for Mrs. Campbell to give you such an old dud of a thing, and I know mother thinks so too, for she laughed hard for her, when I described it, though she said nothing except that 'beggars shouldn't be choosers.' I wonder what that means. Do you know?"

Mary felt that she was beginning to know, but she did not care to enlighten Jenny, who soon sprang up, saying she must go home, or her mother would be sending Henry after her. "And I don't want him to come here," said she, "for I know you don't like him, and there don't hardly any body, he's so stuck up and kind of—I don't know what."

In passing through the hall, the girls met Miss Grundy, who had just come from Patsy's room. As soon as she saw Mary, she said, "Clap on your bonnet quick, and run as fast as ever you can to Miss Thornfield's. Dr. Gilbert has gone there, and do you tell him to come here right away, for Patsy is dreadful sick, and has fits all the time."

There was a tremor in her voice, and she seemed much excited, which surprised the girls, who fancied she would not care even if Patsy died. Mrs. Thornfield's was soon reached, the message given, and then they hurried back.

"Is Patsy worse?" asked Mary, as she saw the bedroom door open, and two or three women standing near the bed.

Miss Grundy did not answer, and when next her face was visible, the girls saw that her eyes were red, as if she had been weeping.

"Funny, isn't it?" said Jenny, as she started for home. "I didn't suppose any thing would make her cry, and I guess now the tears are sort of sour!"

Dr. Gilbert came, but his skill could not save the poor idiot girl, and at about four that afternoon she died. Around the bed of death there were no tears or lamentations, for those who stood by and watched the lamp of life as it went out, felt that the spirit which was leaving them would be happier far in another world, for never in this had a ray of reason shone upon poor Patsy's darkened mind. We have said there were no tears, and yet, although the waters came not to the surface, there was one heart which wept, as with unflinching nerve the cold, stern woman arrayed the dead girl for the grave.

That night Mary was aroused from sleep, by some one whispering her name in her ear, and starting up, she saw Sally bending over her.

"Come with me," said she softly, "and I'll show you the queerest sight you ever saw."

Trembling in every joint, Mary arose and followed Sal, who led her towards the room where Patsy lay. As she drew near the door they paused, and by the light of the autumn moon, which streamed through the curtained window Mary saw Miss Grundy kneeling by the cold body, and sobbing bitterly. Once she spoke, and Mary caught the words, "My child, my poor child."

Wonderingly she looked up to Sally for an explanation; but the crazy woman only replied, as they returned to their rooms, "Yes,—there's been queer doings some time or other, it's very evident; but I know one thing, I'll never draw her profile again, and I'll call her Mrs. Grundy after this!"

It was hardly worth while, as the neighbors thought, to be at all the trouble and expense of carrying a foolish girl without friends or relatives to the graveyard, so they buried her beneath the shadow of a wide-spreading maple, in a little inclosure where several other unfortunate ones lay sleeping At the funeral many wondered at the ghastly whiteness of Miss Grundy's face, and why she grasped at the coffin lid, as if to keep from falling, when with others she gazed upon the pale face which, in its dreamless slumber, looked calm and placid as that of a child.

There were but few who knew of Miss Grundy's sin, and her secret was buried in Patsy's grave, where often a mother's form was bending and a mother's tears were shed, when the world was dark and still, and there was no eye to see, save that of Him who said, "Go and sin no more."



CHAPTER X.

WINTER AT THE POOR-HOUSE.

One afternoon about the middle of October, Mary sat under an apple-tree in the orchard, weeping bitterly. It was in vain that Alice, who was with her, and who by this time was able to stand alone, climbed up to her side, patting her cheeks, and trying various ways to win her attention. She still wept on, unmindful of the sound of rapid footsteps upon the grass, nor until twice repeated did she hear the words, "Why, Mary, what is the matter? What's happened?"—then looking up she saw Billy Bender, who raised her in his arms, and insisted upon knowing what was the matter.

Laying her head on his shoulder, she sobbed out, "She's gone,—she's gone, and there's nobody left but Sally. Oh dear, oh dear!"

"Gone! Who's gone?" asked Billy.

"Jenny," was Mary's reply. "She's gone to Boston, and won't come back till next May; and I loved her so much."

"Oh, yes, I know," returned Billy. "I met them all on their way to the depot; but I wouldn't feel so badly. Jenny will come again, and besides that, I've got some real good news to tell you.

"About Ella?" said Mary.

"No, not about Ella, but about myself; I'm coming here to live with you."

"Coming here to live!" repeated Mary with astonishment. "What for? Are your folks all dead?"

Billy smiled and answered, "Not quite so bad as that. I went to school here two years ago, and I know I learned more than I ever did at home in two seasons. The boys, when Henry Lincoln is away, don't act half as badly as they do in the village; and then they usually have a lady teacher, because it's cheaper I suppose, for they don't pay them half as much as they do gentlemen, and I think they are a great deal the best. Any way, I can learn the most when I go to a woman."

"But what makes you come here, and what will your mother do?" asked Mary.

"She's got a sister come from the West to stay with her, and as I shall go home every Saturday night, she'll get along well enough. I heard Mr. Parker in the store one day inquiring for a boy to do chores. So after consulting mother, I offered my services, and was accepted. Won't we have real nice times going to school together, and then I've brought a plaything for you. Are you afraid of dogs?"

So saying he gave a whistle, and a large Newfoundland dog came bounding through the orchard. At first Mary drew back in alarm, for the dog, though young, was unusually large; but her fears soon vanished when she saw how affectionate he was, licking her own and Alice's hands, and bounding playfully upon his master's shoulders.

"He is a nice fellow," said she, stroking his shaggy sides. What do you call him?"

"Tasso," answered Billy; and then seeing Mr. Parker at a distance, and wishing to speak to him, he walked away.

Three weeks from that time the winter school commenced; and Billy took up his abode at the poor-house, greatly to the satisfaction of Sally and Mary, and greatly to the annoyance of Miss Grundy, who, since Patsy's death, was crosser and more fault-finding than ever.

"Smart idea!" said she, "to have that great lummux around to be waited on!" and when she saw how happy his presence seemed to make Mary, she vented her displeasure upon her in various ways, conjuring up all sorts of reasons why she should stay out of school as often as possible, and wondering "what the world was a coming to, when young ones hardly out of the cradle begun to court! It wasn't so in her younger days, goodness knew!"

"I wouldn't venture a great many remarks about my younger days, if I were you, Mrs. Grundy," said Sal, who had adhered to her resolution of always addressing her old enemy as Mrs., though she whispered it to Mary as her opinion that the woman didn't fancy her new title.

Much as Mary had learned to prize Sally's friendship, before winter was over she had cause to value it still more highly. Wretched and destitute as the poor crazed creature now was, she showed plainly that at some period or other of her life, she had had rare advantages for education, which she now brought into use for Mary's benefit. When Mary first commenced attending school, Miss Grundy insisted that she should knit every evening, and thus she found no opportunity for studying at home. One evening when, as usual, a part of the family were assembled around a blazing fire in the kitchen, Sal Furbush suddenly exclaimed, "Mary, why don't you bring your books home at night, just as Mr. Bender does."

She had conceived a great respect for Billy, and always called him Mr. Mary cast a rueful glance at the coarse sock, which certainly was not growing fast, and replied, "I should like to, but I have to knit all the time."

"Fudge on your everlasting knitting," said Sal, snatching the sock from Mary's hands and making the needles fly nimbly. "I'm going to be very magnanimous, and every time you'll bring your books home I'll knit for you—I beg Mrs. Grundy, that you'll not throw the fire all over the floor," she added, as that lady gave the forestick a violent kick.

"The Lord save us!" was Miss Grundy's exclamation when after supper the next evening she saw the three-legged stand loaded down with Billy's and Mary's school books.

But as no one made her any reply, she quietly resumed her work, appropriating to her own use the only tallow candle there was burning, and leaving Billy and Mary to see as best they could by the firelight. For some time Mary pored over her lesson in Colburn, but coming to the question, "24 is 3/5 of how many times 10?" she stopped, unable to proceed farther. Again and again she read it over, without gathering a single idea, and was on the point of asking Billy to assist her, when Sal, who had been watching her, said, "Let me take your book, child."

Mary did so, and then, as if conscious for the first time of Miss Grundy's monopoly of the candle, Sal seized a large newspaper lying near, and twisting it up, said, "Let there be light;" then thrusting one end of it into the flames and drawing it out again, added, "and there is light."

After tumbling over the leaves awhile, she continued, "No, they didn't study this when I was young; but tell me what 'tis that troubles you."

Mary pointed to the problem, and after looking at it attentively a moment, Sal said, "The answer to it is 4; and if you will give me some little inkling of the manner in which you are taught to explain them at school, perhaps I can tell you about that."

"It begins in this way," said Mary. "If 24 is 3/5 of some number, 1/5 of that number must be something or other, I don't know what."

"One third of 24 of course," said Sal.

"Oh, yes, that's it," exclaimed Mary, who began to understand it herself. "Now, I guess I know. You find what one third of 24 is, and if that is one fifth, five fifths would be five times that, and then see how many times 10 will go in it."

"Exactly so," said Sal. "You'll make an arithmetic yet, and have it out just about the time I do my grammar. But," she added in another tone, "I've concluded to leave out the Grundy gender!"

Each night after this Mary brought home her books, and the rapid improvement which she made in her studies was as much owing to Sally's useful hints and assistance as to her own untiring perseverance. One day when she returned from school Sally saw there was something the matter, for her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed as if with weeping. On inquiring of Billy, she learned that some of the girls had been teasing Mary about her teeth, calling them "tushes," &c.

As it happened one of the paupers was sick, and Dr. Gilbert was at that time in the house. To him Sal immediately went, and after laying the case before him, asked him to extract the offending teeth. Sally was quite a favorite with the doctor, who readily consented, on condition that Mary was willing, which he much doubted, as such teeth came hard.

"Willing or not, she shall have them out. It's all that makes her so homely," said Sal; and going in quest of Mary, she led her to the doctor, who asked to look in her mouth.

There was a fierce struggle, a scream, and then one of the teeth was lying upon the floor.

"Stand still," said Sal, more sternly than she had ever before spoken to Mary, who, half frightened out of her wits stood still while the other one was extracted.

"There," said Sal, when the operation was finished, "you look a hundred per cent. better."

For a time Mary cried and spit, hardly knowing whether the relished the joke or not; but when Billy praised her improved looks, telling her that "her mouth was real pretty," and when she herself dried her eyes enough to see that it was a great improvement, she felt better, and wondered why she had never thought to have them out before.

Rapidly and pleasantly to Mary that winter passed away, for the presence of Billy was in itself a sufficient reason why she should be happy. He was so affectionate and brother-like in his deportment towards her, that she began questioning whether she did not love him as well, if not better, than she did her sister Ella, whom she seldom saw, though she heard that she had a governess from Worcester, and was taking music lessons on a grand piano which had been bought a year before. Occasionally Billy called at Mrs. Campbell's, but Ella seemed shy and unwilling to speak of her sister.

"Why is there this difference?" he thought more than once, as he contrasted the situation, of the two girls,—the one petted, caressed, and surrounded by every luxury, and the other forlorn, desolate, and the inmate of a poor-house; and then he built castles of a future, when, by the labor of his own head or hands, Mary, too, should be rich and happy.



CHAPTER XI.

ALICE.

As spring advanced, Alice began to droop, and Sally's quick eye detected in her infallible signs of decay. But she would not tell it to Mary, whose life now seemed a comparatively happy one. Mr. and Mrs. Parker were kind to her,—the pleasant-looking woman and the girl with crooked feet were kind to her. Uncle Peter petted her, and even Miss Grundy had more than once admitted that "she was about as good as young ones would average." Billy, too, had promised to remain and work for Mr. Parker during the summer, intending with the money thus earned to go the next fall and winter to the Academy in Wilbraham. Jenny was coming back ere long, and Mary's step was light and buoyant as she tripped singing about the house, unmindful of Miss Grundy's oft-expressed wish that "she would stop that clack," or of the anxious, pitying eyes Sal Furbush bent upon her, as day after day the faithful old creature rocked and tended little Alice.

"No," said she, "I cannot tell her. She'll have tears enough to shed by and by, but I'll double my diligence, and watch little Willie more closely." So night after night, when Mary was sleeping the deep sleep of childhood, Sally would steal noiselessly to her room, and bending over the little wasting figure at her side, would wipe the cold sweat from her face, and whisper in the unconscious baby's ear messages of love for "the other little Willie, now waiting for her in Heaven."

At last Mary could no longer be deceived, and one day when Alice lay gasping in Sally's lap she said, "Aunt Sally isn't Alice growing worse? She doesn't play now, nor try to walk."

Sally laid her hand on Mary's face and replied, "Poor child, you'll soon be all alone, for Willie's going to find his mother."

There was no outcry,—no sudden gush of tears, but nervously clasping her hands upon her heart, as if the shock had entered there, Mary sat down upon her bed, and burying her face in the pillow, sat there for a long time. But she said nothing, and a careless observer might have thought that she cared nothing, as it became each day more and more evident that Alice was dying. But these knew not of the long nights when with untiring love she sat by her sister's cradle, listening to her irregular breathing, pressing her clammy hands, and praying to be forgiven if ever, in thought or deed, she had wronged the little one now leaving her.

And all this time there came no kind word or message of love from Ella, who knew that Alice was dying, for Billy had told her so. "Oh, if she would only come and see her;" said Mary, "it wouldn't seem half so bad."

"Write to her," said Sal; "peradventure that may bring her."

Mary had not thought of this before, and now tearing a leaf from her writing-book, and taking her pen, she wrote hurriedly, "Ella, dear Ella, won't you come and see little Alice once before she dies? You used to love her, and you would now, if you could see how white and beautiful she looks. Oh, do come. Mrs. Campbell will let you, I know."

This note, which was blurred and blotted with tears was carried by Billy, who was going to the village, and delivered to Mrs. Campbell herself. Perhaps the proud woman remembered the time when her own darling died, or it may be that conscience upbraided her for caring so much for one orphan and utterly neglecting the other two. Be that as it may, her tears fell upon the paper and mingled with Mary's as she replied, "Ella shall come this afternoon."

But before afternoon a drizzling shower came on, and Mary watched and wept in vain, for Ella did not come. The next morning was bright and beautiful as April mornings often are, and at as early an hour as was consistent with Mrs. Campbell's habits, her carriage was before the door, and herself and Ella seated within it. The little lady was not in the best of humors, for she and her maid had quarrelled about her dress; Ella insisting upon a light-blue merino, and the maid proposing a plain delaine, which Ella declared she would not wear. Mrs. Campbell, to whom the matter was referred, decided upon the delaine, consequently Ella cried and pouted, saying she wouldn't go, wondering what Alice wanted to be sick for, or any way why they should send for her.

Meantime in and around the poor-house there was for once perfect silence. Sal Furbush had been invisible for hours,—the girl with crooked feet trod softly as she passed up and down the stairs,—Uncle Peter's fiddle was unstrung, and, securely locked in his fiddle box, was stowed away at the bottom of his old red chest,—and twice that morning when no one saw her, Miss Grundy had stolen out to Patsy's grave. Mary was not called to wash the dishes, but up in her own room she sat with her head resting upon the window sill, while the sweet, fresh air of the morning swept over her face, lifting the hair from her flushed brow. Billy Bender was standing near her, his arm thrown around her, and his lips occasionally pressing her forehead.

Suddenly there was the sound of carriage wheels, and he whispered in her ear, "Ella is coming."

Hastily running down the stairs, Mary met her sister in the doorway, and throwing her arms around her neck, burst into tears. Ella would gladly have shaken her off, for she felt that her curls were in danger of being mussed, and she had besides hardly recovered from her pet. But Mary firmly held her hand, and led her on through the long hall, into a room which they usually denominated "the best room."

There, upon the table, lay a little stiffened form. The blue eyes were closed, and the long eyelashes rested upon the marble cheek, and in the waxen hands, folded so carefully over the other, there was a single snow-drop. No one knew who placed it there, or whence it came. Gently Mary laid back the thin muslin covering, saying as she did so, "Allie is dead. I've got no sister left but you!" and again her arms closed convulsively about Ella's neck.

"You kind of choke me!" said Ella, trying to get free, and it was not until Mrs. Campbell, thoroughly ashamed of her want of feeling, took her hand and placed it on Alice's cold cheek, asking her if she were not sorry her little sister was dead, that she manifested any emotion whatever. Then, as if something of her better nature were roused, her lip trembled for a moment, and she burst into a violent fit of weeping.

"It is hardly natural that she should feel it as deeply as Mary," said Mrs. Campbell to Billy Bender, who was present.

He made no reply, but he never forgot that scene; and when years after he met with Ella on terms of perfect equality,—when he saw her petted, flattered, and admired, he turned away from the fawning multitude, remembering only the April morning when she stood by the dead body of her sister.

During all this time no trace of Sal Furbush had been seen, and at last a strict search was instituted but to no effect, until Billy, who chanced to be passing the dark closet under the garret stairs, heard her whispering to herself, "Yes, little Willie's dead, and Sally's got three in Heaven now."

Entering the place, he found her crouched in one corner, her hair hanging down her back, and her eyes flashing with unusual brightness.

"Why, Sally," said he, "what are you here for?"

"To save the credit of the house," was her ready reply. "When the other Willie died, they chained me in this dungeon, and thinking they might do so again, I concluded to come here quietly wishing to save all trouble and confusion, for the utmost decorum should be preserved in the house of death."

"Poor woman," said Billy kindly, "no one wishes you to stay here. Come with me,"—and he took her hand to lead her forth.

But she resisted him, saying, that "fasting and solitude were nature's great restoratives."

"She has showed her good sense for once," said Miss Grundy, on hearing of Sally's whereabouts, "but' ain't the critter hungry?" and owing to some newly touched chord of kindness, a slice of toast and a cup of hot tea erelong found entrance into the darksome cell.

Strange to say, too, the hand which brought it was not repulsed, though very demurely and in seeming earnestness was the question asked, "Mrs. Grundy, haven't you met with a change?"

The next day was the funeral. At first there was some talk of burying the child in the same inclosure with Patsy; but Mary plead so earnestly to have her laid by her mother, that her request was granted, and that night when the young spring moon came out, it looked quietly down upon the grave of little Alice, who by her mother's side was sweetly sleeping.



CHAPTER XII.

A NEW FRIEND.

Three weeks had passed away since Alice's death, and affairs at the poor-house were beginning to glide on as usual. Sal Furbush, having satisfied her own ideas of propriety by remaining secluded for two or three days, had once more appeared in society; but now that Alice was no longer there to be watched, time hung wearily upon her hands, and she was again seized with her old desire for authorship. Accordingly, a grammar was commenced, which she said would contain Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine rules for speaking the English language correctly!

Mary, who had resumed her post as dish washer in the kitchen, was almost daily expecting Jenny; and one day when Billy came in to dinner, he gave her the joyful intelligence that Jenny had returned, and had been in the field to see him, bidding him tell Mary to meet her that afternoon in the woods by the brook.

"Oh, I do hope Miss Grundy will let me go," said Mary, "and I guess she will, for since Allie died, she hasn't been near so cross."

"If she don't, I will," answered Mr. Parker, who chanced to be standing near, and who had learned to regard the little orphan girl with more than usual interest.

But Miss Grundy made no objections, and when the last dishcloth was wrung dry, and the last iron spoon put in its place, Mary bounded joyfully away to the woods, where she found Jenny, who embraced her in a manner which showed that she had not been forgotten.

"Oh," said she, "I've got so much to tell you, and so much to hear, though I know all about dear little Allie' death,—didn't you feel dreadfully?"

Mary's tears were a sufficient answer, and Jenny, as if suddenly discovering something new, exclaimed, "Why, what have you been doing? Who pulled your teeth?"

Mary explained the circumstance of the tooth-pulling, and Jenny continued: "You look a great deal better, and if your cheeks were only a little fatter and your skin not quite so yellow, you'd be real handsome; but no matter about that. I saw George Moreland in Boston, and I wanted to tell him about you, but I'd promised not to; and then at first I felt afraid of him, for you can't think what a great big fellow he's got to be. Why, he's awful tall! and handsome, too. Rose likes him, and so do lots of the girls, but I don't believe he cares a bit for any of them except his cousin Ida, and I guess he does like her;—any way, he looks at her as though he did."

Mary wondered how he looked at her, and would perhaps have asked, had she not been prevented by the sudden appearance of Henry Lincoln, who directly in front of her leaped across the brook. He was evidently not much improved in his manners, for the moment he was safely landed on terra firma, he approached her, and seizing her round the waist, exclaimed, "Hallo, little pauper! You're glad to see me back, I dare say."

Then drawing her head over so that he could look into her face, he continued, "Had your tusks out, haven't you! Well, it's quite an improvement, so much so that I'll venture to kiss you."

Mary struggled, and Jenny scolded, while Henry said "Don't kick and flounce so, my little beauty. If there's any thing I hate, it's seeing girls make believe they're modest. That clodhopper Bill kisses you every day, I'll war rant."

Here Jenny's wrath exploded; and going up to her brother, she attempted to pull him away, until bethinking her of the brook, she commenced sprinkling him with water, but observing that more of it fell upon Mary than her brother, she desisted, while Henry, having accomplished his purpose, began spitting and making wry faces, assuring Mary that "she needn't be afraid of his ever troubling her again, for her lips were musty, and tasted of the poor-house!"

Meanwhile Tasso, who had become a great favorite with Mary, and who, on this occasion, had accompanied her to the woods, was standing on the other side of the brook, eyeing Henry's movements, and apparently trying to make up his mind whether his interference was necessary or not. A low growl showed that he was evidently deciding the matter, when Henry desisted, and walked leisurely off.

Erelong, however, he returned, and called out, "See, girls, I've got an elegant necklace for you."

Looking up, they saw him advancing towards them, with a small water snake, which he held in his hand; and, readily divining his purpose, they started and ran, while he pursued them, threatening to wind the snake around the neck of the first one he caught. Jenny, who was too chubby to be very swift-footed, took refuge behind a clump of alder bushes but Mary kept on, and just as she reached a point where the brook turned, Henry overtook her, and would perhaps have carried his threat into execution, had not help arrived from an unexpected quarter. Tasso, who had watched, and felt sure that this time all was not right, suddenly pounced upon Henry, throwing him down, and then planting himself upon his prostrate form, in such a manner that he dared not move.

"Oh, good, good," said Jenny, coming out from her concealment; "make Tasso keep him there ever so long; and," she continued, patting the dog, "if you won't hurt him much, you may shake him just a little."

"No, no," said Henry, writhing with fear, "call him off, do call him off. Oh, mercy!" he added, as Tasso, who did not particularly care to have the case reasoned, showed two rows of very white teeth.

Mary could not help laughing at the figure which Henry cut; but thinking him sufficiently punished, she called off the dog, who obeyed rather unwillingly, and ever after manifested his dislike to Henry by growling angrily whenever he appeared.

One morning about two weeks afterwards, Mary was in the meadow gathering cowslips for dinner, when she heard some one calling her name; and looking up, she saw Jenny hurrying towards her, her sun-bonnet hanging down her back as usual, and her cheeks flushed with violent exercise. As soon as she came up, she began with, "Oh my, ain't I hot and tired, and I can't stay a minute either, for I run away. But I had such good news to tell you, that I would come. You are going to have a great deal better home than this. You know where Rice Corner is, the district over east?"

Mary replied that she did, and Jenny continued: "We all went over there yesterday to see Mrs. Mason. She's a real nice lady, who used to live in Boston, and be intimate with ma, until three or four years ago, when Mr. Mason died. We didn't go there any more then, and I asked Rose what the reason was, and she said Mrs. Mason was poor now, and ma had 'cut her;' and when I asked her what she cut her with, she only laughed, and said she believed I didn't know any thing. But since then I've learned what it means."

"What does it?" asked Mary, and Jenny replied: "If a person dies and leaves no money, no matter how good his folks are, or how much you like them, you mustn't know them when you meet them in the street, or you must cross over the other side if you see them coming; and then when ladies call and speak about them, you must draw a great long breath, and wonder 'how the poor thing will get along, she was so dreadful extravagant.' I positively heard mother say those very words about Mrs. Mason; and what is so funny, the washwoman the same day spoke of her, and cried when she told how kind she was, and how she would go without things herself for the sake of giving to the poor. It's queer, isn't it?"

Ah, Jenny, Jenny, you've much of life yet to learn!

After a moment's pause, Jenny proceeded: "This Mrs. Mason came into the country, and bought the prettiest little cottage you ever saw. She has lots of nice fruit, and for all mother pretends in Boston that she don't visit her, just as soon as the fruit is ripe, she always goes there. Pa says it's real mean, and he should think Mrs. Mason would see through it."

"Did you go there for fruit yesterday?" asked Mary.

"Oh, no," returned Jenny. "Mother said she was tired to death with staying at home. Besides that, she heard something in Boston about a large estate in England, which possibly would fall to Mrs. Mason, and she thought it would be real kind to go and tell her. Mrs. Mason has poor health, and while we were there, she asked mother if she knew of any good little girl she could get to come and live with her; 'one,' she said, 'who could be quiet when her head ached, and who would read to her and wait on her at other times.' Mother said she did not know of any; but when Mrs. Mason went out to get tea, I followed and told her of you, and the tears came into her eyes when I said your folks were all dead, and you were alone and sorry. She said right off that she would come round and see you soon, and if she liked you, you should live with her. But I must run back, for I suppose you know mother brought our governess with us, and it's time I was turning my toes out and my elbows in. Ugh! how I do hate such works. If I ever have a house, there shan't be a fashionable thing about it. I'll have it full of cats, dogs, and poor children, with a swing and a 'teater' in every room, and Billy Bender shall live with me, and drive the horses!"

So saying, she ran off; and Mary, having gathered her cowslips, sat down to think of Mrs. Mason, and wonder if she should ever see her. Since Alice's death she had been in the daily habit of learning a short lesson, which she recited to Sally, and this afternoon, when the dishes were all washed, she had as usual stolen away to her books. She had not been long occupied, ere Rind called her, saying Mr. Knight, who, it will be remembered, had brought her to the poor-house, was down stairs and wanted to see her, and that there was a lady with him, too.

Mary readily guessed that the lady must be Mrs. Mason and carefully brushing her hair, and tying on a clean apron, she descended to the kitchen, where she was met by Mr. Knight, who called out, "Hallo, my child, how do you do? 'Pears to me you've grown handsome. It agrees with you to live here I reckon, but I'll venture you'll be glad enough to leave, and go and live with her, won't you?" pointing towards a lady, who was just coming from Mrs. Parker's room, and towards whom Mary's heart instantly warmed.

"You see," continued Mr. Knight, "one of the Lincoln girls has taken a mighty shine to you, and it's queer, too, for they're dreadful stuck-up folks."

"If you please, sir," said Mary, interrupting him, "Jenny isn't a bit stuck up."

"Umph!" returned Mr. Knight. "She don't belong to the Lincoln race then, I guess. I know them, root and branch. Lincoln's wife used to work in the factory at Southbridge, but she's forgot all about that, and holds her head dreadful high whenever she sees me. But that's neither here nor there. This woman wants you to live with her. Miss Mason, this is Mary. Mary, this is Miss Mason."

The introduction being thus happily over, Mrs. Mason proceeded to ask Mary a variety of questions, and ended by saying she thought she would take her, although she would rather not have her come for a few days, as she was going to be absent. Miss Grundy was now interrogated concerning her knowledge of work, and with quite a consequential air, she replied, "Perhaps, ma'am, it looks too much like praising myself, considerin' that I've had the managin' of her mostly, but I must confess that she's lived with me so long and got my ways so well, that she's as pleasant a mannered, good-tempered child, and will scour as bright a knife as you could wish to see!"

Mary saw that Mrs. Mason could hardly repress a smile as she replied, "I am glad about the temper and manners, but the scouring of knives is of little consequence, for Judith always does that."

Sal Furbush, who had courtesied herself into the room, now asked to say a word concerning Mary. "She is," said she, "the very apple of my eye, and can parse a sentence containing three double relatives, two subjunctive moods and four nominatives absolute, perfectly easily."

"I see you are a favorite here," said Mrs. Mason, laying her hand gently on Mary's head, "and I think that in time you will be quite as much of one with me, so one week from Saturday you may expect me."

There was something so very affectionate in Mrs. Mason's manner of speaking, that Mary could not keep her tears back; and when Sally, chancing to be in a poetic mood, said to her, "Maiden, wherefore weepest thou?" she replied, "I can't help it. She speaks so kind, and makes me think of mother."

"Speaks so kindly, you mean," returned Sal, while Mrs. Mason, brushing a tear from her own eye, whispered to the little girl, "I will be a mother to you, my child;" then, as Mr. Knight had finished discussing the weather with Mr. Parker, she stepped into his buggy, and was driven away.

"That's what I call a thoroughly grammatical lady," said Sal, looking after her until a turn in the road hid her from view, "and I shall try to be resigned, though the vital spark leaves this house when Mary goes."

Not long after, Rind asked Miss Grundy if William Bender was going away.

"Not as I know on," answered Miss Grundy. "What made you think of that?"

"'Cause," returned Rind, "I heard Sal Furbush having over a mess of stuff about the spark's leaving when Mary did, and I thought mebby he was going, as you say he's her spark!"