The next afternoon Jenny, managing to elude the watchful eyes of her mother and governess, came over to the poor-house.

"I'm so glad you are going," said she, when she heard of Mrs. Mason's visit. "I shall be lonesome without you, but you'll have such a happy home, and when you get there mayn't I tell George Moreland about you the next time I see him?"

"I'd rather you wouldn't," said Mary, "for I don't believe he remembers me at all."

"Perhaps not," returned Jenny, "and I guess you wouldn't know him; for besides being so tall, he has begun to shave, and Ida thinks he's trying to raise whiskers!"

That night, when Mary was alone, she drew from its hiding-place the golden locket, but the charm was broken, and the pleasure she had before experienced in looking at it, now faded away with Jenny's picture of a whiskered young man, six feet high! Very rapidly indeed did Mary's last week at the poor-house pass away, and for some reason or other, every thing went on, as Rind said, "wrong end up." Miss Grundy was crosser than usual, though all observed that her voice grew milder in its tone whenever she addressed Mary, and once she went so far as to say, by way of a general remark, that she "never yet treated any body, particularly a child, badly, without feeling sorry for it."

Sal Furbush was uncommonly wild, dancing on her toes, making faces, repeating her nine hundred and ninety-nine rules of grammar, and quoting Scripture, especially the passage, "The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away, &c." Uncle Peter, too, labored assiduously at "Delia's Dirge," which he intended playing as Mary was leaving the yard.

Saturday came at last, and long before the sun peeped over the eastern hills, Mary was up and dressed. Just as she was ready to leave her room, she heard Sally singing in a low tone, "Oh, there'll be mourning,—mourning,—mourning,—mourning, Oh, there'll be mourning when Mary's gone away."

Hastily opening her own door, she knocked at Sal's, and was bidden to enter. She found her friend seated in the middle of the floor, while scattered around her were the entire contents of the old barrel and box which contained her wearing apparel.

"Good morning, little deary," said she, "I am looking over my somewhat limited wardrobe, in quest of something wherewith to make your young heart happy, but my search is vain. I can find nothing except the original MS. of my first novel. I do not need it now, for I shall make enough out of my grammar. So take it, and when you are rich and influential, you'll have no trouble in getting it published,—none at all."

So saying, she thrust into Mary's hand a large package, carefully wrapped in half a dozen newspapers, and the whole enveloped in a snuff-colored silk handkerchief, which "Willie's father used to wear." Here Rind came up the stairs saying breakfast was ready, and after putting her present aside, Mary descended to the kitchen, where she found the table arranged with more than usual care. An old red waiter, which was only used on special occasions, was placed near Miss Grundy, and on it stood the phenomenon of a hissing coffee-pot: and what was stranger, still, in the place of the tin basin from which Mary had recently been accustomed to eat her bread and milk, there was now a cup and saucer, which surely must have been intended for her. Her wonder was at its height when Miss Grundy entered from the back room, bearing a plate filled with snowy white biscuit, which she placed upon the table with an air of "There! what do you think of that?"—then seating herself, she skimmed all the cream from the bowl of milk, and preparing a delicious cup of coffee, passed it to Mary, before helping the rest.

"Is the Millennium about to be ushered in?" asked Sal in amazement; while Uncle Peter, reverently rising, said, Fellow-citizens, and ladies, for these extras let us thank the Lord, remembering to ask a continuation of the same!"

"Do let your victuals stop your mouth," said Miss Grundy, "and don't act as though we never had coffee and biscuit for breakfast before."

"My memory has failed wonderfully, if we ever did," was Uncle Peter's reply.

Breakfast being over, Mary as usual commenced clearing the table, but Miss Grundy bade her "sit down and rest her," and Mary obeyed, wondering what she had done to tire herself. About 9 o'clock, Mr. Knight drove up alone, Mrs. Mason being sick with nervous headache. "I should have been here sooner," said he, "but the roads is awful rough and old Charlotte has got a stub or somethin' in her foot But where's the gal? Ain't she ready?"

He was answered by Mary herself, who made her appearance, followed by Billy bearing the box. And now commenced the leave-takings, Miss Grundy's turn coming first.

"May I kiss you, Miss Grundy?" said Mary, while Sal exclaimed aside, "What! kiss those sole-leather lips?" at the same time indicating by a guttural sound the probable effect such a process would have upon her stomach!

Miss 'Grundy bent down and received the child's kiss, and then darting off into the pantry, went to skimming pans of milk already skimmed! Rind and the pleasant-looking woman cried outright, and Uncle Peter, between times, kept ejaculating, "Oh, Lord!—oh, massy sake!—oh, for land!" while he industriously plied his fiddle bow in the execution of "Delia's Dirge," which really sounded unearthly, and dirgelike enough. Billy knew it would be lonely without Mary, but he was glad to have her go to a better home, go he tried to be cheerful; telling her he would take good care of Tasso, and that whenever she chose she must claim her property.

Aside from him, Sally was the only composed one. It is true, her eyes were very bright, and there was a compression about her mouth seldom seen, except just before one of her frenzied attacks. Occasionally, too, she pressed her hands upon her head, and walking to the sink, bathed it in water, as if to cool its inward heat; but she said nothing until Mary was about stepping into the buggy, when she whispered in her ear, "If that novel should have an unprecedented run, and of course it will, you would not mind sharing the profits with me, would you?"



CHAPTER XIII.

A NEW HOME IN RICE CORNER.

Very different this time was Mary's ride with Mr. Knight from what it had been some months before, and after brushing away a few natural tears, and sending back a few heart-sighs to the loved ones left behind, her spirits rallied, and by the time they reached the borders of Rice Corner, there was such a look of quiet happiness on her face that even Mr. Knight noticed it.

"I'll be hanged if I know what to make of it," said he. "When you rid with me afore, I thought you was about as ugly favored a child as I ever see, and now you look full as well as they'll average. What you been doin'?"

"Perhaps it's because I've had my teeth out," suggested Mary, and Mr. Knight, with another scrutinizing look in her face, replied, "Wall, I guess 'tis that. Teeth is good is their place, but when they git to achin', why, yank 'em out."

So saying, he again relapsed into silence, and commenced whipping at the thistle tops and dandelions. As they rode on, Mary fancied that the country looked pleasanter and the houses better, than in the region of the poor-house; and when a sudden turn of the road brought into view a beautiful blue sheet of water, embosomed by bright green hills, her delight knew no bounds. Springing up and pointing towards it, she exclaimed, "Oh, please stop a moment and look. Isn't it lovely! What is it?"

"That? Oh, that's nothing but 'Pordunk Pond, or as folks most generally call 'em, seem' there's two, North and South Pond."

"But it's big enough to be a lake, isn't it?" asked Mary.

"Why, yes," returned her companion. "It's better than five miles long, and a mile or so wide, and in York State I s'pose they'd call it a lake, but here in old Massachusetts we stick to fust principles, and call all things by their right names."

"How far is the pond from Mrs. Mason's?" asked Mary, casting longing glances towards the distant sandy beach, and the graceful trees which drooped over the water's edge.

"It's farther back than 'tis there, 'cause it's up bill all the way," said Mr. Knight, "but here we be at Miss Mason's,—this house right here," and he pointed to a neat, handsome cottage, almost hidden from view by the dense foliage which surrounded it.

There was a long lawn in front, and into the carriage road on the right of it Mr. Knight turned, and driving up to a side door; said to Mary, "Come, jump down, for my foot is so lame I don't believe I'll get out. But there's your chest. You can't lift that. Hallo, Judith, come 'ere."

In answer to this call, a fat, pleasant-looking colored woman appeared in the doorway, and as if fresh from the regions of cookdom, wiped the drops of perspiration from her round jolly face.

"Here, Judith," said Mr Knight, "help this gal lift her traps out."

Judith complied, and then bidding old Charlotte to "get up," Mr. Knight drove away, leaving Mary standing by the kitchen door.

"Come in and sit down," said Judith, pushing a chair towards Mary with her foot. "It's as hot here as oven, but I had crambry sass and ginger snaps, and massy knows what to make this morning, and I got belated; but set down and make yourself to home."

Mary took the proffered seat, and then Judith left the room for a few moments, saying when she returned, that as Mrs. Mason was still suffering from a headache, she could not see Mary until after dinner. "And," continued Judith "she told me to entertain you, but I don't know what to say, nor do first. Harry died just a week to a day before he was to be married, and so I never had any little girls to talk to. Can't you think of something to talk about? What have you been used to doing?"

"Washing dishes," was Mary's reply, after glancing about the room, and making sure that on this occasion there were none to wash.

"Wall," answered Judith, "I guess you won't have that to do here; for one night when some of the neighbors were in, I heard Miss Mason tell 'em that she got you to read to her and wait on her. And then she said something about your not having an equal chance with your sister. You hain't but one, now t'other's dead, have you?"

Mary replied in the negative, and Judith continued: "Wall, now, you've got over the first on't, I reckon you'se glad the baby's dead, for she must have been kind of a bother, wasn't she?"

Instantly Mary's thoughts flew back to an empty cradle, and again a little golden head was pillowed upon her breast, as often in times past it had been, and as it would never be again. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed, "Oh, Allie, Allie! I wish she hadn't died."

Judith looked on in amazement, and for want of something better to do, placed a fresh stick of wood in the stove, muttering to herself. "Now I never! I might of knew I didn't know what to say. What a pity Harry died. I'll give her that big ginger snap the minute it's baked. See if I don't."

Accordingly, when the snap was done, Judith placed it in Mary's hands, bidding her eat it quick, and then go up and see the nice chamber Mrs. Mason had arranged for her.

"If you please," said Mary, rapidly shifting the hot cake from one hand to the other,—"if you please, I had rather go up now, and eat the cake when it is cool."

"Come, then," said Judith; and leading the way, she conducted Mary up the staircase, and through a light, airy hall to the door of a small room, which she opened, saying "Look, ain't it pretty?"

But Mary's heart was too full to speak, and for several minutes she stood silent. With the exception of her mother's pleasant parlor in Old England, she had never before seen any thing which seemed to her so cosy and cheerful as did that little room, with its single bed, snowy counterpane, muslin curtains, clean matting, convenient toilet table, and what to her was fairer than all the rest, upon the mantel-piece there stood two small vases, filled with sweet spring flowers, whose fragrance filled the apartment with delicious perfume. All this was so different from the bare walls, uncovered floors, and rickety furniture of the poor-house, that Mary trembled lest it should prove a dream, from which erelong she would awake.

"Oh, why is Mrs. Mason so kind to me?" was her mental exclamation; and as some of our readers may ask the same question, we will explain to them that Mrs. Mason was one of the few who "do to others as they would others should do to them."

Years before our story opens, she, too, was a lonely orphan, weeping in a dreary garret, as ofttimes Mary had wept in the poor-house, and it was the memory of those dark hours, which so warmed her heart towards the little girl she had taken under her charge. From Jenny we have learned something of her history. Once a happy, loving wife, surrounded by wealth and friends, she had thought the world all bright and beautiful. But a change came over the spirit of her dream. Her noble husband died,—and the day succeeding his burial, she was told that their fortune, too, was gone. One by one, as misfortune came upon her, did her fashionable friends desert her, until she was left alone, with none to lean upon except the God of the widow and fatherless, and in Him she found a strong help for her dark hour of need. Bravely she withstood the storm, and when it was over, retired with the small remnant of her once large fortune to the obscure neighborhood of Rice Corner, where with careful economy she managed to live comfortably, besides saving a portion for the poor and destitute. She had taken a particular fancy to Mary, and in giving her a home, she had thought more of the good she could do the child, than of any benefit she would receive from her services as waiting maid. She had fully intended to go for Mary herself; but as we already know, was prevented by a severe headache, and it was not until three o'clock in the afternoon, that she was even able to see her at all. Then, calling Judith, she bade her bring the little girl to her room, and leave them alone.

Judith obeyed, charging Mary to "tread on tiptoe, and keep as still as a mouse, for Miss Mason's head ached fit to split."

This caution was unnecessary, for Mary had been so much accustomed to sick persons that she knew intuitively just what to do and when to do it and her step was so light, her voice so low, and the hand which bathed the aching head so soft and gentle in its touch, that Mrs. Mason involuntarily drew her to her bosom, and kissing her lips, called her her child, and said she should never leave her then laying back in her easy chair, she remained perfectly still, while Mary alternately fixed her hair, and smoothed her forehead until she fell into a quiet slumber, from which she did not awake until Judith rang the bell for supper, which was neatly laid out in a little dining parlor, opening into the flower garden. There was something so very social and cheering in the appearance of the room, and the arrangement of the table, with its glossy white cloth, and dishes of the same hue, that Mary felt almost as much like weeping as she did on the night of her arrival at the poor-house. But Mrs. Mason seemed to know exactly how to entertain her; and by the time that first tea was over, there was hardly a happier child in the world than was Mary.

As soon as Mrs. Mason arose from the table, she, too, sprang up, and taking hold of the dishes, removed them to the kitchen in a much shorter space of time than was usually occupied by Judith. "Git away now," said that lady as she saw Mary making preparations to wash the cups and saucers. "I never want any body putterin' round under my feet. I always wash and wipe and scour my own things, and then I know they are done."

Accordingly, she returned to Mrs. Mason, who, wishing to retire early, soon dismissed her to her own room, where she for some time amused herself with watching the daylight as it gradually disappeared from the hills which lay beyond the pond. Then when it all was gone, and the stars began to come out, she turned her eyes towards one, which had always seemed to her to be her mother's soul, looking down upon her from the windows of heaven. Now, to-night there shone beside it a smaller, feebler one, and in the fleecy cloud which floated around it, she fancied she could define the face of her baby sister. Involuntarily stretching out her hands, she cried, "Oh, mother, Allie, I am so happy now;" and to the child's imagination the stars smiled lovingly upon her, while the evening wind, as it gently moved the boughs of the tall elm trees, seemed like the rustle of angels' wings. Who shall say the mother's spirit was not there to rejoice with her daughter over the glad future opening so brightly before her?



CHAPTER XIV.

VISITORS.

The Tuesday following Mary's arrival at Mrs. Mason's, there was a social gathering at the house of Mr. Knight. This gathering could hardly be called a tea party, but came more directly under the head of an "afternoon's visit," for by two o'clock every guest had arrived, and the "north room" was filled with ladies, whose tongues, like their hands, were in full play. Leathern reticules, delicate embroidery, and gold thimbles were not then in vogue in Rice Corner; but on the contrary, some of Mrs. Knight's visitors brought with them large, old-fashioned work-bags, from which the ends of the polished knitting-needles were discernible; while another apologized for the magnitude of her work, saying that "her man had fretted about his trousers until she herself began to think it was time to finish them; and so when she found Miss Mason wasn't to be there, she had just brought them along."

In spite of her uniform kindness, Mrs. Mason was regarded by some of her neighbors as a bugbear, and this allusion to her immediately turned the conversation in that direction.

"Now, do tell," said Widow Perkins, vigorously rapping her snuff-box and passing it around. "Now, do tell if it's true that Miss Mason has took a girl from the town-house?"

On being assured that such was the fact, she continued "Now I will give up. Plagued as she is for things, what could have possessed her?"

"I was not aware that she was very much troubled to live," said Mrs. Knight, whose way of thinking, and manner of expressing herself, was entirely unlike Mrs. Perkins.

"Wall, she is," was Mrs. Perkins's reply; and then hitching her chair closer to the group near her, and sinking her voice to a whisper, she added, "You mustn't speak of it on any account, for I wouldn't have it go from me, but my Sally Ann was over there t'other day, and neither Miss Mason nor Judy was to home. Sally Ann has a sight of curiosity,—I don't know nothing under the sun where she gets it, for I hain't a mite,—Wall, as I was tellin' you, there was nobody to home, and Sally Ann she slips down cellar and peeks into the pork barrel, and as true as you live, there warn't a piece there. Now, when country folks get out of salt pork, they are what I call middlin' poor."

And Mrs. Perkins finished her speech with the largest pinch of maccaboy she could possibly hold between her thumb and forefinger.

"Miss Perkins," said an old lady who was famous for occasionally rubbing the widow down, "Miss Perkins, that's just as folks think. It's no worse to be out of pork than 'tis to eat codfish the whole durin' time."

This was a home thrust, for Mrs. Perkins, who always kept one or two boarders, and among them the school-teacher was notorious for feeding them on codfish.

Bridling up in a twinkling, her little gray eyes flashed fire as she replied, "I s'pose it's me you mean, Miss Bates; but I guess I've a right to eat what I'm a mind to. I only ask a dollar and ninepence a week for boarding the school marm—"

"And makes money at that," whispered a rosy-cheeked girlish-looking woman, who the summer before had been the "school-marm," and who now bore the name of a thrifty young farmer.

Mrs. Perkins, however, did not notice this interruption but proceeded with, "Yes, a dollar and ninepence is all I ever ask, and if I kept them so dreadful slim, I guess the committee man wouldn't always come to me the first one."

"Mrs. Perkins, here's the pint," said Mrs. Bates, dropping a stitch in her zeal to explain matters; "you see the cheaper they get the school-ma'am boarded, the further the money goes, and the longer school they have. Don't you understand it?"

Mrs. Knight, fancying that affairs were assuming altogether too formidable an aspect, adroitly turned the conversation upon the heroine of our story, saying how glad she was that Mary had at last found so good a home.

"So am I," said Mrs. Bates; "for we all know that Mrs. Mason will take just as good care of her, as though she were her own; and she's had a mighty hard time of it, knocked around there at the poor-house under Polly Grundy's thumb."

"They do say," said Mrs. Perkins, whose anger had somewhat cooled, "They do say that Miss Grundy is mowing a wide swath over there, and really expects to have Mr. Parker, if his wife happens to die."

In her girlhood Mrs. Perkins had herself fancied Mr. Parker, and now in her widowhood, she felt an unusual interest in the failing health of his wife. No one replied to her remark, and Mrs. Bates continued: "It really used to make my heart ache to see the little forlorn thing sit there in the gallery, fixed up so old and fussy, and then to see her sister prinked out like a milliner's show window, a puckerin' and twistin', and if she happens to catch her sister's eye, I have actually seen her turn up her nose at her,—so—" and Mrs. Bates's nasal organ went up towards her eyebrows in imitation of the look which Ella sometimes gave Mary. "It's wicked in me, perhaps," said Mrs. Bates, "but pride must have a fall, and I do hope I shall live to see the day when Ella Campbell won't be half as well off as her sister."

"I think Mrs. Campbell is answerable for some of Ella's conduct," said Mrs. Knight, "for I believe she suffered her to visit the poor-house but once while Mary was there."

"I guess she'll come oftener now she's living with a city bug," rejoined Mrs. Perkins.

Just then there was the sound of carriage wheels, and a woman near the door exclaimed, "If you'll believe it there she is now, going right straight into Mrs. Mason's yard."

"Well, if that don't beat me," said Mrs. Perkins. "Seems to me I'd have waited a little longer for look's sake. Can you see what she's got on from here?" and the lady made a rush for the window to ascertain if possible that important fact.

Meantime the carriage steps were let down and Mrs. Campbell alighted. As Mrs. Knight's guests had surmised, she was far more ready to visit Mary now than heretofore. Ella, too, had been duly informed by her waiting-maid that she needn't mind denying that she had a sister to the Boston girls who were spending a summer in Chicopee.

"To be sure," said Sarah, "she'll never be a fine lady like you and live in the city; but then Mrs. Mason is a very respectable woman, and will no doubt put her to a trade, which is better than being a town pauper; so you mustn't feel above her any more, for it's wicked, and Mrs. Campbell wouldn't like it, for you know she and I are trying to bring you up in the fear of the Lord."

Accordingly Ella was prepared to greet her sister more cordially than she had done before in a long time, and Mary that day took her first lesson in learning that too often friends come and go with prosperity. But she did not think of it then. She only knew that her sister's arm was around her neck, and her sister's kiss upon her cheek. With a cry of joy, she exclaimed, "Oh, Ella, I knew you'd be glad to find me so happy."

But Ella wasn't particularly glad. She was too thoroughly heartless to care for any one except herself, and her reception of her sister was more the result of Sarah's lesson, and of a wish expressed by Mrs. Campbell, that she would "try and behave as well as she could towards Mary." Mrs. Campbell, too, kissed the little girl, and expressed her pleasure at finding her so pleasantly situated; and then dropping languidly upon the sofa, asked for Mrs. Mason, who soon appeared, and received her visitor with her accustomed politeness.

"And so you, too, have cared for the orphan," said Mrs. Campbell. "Well, you will find it a task to rear her as she should be reared, but a consciousness of doing right makes every thing seem easy. My dear, (speaking to Ella,) run out and play awhile with your sister, I wish to see Mrs. Mason alone."

"You may go into the garden," said Mrs. Mason to Mary, who arose to obey; but Ella hung back, saying she 'didn't want to go,—the garden was all nasty, and she should dirty her clothes."

"But, my child," said Mrs. Campbell, "I wish to have you go, and you love to obey me, do you not?"

Still Ella hesitated, and when Mary took hold of her hand, she jerked it away, saying, "Let me be."

At last she was persuaded to leave the room, but on reaching the hall she stopped, and to Mary's amazement applied her ear to the keyhole.

"I guess I know how to cheat her," said she in a whisper. "I've been sent off before, but I listened and heard her talk about me."

"Talk about you!" repeated Mary. "What did she say?"

"Oh, 'set me up,' as Sarah says," returned Ella; and Mary, who had never had the advantage of a waiting maid, and who consequently was not so well posted on "slang terms," asked what "setting up" meant.

"Why," returned Ella, "she tells them how handsome and smart I am, and repeats some cunning thing I've said or done; and sometimes she tells it right before me, and that's why I didn't want to come out."

This time, however, Mrs. Campbell's conversation related more particularly to Mary.

"My dear Mrs. Mason," she began, "you do not know how great a load you have removed from my mind by taking Mary from the poor-house."

"I can readily understand," said Mrs. Mason, "why you should feel more than a passing interest in the sister of your adopted daughter, and I assure you I shall endeavor to treat her just as I would wish a child of mine treated, were it thrown upon the wide world."

"Of course you will," returned Mrs. Campbell, "and I only wish you had it in your power to do more for her, and in this perhaps I am selfish. I felt badly about her being in the poor-house, but truth compels me to say, that it was more on Ella's account than her own. I shall give Ella every advantage which money can purchase, and I am excusable I think for saying that she is admirably fitted to adorn any station in life; therefore it cannot but be exceedingly mortifying to her to know that one sister died a pauper and the other was one for a length of time. This, however, can not be helped, and now, as I said before I only wish it were in your power to do more for Mary. I, of course, know that you are poor, but I do not think less of you for that—"

Mrs. Mason's body became slightly more erect, but she made no reply, and Mrs. Campbell continued.

"Still I hope you will make every exertion in your power to educate and polish Mary as much as possible, so that if by chance Ella in after years should come in contact with her, she would not feel,—ahem,—would not,—would not be—"

"Ashamed to own her sister, I suppose you would say," interrupted Mrs. Mason. "Ashamed to acknowledge that the same blood flowed in her veins, that the same roof once sheltered them, and that the same mother bent lovingly over their pillows, calling them her children."

"Why, not exactly that," said Mrs. Campbell, fidgeting in her chair and growing very red. "I think there is a difference between feeling mortified and ashamed. Now you must know that Ella would not be particularly pleased to have a homely, stupid, rawboned country girl pointed out as her sister to a circle of fashionable acquaintances in Boston, where I intend taking her as soon as her education is finished; and I think it well enough for Mary to understand, that with the best you can do for her there will still be a great difference between her own and her sister's position."

"Excuse me, madam," again interrupted Mrs. Mason, "a stupid, awkward country girl Mary is not, and never will be. In point of intellect she is far superior to her sister, and possesses more graceful and lady-like manners. Instead of Ella's being ashamed of her, I fancy it will be just the reverse, unless your daughter's foolish vanity and utter selfishness is soon checked. Pardon me for being thus plain, but in the short time Mary has been with me, I have learned to love her, and my heart already warms towards her as towards a daughter, and I cannot calmly hear her spoken of so contemptuously."

During this conversation, Ella had remained listening at the keyhole, and as the voices grew louder and more earnest, Mary, too, distinguished what they said. She was too young to appreciate it fully, but she understood enough to wound her deeply; and as she just then heard Ella say there was a carriage coming, she sprang up the stairs, and entering her own room, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Erelong a little chubby face looked in at the door, and a voice which went to Mary's heart, exclaimed, "Why-ee,—Mary,—crying the first time I come to see you!"

It was Jenny, and in a moment the girls were in each other's arms.

"Rose has gone to the garden with Ella," said Jenny, "but she told me where to find you, and I came right up here. Oh, what a nice little room, so different from mine with my things scattered every where. But what is the matter? Don't you like to live with Mrs. Mason?"

"Yes, very much," answered Mary. "It isn't that," and then she told what she had overheard.

"It's perfectly ridiculous and out of character for Mrs. Campbell to talk so," said Jenny, looking very wise. "And it's all, false, too. You are not stupid, nor awkward, nor very homely either; Billy Bender says so, and he knows. I saw him this morning, and he talked ever so much about you. Next fall he's going to Wilbraham to study Latin and Chinese too, I believe, I don't know though. Henry laughs and says, 'a plough-jogger study Latin!' But I guess Billy will some day be a bigger man than Henry don't you?"

Mary was sure of it; and then Jenny proceeded to open her budget of news concerning the inmates of the poor-house. "Sal Furbush," said she, "is raving crazy now you are gone, and they had to shut her up, but yesterday she broke away and came over to our house. Tasso was with her, and growled so at Henry that he ran up garret, and then, like a great hateful, threw bricks at the dog. I told Sally I was coming to see you, and she said, 'Ask her if she has taken the first step towards the publication of my novel. Tell her, too, that the Glory of Israel has departed, and that I would drown myself if it were not for my clothes, which I fear Mrs. Grundy would wear out!'"

Here Rose called to her sister to come down, and accordingly the two girls descended together to the parlor, where they found Mrs. Lincoln. She was riding out, she said, and had just stopped a moment to inquire after Mrs. Mason's health and to ask for a very few flowers,—they did look so tempting! She was of course perfectly delighted to meet Mrs. Campbell, and Mrs. Campbell was perfectly delighted to meet her; and drawing their chairs together, they conversed for a long time about Mrs. So and So, who either had come, or was coming from Boston to spend the summer.

"I am so glad," said Mrs. Lincoln, "for we need some thing to keep us alive. I don't see, Mrs. Campbell, how you manage to live here through the winter, no society nor any thing."

Here Mrs. Mason ventured to ask if there were not some very pleasant and intelligent ladies in the village.

"Oh, ye-es," said Mrs. Lincoln, with a peculiar twist to her mouth, which Jenny said she always used when she was "putting on." "They are well enough, but they are not the kind of folks we would recognize at home. At least they don't belong to 'our set,'" speaking to Mrs. Campbell who replied, "Oh, certainly not." It was plain even to a casual observer that Mrs. Lincoln's was the ruling spirit to which Mrs. Campbell readily yielded, thinking that so perfect a model of gentility could not err. Mr. Knight possibly might have enlightened her a little with regard to her friend's pedigree, but he was not present, and for half an hour more the two ladies talked together of their city acquaintances, without once seeming to remember that Mrs. Mason, too, had formerly known them all intimately. At last Mrs. Lincoln arose, saying she must go, as she had already stopped much longer than she intended, "but when I get with you," said she, turning to Mrs. Campbell, "I never know when to leave."

Mrs. Mason invited her to remain to tea, saying it was nearly ready. Mrs. Campbell, who had also arisen, waited for Mrs. Lincoln to decide, which she soon did by reseating herself and saying, laughingly, "I don't know but I'll stay for a taste of those delicious looking strawberries I saw your servant carry past the window."

Erelong the little tea-bell rang, and Mrs. Lincoln, who had not before spoken to Mary, now turned haughtily towards her, requesting her to watch while they were at supper and see if the coachman did not drive off with the horses as he sometimes did. Mary could not trust herself to reply for she had agreed to sit next Jenny at table, and had in her own mind decided to give her little friend her share of berries. She glanced once at Mrs. Mason, who apparently did not notice her, and then gulping down her tears, took her station by the window, where she could see the coachman who, instead of meditating a drive around the neighborhood was fast asleep upon the box. Jenny did not miss her companion until she was sitting down to the table, and then noticing an empty plate between herself and her mother, who managed to take up as much room as possible, she rather impolitely called out, "Here, mother, sit along and make room for Mary. That's her place. Why, where is she? Mrs. Mason, may I call her?"

Mrs. Mason, who had seen and heard more than Mary fancied, and who in seating her guests had contrived to bring Mary's plate next to Mrs. Lincoln, nodded, and Jenny springing up ran to the parlor, where Mary stood counting flies, looking up at the ceiling, and trying various other ways to keep from crying. Seizing both her hands Jenny almost dragged her into the dining-room, where she found it rather difficult squeezing in between her mother and Rose, whose elbows took up much more room than was necessary. A timely pinch, however, duly administered, sent the young lady along an inch or so, and Jenny and Mary were at last fairly seated.

Mrs. Lincoln reddened,—Mrs. Campbell looked concerned,—Mrs. Mason amused,—Rose angry,—Mary mortified,—while Ella, who was not quick enough to understand, did not look at all except at her strawberries, which disappeared rapidly. Then in order to attract attention, she scraped her saucer as loudly as possible; but for once Mrs. Mason was very obtuse, not even taking the hint when Mrs. Campbell removed a portion of her own fruit to the plate of the pouting child, bidding her "eat something besides berries."

After a time Mrs. Lincoln thought proper to break the silence which she had preserved, and taking up her fork said, "You have been buying some new silver, haven't you?"

"They were a present to me from my friend, Miss Martha Selden," was Mrs. Mason's reply.

"Possible!" said Mrs. Campbell.

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Lincoln, and again closely examining the fork, she continued, "Aunt Martha is really getting liberal in her old age. But then I suppose she thinks Ida is provided for, and there'll be no particular need of her money in that quarter."

"Provided for? How?" asked Mrs. Mason, and Mrs Lincoln answered, "Why didn't you know that Mr. Selden's orphan nephew, George Moreland, had come over from England to live with him? He is heir to a large fortune, and it is said that both Mr. Selden and Aunt Martha are straining every nerve to eventually bring about a match between George and Ida."

There was no reason why Mary should blush at the mention of George Moreland, still she did do so, while Jenny slyly stepped upon her toes. But her embarrassment was unobserved, for what did she, a pauper girl, know or care about one whose future destiny, and wife too, were even then the subject of more than one scheming mother's speculations. Mrs. Mason smiled, and said she thought it very much like child's play, for if she remembered rightly Ida couldn't be more than thirteen or fourteen.

"About that," returned Mrs. Lincoln; "but the young man is older,—eighteen or nineteen, I think."

"No, mother," interrupted Jenny, who was as good at keeping ages as some old women, "he isn't but seventeen."

"Really," rejoined Mrs. Campbell, "I wouldn't wonder if our little Jenny had some designs on him herself, she is so anxious to make him out young."

"Oh, fy," returned Jenny. "He can't begin with Billy Bender!"

Mrs. Lincoln frowned, and turning to her daughter, said 'I have repeatedly requested, and now I command you not to bring up Billy Bender in comparison with every thing and every body."

"And pray, who is Billy Bender?" asked Mrs. Mason, and Mrs. Lincoln replied, "Why, he's a great rough, over grown country boy, who used to work for Mr. Lincoln, and now he's on the town farm, I believe."

"But he's working there," said Jenny, "and he's going to get money enough to go to school next fall at Wilbraham; and I heard father say he deserved a great deal of credit for it and that men that made themselves, or else men that didn't, I've forgot which, were always the smartest."

Here the older portion of the company laughed, and Mrs. Lincoln, bidding her daughter not to try to tell any thing unless she could get it straight, again resumed the subject of the silver forks, saying to Mrs. Mason, "I should think you'd be so glad. For my part I'm perfectly wedded to a silver fork, and positively I could not eat without one."

"But, mother," interrupted Jenny, "Grandma Howland hasn't any, and I don't believe she ever had, for once when we were there and you carried yours to eat with, don't you remember she showed you a little two tined one, and asked if the victuals didn't taste just as good when you lived at home and worked in the,—that great big noisy building,—I forget the name of it?"

It was fortunate for Jenny's after happiness that Mrs. Campbell was just then listening intently for something which Ella was whispering in her ear, consequently she did not hear the remark, which possibly might have enlightened her a little with regard to her friend's early days. Tea being over, the ladies announced their intention of leaving, and Mrs. Mason, recollecting Mrs. Lincoln's request for flowers, invited them into the garden, where she bade them help themselves. It required, however, almost a martyr's patience for her to stand quietly by, while her choicest flowers were torn from their stalks, and it was with a sigh of relief that she finally listened to the roll of the wheels which bore her guests away.

Could she have listened to their remarks, as on a piece of wide road their carriages kept side by side for a mile or more, she would probably have felt amply repaid for her flowers and trouble too.

"Dear me," said Mrs. Campbell, "I never could live in such a lonely out of the way place."

"Nor I either," returned Mrs. Lincoln, "but I think Mrs. Mason appears more at home here than in the city. I suppose you know she was a poor girl when Mr. Mason married her, and such people almost always show their breeding. Still she is a good sort of a woman, and it is well enough to have some such nice place to visit and get fruit. Weren't those delicious berries, and ain't these splendid rosebuds?"

"I guess, though," said Jenny, glancing at her mother's huge bouquet, "Mrs. Mason didn't expect you to gather quite so many. And Rose, too, trampled down a beautiful lily without ever apologizing."

"And what if I did?" retorted Rose. "She and that girl have nothing to do but fix it up."

This allusion to Mary, reminded Mrs. Campbell of her conversation with Mrs. Mason, and laughingly she repeated it. "I never knew before," said she, "that Mrs. Mason had so much spirit. Why, she really seemed quite angry, and tried hard to make Mary out beautiful, and graceful, and all that."

"And," chimed in Ella, who was angry at Mrs. Mason for defending her sister, and angry at her sister for being defended, "don't you think she said that Mary ought to be ashamed of me."

"Is it possible she was so impudent!" said Mrs. Lincoln; "I wish I had been present, I would have spoken my mind freely, but so much one gets for patronizing such creatures."

Here the road became narrow, and as the western sky showed indications of a storm, the coachmen were told to drive home as soon as possible.

Mrs. Campbell's advice with regard to Mary, made no difference whatever with Mrs. Mason's plans. She had always intended doing for her whatever she could, and knowing that a good education was of far more value than money, she determined to give her every advantage which lay in her power. There was that summer a most excellent school in Rice Corner, and as Mrs. Mason had fortunately no prejudices against a district school, where so many of our best and greatest men have been educated, she resolved to send her little protege, as soon as her wardrobe should be in a suitable condition. Accordingly in a few days Mary became a regular attendant at the old brown school-house, where for a time we will leave her, and passing silently over a period of several years, again in another chapter open the scene in the metropolis of the "Old Bay State."



CHAPTER XV.

THE THREE YOUNG MEN

It was beginning to be daylight in the city of Boston; and as the gray east gradually brightened and grew red in the coming of day, a young man looked out upon the busy world around him, with that feeling of utter loneliness which one so often feels in a great city where all is new and strange to him. Scarcely four weeks had passed since the notes of a tolling bell had fallen sadly upon his ear, and he had looked into a grave where they laid his mother to her last dreamless rest. A prevailing fever had effected what the fancied ailments of years had failed to do, and Billy Bender was now an orphan, and alone in the wide world. He knew that he had his own fortune to make, and after settling his mother's affairs and finding there was nothing left for him, he had come to the city, and on the morning which we have mentioned went forth alone to look for employment, with no other recommendation than the frank, honest expression of his handsome face. It was rather discouraging, wearisome work, and Billy's heart began to misgive him as one after another refused his request.

"It was foolish in me to attempt it," thought he, as he stopped once more in front of a large wholesale establishment on M—— street.

Just then his eye caught the sign on which was lettered, "R.J. Selden & Co." The name sounded familiar, and something whispered to him to enter. He did so, and meeting in the doorway a tall, elegant-looking young man, he asked for Mr. Selden.

"My uncle," returned the gentleman, who was none other than George Moreland, "has not yet come down, but perhaps I can answer your purpose just as well. Do you wish to purchase goods?"

Billy, thinking that every one must know his poverty, fancied there was something satirical in the question, but he was mistaken; the manner was natural to the speaker, who, as Billy made no direct reply, again asked. "What would you like, sir?"

"Something to do, for I have neither money nor home," was Billy's prompt answer.

"Will you give me your name?" asked George.

Billy complied, and when he spoke of his native town, George repeated it after him, saying, "I have some acquaintances who spend the summer in Chicopee; but you probably have never known them."

Immediately Billy thought of the Lincolns, and now knew why the name of Selden seemed so familiar. He had heard Jenny speak of Ida, and felt certain that R.J. Selden was her father.

For a moment George regarded him intently, and then said, "We seldom employ strangers without a recommendation; still I do not believe you need any. My uncle is wanting a young man, but the work may hardly suit you," he added, naming the duties he would be expected to perform, which certainly were rather menial. Still, as the wages were liberal, and he would have considerable leisure, Billy, for want of a better, accepted the situation, and was immediately introduced to his business. For some time he only saw George at a distance, but was told by one of the clerks that he was just graduated at Yale, and was now a junior partner in his uncle's establishment. "We all like him very much," said the clerk, "he is so pleasant and kind, though a little proud, I guess."

This was all that Billy knew of him until he had been in Mr. Selden's employment nearly three weeks; then, as he was one day poring over a volume of Horace which he had brought with him, George, who chanced to pass by, looked over his shoulder, exclaiming, "Why, Bender, can you read Latin? Really this is a novelty. Are you fond of books?"

"Yes, very," said Billy, "though I have but a few of my own."

"Fortunately then I can accommodate you," returned George, "for I have a tolerably good library, to which you can at any time have access. Suppose you come round to my uncle's to-night. Never mind about thanking me," he added, as he saw Billy about to speak; "I hate to be thanked, so to-night at eight o'clock I shall expect you."

Accordingly that evening Billy started for Mr. Selden's. George, who wished to save him from any embarrassment, answered his ring himself, and immediately conducted him to his room, where for an hour or so they discussed their favorite books and authors. At, last, George, astonished at Billy's general knowledge of men and things, exclaimed, "Why, Bender. I do believe you are almost as good a scholar as I, who have been through college. Pray how does it happen?"

In a few words Billy explained that he had been in the habit of working summers, and going to school at Wilbraham winters; and then, as it was nearly ten, he hastily gathered up the books which George had kindly loaned him, and took his leave. As he was descending the broad stairway he met a young girl fashionably dressed, who stared at him in some surprise and then passed on, wondering no doubt how one of his evident caste came to be in the front part of the house. In the upper hall she encountered George, and asked of him who the stranger was.

"His name is Bender, and he came from Chicopee," answered George.

"Bender from Chicopee," repeated Ida. "Why I wonder if it isn't the Billy Bender about whom Jenny Lincoln has gone almost mad."

"I think not," returned her cousin, "for Mrs. Lincoln would hardly suffer her daughter to mention a poor boy's name, much less to go mad about him."

"But," answered Ida, "he worked on Mr. Lincoln's farm when Jenny was a little girl; and now that she is older she talks of him nearly all the time, and Rose says it would not surprise her if she should some day run off with him."

"Possibly it is the same," returned George. "Any way, he is very fine-looking, and a fine fellow too, besides being an excellent scholar."

The next day, when Billy chanced to be alone, George approached him, and after making some casual remarks about the books he had borrowed, &c., he said, "Did you ever see Jenny Lincoln in Chicopee?"

"Oh, yes," answered Billy, brightening up, for Jenny had always been and still was a great favorite with him; "Oh, yes, I know Jenny very well. I worked for her father some years ago, and became greatly interested in her."

"Indeed? Then you must know Henry Lincoln?"

"Yes, I know him," said Billy; while George continued, "And think but little of him of course?"

On this subject Billy was noncommittal. He had no cause for liking Henry, but would not say so to a comparative stranger, and at last he succeeded in changing the conversation. George was about moving away, when observing a little old-fashioned looking book lying upon one of the boxes, he took it up and turning to the fly-leaf read the name of "Frank Howard."

"Frank Howard! Frank Howard!" he repeated; "where have I heard that name? Who is he, Bender?"

"He was a little English boy I once, loved very much; but he is dead now," answered Billy; and George, with a suddenly awakened curiosity, said, "Tell me about him and his family, will you?"

Without dreaming that George had ever seen them, Billy told the story of Frank's sickness and death,—of the noble conduct of his little sister, who, when there was no other alternative, went cheerfully to the poor-house, winning by her gentle ways the love of those unused to love, and taming the wild mood of a maniac until she was harmless as a child. As he proceeded with his story, George became each moment more and more interested, and when at last there was a pause, he asked, "And is Mary in the poor-house now?"

"I have not mentioned her name, and pray how came you to know it?" said Billy in some surprise.

In a few words George related the particulars of his acquaintance with the Howards, and then again asked where both Mary and Ella were.

Billy replied that for a few years back Mary had lived with a Mrs. Mason, while Ella, at the time of her mother's death had been adopted by Mrs. Campbell. "But," said he, "I never think of Ella in connection with Mary, they are so unlike; Ella is proud and vain and silly, and treats her sister with the utmost rudeness, though Mary is far more agreeable and intelligent, and as I think the best looking."

"She must have changed very much," answered George; "for if I remember rightly, she was not remarkable for personal beauty."

"She hasn't a silly, doll baby's face, but there isn't a finer looking girl in Chicopee, no, nor in Boston either," returned Billy, with so much warmth and earnestness that George laughed aloud, saying, "Why, really, Bender, you are more eloquent on the subject of female beauty than I supposed you to be; but go on; tell me more of her. Is she at all refined or polished?"

"I dare say she would not meet with your ideas of a lady," answered Billy; "but she does mine exactly, for she possesses more natural refinement and delicacy than two thirds of the city belles."

"Really, I am getting quite interested in her," said George. "How is her education?"

"Good, very good," returned Billy, adding that she was now teaching in Rice Corner, hoping to earn money enough to attend some seminary in the fall.

"Teaching!" repeated George; "why she can't be over sixteen."

He was going to say more, when some one slapped him rudely on the shoulder, calling out, "How are you, old feller, and what is there in Boston to interest such a scapegrace as I am?"

Looking up, Billy saw before him Henry Lincoln, exquisitely dressed, but bearing in his appearance evident marks of dissipation.

"Why, Henry," exclaimed George, "how came you here? I supposed you were drawing lampblack caricatures of some one of the tutors in old Yale. What's the matter? What have you been doing?"

"Why you see," answered Henry, drawing his cigar from his mouth and squirting, by accident of course, a quantity of spittle over Billy's nicely blacked shoes; "Why you see one of the sophs got his arm broken in a row, and as I am so tender-hearted and couldn't bear to hear him groan, to say nothing of his swearing, the faculty kindly advised me to leave, and sent on before me a recommendation to the old man. But, egad I fixed 'em. I told 'em he was in Boston, whereas he's in Chicopee, so I just took the letter from the office myself. It reads beautifully. Do you understand?"

All this time, in spite of the tobacco juice, Henry had apparently taken no notice of Billy, whom George now introduced, saying, he believed they were old acquaintances. With the coolest effrontery Henry took from his pocket a quizzing glass and applying it to his eye, said, "I've absolutely studied until I'm near-sighted, but I don't think I ever met this chap before."

"Perhaps, sir," said Billy haughtily, "it may refresh your memory a little to know that I was once the owner of Tasso!"

"Blast the brute," muttered Henry, meaning Billy quite as much as the dog; then turning to George, he asked, "how long the old folks had been in Chicopee."

"Several weeks, I think," answered George; and then, either because he wanted to hear what Henry would say, or because of a re-awakened interest in Mary Howard, he continued, "By the way. Henry, when you came so unceremoniously upon us, we were speaking of a young girl in Chicopee whom you have perhaps ferreted out ere this, as Bender says she is fine looking."

Henry stroked his whiskers, which had received far more cultivation than his brains, stuck his hat on one side, and answered. "Why, yes, I suppose that in my way I am some thing of a b'hoy with the fair sex, but really I do not now think of more than one handsome girl in Chicopee, and that is Ella Campbell, but she is young yet, not as old as Jenny—altogether too small fry for Henry Lincoln, Esq. But who is the girl?"

Billy frowned, for he held Mary's name as too sacred to be breathed by a young man of Henry Lincoln's character; while George replied, "Her name is Mary Howard."

"What, the pauper?" asked Henry, looking significantly at Billy, who replied, "The same, sir."

"Whew-ew," whistled Henry, prolonging the diphthong to an unusual length. "Why, she's got two teeth at least a foot long, and her face looks as though she had just been in the vinegar barrel, and didn't like the taste of it."

"But without joking, though, how does she look?" asked George; while Billy made a movement as if he would help the insolent puppy to find his level.

"Well, now, old boy," returned Henry, "I'll tell you honestly, that the last time I saw her, I was surprised to find how much she was improved. She has swallowed those abominable teeth, or done something with them, and is really quite decent looking. In short," he continued, with a malicious leer at Billy, which made the blood tingle to his finger's end, "In short, she'll do very well for a city buck like me to play the mischief with for a summer or so, and then cast off like an old coat."

There was a look in Billy's eye as Henry finished this speech which decided that young man to make no further remarks concerning Mary, and swaggering towards the door he added, "Well, Moreland, when will you come round and take a horn of brandy? Let me know, and I'll have in some of the bloods."

"Thank you," said George, "I never use the article."

"I beg your pardon," returned Henry, in a tone of mock humility. "I remember now that you've taken to carrying a Prayer Book as big as an old woman's moulding board, and manage to come out behind in the service about three or four lines so as to be distinctly heard; but I suppose you think it pleases the old gent your uncle, and that furthers your cause with the daughter. By the way, present my compliments to Miss Selden, and ask her if she has any word to send to Chicopee, for I'll have to go there by and by, though I hate to mightily, for it'll be just like the old man to put me through in the hay field; and if there's any thing I abominate, it's work."

So saying, he took his leave. Just then there was a call for Mr, Moreland, who also departed, leaving Billy alone.

"It is very strange that she never told me she knew him," thought he; and then taking from his pocket a neatly folded letter, he again read it through. But there was nothing in it about George, except the simple words, "I am glad you have found a friend in Mr. Moreland. I am sure I should like him, just because he is kind to you."

"Yes, she's forgotten him," said Billy, and that belief gave him secret satisfaction. He had known Mary long and the interest he had felt in her when a homely, neglected child, had not in the least decreased as the lapse of time gradually ripened her into a fine, intelligent-looking girl. He was to her a brother still, but she to him was dearer far than a sister; and though in his letters he always addressed her as such, in his heart he claimed her as something nearer, and yet he had never breathed in her ear a word of love, or hinted that it was for her sake he toiled both early and late, hoarding up his earnings with almost a miser's care that she might be educated.

Regularly each week she wrote to him, and it was the receipt of these letters, and the thoughts of her that kept his heart so brave and cheerful, as, alone and unappreciated, except by George, he worked on, dreaming of a bright future, when the one great object of his life should be realized.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.

In the old brown school-house, overshadowed by apple-trees and sheltered on the west by a long steep hill, where the acorns and wild grapes grew, Mary Howard taught her little flock of twenty-five, coaxing some, urging others, and teaching them all by her kind words and winsome ways to love her as they had never before loved an instructor.

When first she was proposed as a teacher in Rice Corner, Widow Perkins, and a few others who had no children to send, held up their hands in amazement, wondering "what the world was comin' to, and if the committee man, Mr. Knight, s'posed they was goin' to be rid over rough-shod by a town pauper; but she couldn't get a stifficut, for the Orthodox minister wouldn't give her one; and if he did, the Unitarian minister wouldn't!"

Accordingly, when it was known that the ordeal had been passed, and that Mary had in her possession a piece of paper about three inches square, authorizing her to teach a common district school, this worthy conclave concluded that "either every body had lost their senses, or else Miss Mason, who was present at the examination, had sat by and whispered in her ear the answers to all hard questions." "In all my born days I never seen any thing like it," said the widow, as she distributed her green tea, sweetened with brown sugar, to a party of ladies, which she was entertaining "But you'll see, she won't keep her time more'n half out.—Sally Ann, pass them nutcakes.—Nobody's goin' to send their children to a pauper. There's Miss Bradley says she'll take her'n out the first time they get licked.—Have some more sass, Miss Dodge. I want it eat up, for I believe it's a workin',—but I telled her that warn't the trouble; Mary's too softly to hurt a miskeeter. And so young too. It's government she'll lack in.—If any body'll have a piece of this dried apple pie, I'll cut it."

Of course, nobody wanted a piece, and one of the ladies, continuing the conversation, said she supposed Mary would of course board with Mrs. Mason. The tea-pot lid, which chanced to be off, went on with a jerk, and with the air of a much injured woman the widow replied: "Wall, I can tell her this much, it's no desirable job to board the school-marm, though any body can see that's all made her so anxious for Mary to have the school. She's short on't, and wants a little money. Do any on you know how much she charges?"

Nobody knew, but a good many "guessed she didn't charge any thing," and the widow, rising from the table and telling Sally Ann to "rense the sass dishes, and pour it in the vinegar bottle," led her guests back to the best room, saying, "a dollar and ninepence (her usual price) was next to nothing, but she'd warrant Miss Mason had more'n that"

Fortunately, Mary knew nothing of Mrs. Perkins's displeasure, and never dreamed that any feeling existed towards her, save that of perfect friendship. Since we last saw her, she had grown into a fine, healthy-looking girl. Her face and figure were round and full, and her complexion, though still rather pale, was clear as marble, contrasting well with her dark brown hair and eyes, which no longer seemed unnaturally large. Still she was not beautiful, it is true, and yet Billy was not far from right when he called her the finest looking girl in Chicopee; and it was for this reason, perhaps, that Mrs. Campbell watched her with so much jealousy.

Every possible pains had been taken with Ella's education. The best teachers had been hired to instruct her, and she was now at a fashionable seminary, but still she did not possess one half the ease and gracefulness of manner, which seemed natural to her sister. Since the day of that memorable visit, the two girls had seen but little of each other. Ella would not forgive Mrs. Mason for praising Mary, nor forgive Mary for being praised; and as Mrs. Campbell, too pretended to feel insulted, the intercourse between the families gradually ceased; and oftentimes when Ella met her sister, she merely acknowledged her presence by a nod, or a simple "how d'ye do?"

When she heard that Mary was to be a teacher, she said "she was glad, for it was more respectable than going into a factory, or working out." Mrs. Campbell, too, felt in duty bound to express her pleasure, adding, that "she hoped Mary would give satisfaction, but 'twas extremely doubtful, she was so young, and possessed of so little dignity!"

Unfortunately, Widow Perkins's red cottage stood directly opposite the school-house; and as the widow belonged to that stirring few who always "wash the breakfast dishes, and make the beds before any one is up in the house," she had ample leisure to watch and report the proceedings of the new teacher. Now Mrs. Perkins's clock was like its mistress, always half an hour in advance of the true time and Mary had scarcely taught a week ere Mr. Knight, "the committee man," was duly hailed in the street, and told that the 'school-marm wanted lookin' to, for she didn't begin no mornin' till half-past nine, nor no afternoon till half past one! "Besides that," she added, "I think she gives 'em too long a play spell. Any ways, seem's ef some on em was out o'door the hull time."

Mr. Knight had too much good sense to heed the widow's complaints, and he merely replied, "I'm glad on't. Five hours is enough to keep little shavers cramped up in the house,—glad on't."

The widow, thus foiled in her attempts at making disturbance, finally gave up the strife, contenting herself with quizzing the older girls, and asking them if Mary could do all the hard sums in Arithmetic, or whether she took them home for Mrs. Mason to solve! Old leathern-bound Daboll, too, was brought to light, and its most difficult problems selected and sent to Mary, who, being an excellent mathematician, worked them all out to the widow's astonishment. But when it was known that quill pens had been discarded, and steel ones substituted in their place, Mrs. Perkins again looked askance, declaring that Mary couldn't make a quill pen, and by way of testing the matter, Sally Ann was sent across the road with a huge bunch of goose quills, which "Miss Howard" was politely requested "to fix, as ma wanted to write some letters."

Mary candidly confessed her ignorance, saying she had never made a pen in her life; and the next Sabbath the widow's leghorn was missed from its accustomed pew in the Unitarian church, and upon inquiry, it was ascertained that "she couldn't in conscience hear a man preach who would give a 'stifficut' to a girl that didn't know how to make a pen!"

In spite, however, of these little annoyances, Mary was contented and happy. She knew that her pupils loved her and that the greater part of the district were satisfied, so she greeted the widow with her pleasantest smile, and by always being particularly polite to Sally Ann, finally overcame their prejudices to a considerable extent.

One afternoon about the middle of July, as Mrs. Perkins was seated by her front window engaged in "stitching shoes," a very common employment in some parts of New England, her attention was suddenly diverted by a tall, stylish-looking young man, who, driving his handsome horse and buggy under the shadow of the apple-trees, alighted and entered into conversation with a group of little girls who were taking their usual recess. Mrs. Perkins's curiosity was roused, and Sally Ann was called to see who the stranger was. But for a wonder, Sally Ann didn't know, though she "guessed the hoss was one of the East Chicopee livery."

"He's talkin' to Liddy Knight," said she, at the same time holding back the curtain, and stepping aside so as not to be visible herself.

"Try if you can hear what he's sayin," whispered Mrs. Perkins; but a class of boys in the school-house just then struck into the multiplication table, thus effectually drowning any thing which Sally Ann might otherwise have heard.

"I know them children will split their throats. Can't they hold up a minute," exclaimed Mrs. Perkins, greatly annoyed at being thus prevented from overhearing a conversation, the nature of which she could not even guess.

But as some other Widow Perkins may read this story we will for her benefit repeat what the young man was saying to Lydia Knight, who being nearest to him was the first one addressed.

"You have a nice place for your school-house and play-grounds."

"Yes, sir," answered Lydia, twirling her sun-bonnet and taking up a small round stone between her naked toes.

"Do you like to go to school?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you a good teacher?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is her name?"

"Miss Howard,—Mary Howard, and she lives with Miss Mason."

"Mary Howard,—that's a pretty name,—is she pretty too?"

"Not so dreadful," chimed in Susan Bradley. "She licked brother Tim to-day, and I don't think she's much pretty."

This speech quickly called out the opinion of the other girls as follows:

"He ought to be licked, for he stole a knife and then lied about it; and Miss Howard is real pretty, and you needn't say she ain't, Susan Bradley."

"Yes, indeed, she's pretty," rejoined a second. "Such handsome eyes, and little white hands."

"What color are her eyes?" asked the stranger, to which two replied, "blue," and three more said "black;" while Lydia Knight, who was the oldest of the group, finally settled the question by saying, that "they sometimes looked blue; but if she was real pleased, or sorry either, they turned black!"

The stranger smiled and said, "Tell me more about her. Does she ever scold, or has she too pretty a mouth for that?"

"No, she never scolds," said Delia Frost, "and she's got the nicest, whitest teeth, and I guess she knows it, too for she shows them a great deal."

"She's real white, too," rejoined Lydia Knight, "though pa says she used to be yaller as saffron."

Here there was a gentle rap upon the window, and the girls starting off, exclaimed, "There, we must go in."

"May I go too?" asked the stranger, following them to the door.

The girls looked at each other, then at him, then at each other again, and at last Lydia said, "I don't care, but I guess Miss Howard will be ashamed, for 'twas Suke Bradley's turn to sweep the school-house this noon-time, and she wouldn't do it, 'cause Tim got licked."

"Never mind the school-house," returned the stranger, "but introduce me as Mr. Stuart."

Lydia had never introduced any body in her life, and following her companions to her seat, she left Mr. Stuart standing in the doorway. With her usual politeness, Mary came forward and received the stranger, who gave his name as Mr. Stuart, saying, "he felt much interested in common schools, and therefore had ventured to call."

Offering the seat of honor, viz., the splint-bottomed chair, Mary resumed her usual duties, occasionally casting a look of curiosity at the stranger, whose eyes seemed constantly upon her. It was rather warm that day, and when Mary returned from her dinner, Widow Perkins was greatly shocked at seeing her attired in a light pink muslin dress, the short sleeves of which showed to good advantage her round white arms. A narrow velvet ribbon confined by a small brooch, and a black silk apron, completed her toilet, with the exception of a tiny locket, which was suspended from her neck by a slender gold chain. This last ornament, immediately riveted Mr. Stuart's attention, and from some strange cause sent the color quickly to his face. After a time, as if to ascertain whether it were really a locket, or a watch, he asked "if Miss Howard could tell him the hour."

"Certainly sir," said she, and stepping to the desk and consulting a silver time-piece about the size of a dining plate, she told him that it was half-past three.

He nodded, and seemed very much interested in two little boys who sat near him, engaged in the laudable employment of seeing which could snap spittle the farthest and the best.

Just then there was a movement at the door, and a new visitor appeared in the person of Mrs. Perkins, who, with her large feather fan and flounced gingham dress, entered smiling and bowing, and saying "she had been trying all summer to visit the school."

Mr. Stuart immediately arose and offered his chair, but there was something in his manner which led Mary to suppose that an introduction was not at all desired, so she omitted it, greatly to the chagrin of the widow, who, declining the proffered seat, squeezed herself between Lydia Knight and another girl, upsetting the inkstand of the one, and causing the other to make a curious character out of the letter "X" she chanced to be writing.

"Liddy, Liddy," she whispered, "who is that man?"

But Lydia was too much engrossed with her spoiled apron to answer this question, and she replied with, "Marm may I g'wout; I've spilt the ink all over my apron."

Permission, of course, was granted, and as the girl who sat next knew nothing of the stranger, Mrs. Perkins began to think she might just as well have staid at home and finished her shoes. "But," thought she, "may-be I shall find out after school."

Fortune, however, was against the widow, for scarcely was her feather fan in full play, when Sally Ann came under the window, and punching her back with a long stick, told her in a loud whisper, that "she must come right home, for Uncle Jim and Aunt Dolly had just come from the cars."

Accordingly, Mrs. Perkins, smoothing down her gingham flounces, and drawing on her cotton gloves, arose to go, asking Mary as she passed, "if that was an acquaintance of hers."

Mary shook her head, and the widow, more puzzled than ever, took her leave.

When school was out, Mr. Stuart, who seemed in no haste whatever, entered into a lively discussion with Mary concerning schools and books, adroitly managing to draw her out upon all the leading topics of the day. At last the conversation turned upon flowers; and when Mary chanced to mention Mrs. Mason's beautiful garden, he instantly expressed a great desire to see it, and finally offered to accompany Mary home, provided she had no objections. She could not, of course, say no, and the Widow Perkins, who, besides attending to "Uncle Jim" and "Aunt Dolly," still found time to watch the school-house, came very near letting her buttermilk biscuit burn to a cinder, when she saw the young man walking down the road with Mary. Arrived at Mrs. Mason's, the stranger managed to make himself so agreeable, that Mrs. Mason invited him to stay to tea,—an invitation which he readily accepted. Whoever he was, he seemed to understand exactly how to find out whatever he wished to know; and before tea was over, he had learned of Mary's intention to attend the academy in Wilbraham, the next autumn.

"Excuse me for making a suggestion," said he, "but why not go to Mt. Holyoke? Do you not think the system of education there a most excellent one?"

Mary glanced at Mrs. Mason, who replied, that "she believed they did not care to take a pupil at South Hadley for a less period than a year; and as Mary was entirely dependent upon herself, she could not at present afford that length of time."

"That does make a difference," returned Mr. Stuart "but I hope she will not give up Mt. Holyoke entirely, as I should prefer it to Wilbraham."

Tea being over, Mr. Stuart arose to go; and Mary, as she accompanied him to the door, could not forbear asking how he liked Mrs. Mason's garden, which he had forgotten even to look at!

Blushing deeply, he replied, "I suppose Miss Howard has learned ere this, that there are in the world things fairer and more attractive than flowers, but I will look at them when I come again;" then politely bidding her good night, be walked away, leaving Mary and Mrs. Mason to wonder,—the one what he came there for, and the other whether he would ever come again. The widow, too, wondered and fidgeted, as the sun went down behind the long hill, and still under the apple-tree the gray pony stood.

"It beats all nater what's kept him so long," said she, when he at last appeared, and, unfastening, his horse, drove off at a furious rate; "but if I live I'll know all about it to-morrow;" and with this consolatory remark she returned to the best room, and for the remainder of the evening devoted herself to the entertainment of Uncle Jim and his wife Aunt Dolly.

That evening, Mr. Knight, who had been to the Post Office, called at Mrs. Mason's, bringing with him a letter which bore the Boston postmark. Passing it to Mary, he winked at Mrs. Mason, saying, "I kinder guess how all this writin' works will end; but hain't there been a young chap to see the school?"

"Yes; how did you know it," returned Mrs. Mason, while Mary blushed more deeply than she did when Billy's letter was handed her.

"Why, you see," answered Mr. Knight, "I was about at the foot of the Blanchard hill, when I see a buggy comin' like Jehu. Just as it got agin me it kinder slackened, and the fore wheel ran off smack and scissors."

"Was he hurt?" quickly asked Mary.

"Not a bit on't," said Mr. Knight, "but he was scared some, I guess. I got out and helped him, and when he heard I's from Rice Corner, he said he'd been into school. Then he asked forty-'leven questions about you, and jest as I was settin' you up high, who should come a canterin' up with their long-tailed gowns, and hats like men, but Ella Campbell, and a great white-eyed pucker that came home with her from school. Either Ella's horse was scary, or she did it a purpose, for the minit she got near, it began to rare and she would have fell off, if that man hadn't catched it by the bit, and held her on with t'other hand. I allus was the most sanguinary of men, (Mr. Knight was never so far wrong in his life,) and I was buildin' castles about him, and our little school-marm, when Ella came along, and I gin it up, for I see that he was took, and she did look handsome with her curls a flyin'. Wall, as I wasn't of no more use, I whipped up old Charlotte and come on."

"When did Ella return?" asked Mary, who had not before heard of her sister's arrival.

"I don't know," said Mr. Knight. "The first I see of her she was cuttin' through the streets on the dead run; but I mustn't stay here, gabbin', so good night, Miss Mason,—good night, Mary, hope you've got good news in that are letter."

The moment he was gone, Mary ran up to her room, to read her letter, from which we give the following extract.

"You must have forgotten George Moreland, or you would have mentioned him to me. I like him very much indeed, and yet I could not help feeling a little jealous, when he manifested so much interest in you. Sometimes, Mary, I think that for a brother I am getting too selfish, and do not wish any one to like you except myself, but I surely need not feel so towards George, the best friend I have in Boston. He is very kind, lending me books, and has even offered to use his influence in getting me a situation in one of the best law offices in the city."

After reading this letter, Mary sat for a long time, thinking of George Moreland,—of the time when she first knew him,—of all that William Bender had been to her since,—and wondering, as girls sometimes will, which she liked the best. Billy, unquestionably, had the strongest claim to her love, but could he have known how much satisfaction she felt in thinking that George still remembered and felt interested in her, he would have had some reason for fearing, as he occasionally did, that she would never be to him aught save a sister.



CHAPTER XVII.

JEALOUSY.

The day following Mr. Stuart's visit was Saturday, and as there was no school, Mary decided to call upon her sister, whom she had not seen for some months. Mrs. Mason, who had some shopping to do in the village, offered to accompany her, and about two in the afternoon, they set forward in Mr. Knight's covered buggy. The roads were smooth and dry, and in a short time they reached the bridge near the depot. A train of cars bound for Boston was just going out, and from one of the windows Mr. Stuart was looking, and waving his hand towards Mary, who bowed in token of recognition.

The sight and sound of the cars made "old Charlotte," whom Mrs. Mason was driving, prick up her ears, and feet too, and in a few moments she carried her load to the village. Leaving Mrs. Mason at the store, Mary proceeded at once to Mrs. Campbell's. She rang the door-bell a little timidly, for the last time she saw her sister, she had been treated with so much coldness, that she now felt some anxiety with regard to the reception she was likely to meet.

"Is Miss Campbell at home?" she asked of the girl who answered her ring.

"Yes, she's at home," replied the girl, "but is busy dressing for company."

"Tell her her sister is here, if you please. I won't detain her long," said Mary, trying hard to shake off the tremor which always came upon her, when she found herself in Mrs. Campbell's richly furnished house.

Conducting Mary into the parlor, the girl departed with her message to Ella, who, together with the young lady whom Mr. Knight had styled a "white-eyed pucker," but whose real name was Eliza Porter, was dressing in the chamber above. The door of the room was open, and from her position, Mary could hear distinctly every word which was uttered.

"Miss Ella," said the girl, "your sister is in the parlor, and wants to see you."

"My sister," repeated Ella, "oh, forlorn! What brought her here to-day? Why didn't you tell her I wasn't at home?"

"I never told a lie in my life," answered the honest servant girl, while Miss Porter in unfeigned surprise said "Your sister! I didn't know you had one. Why doesn't she live at home?"

Concealment was no longer possible, and in a half vexed, half laughing tone, Ella replied, "Why, I thought you knew that I was an orphan whom Mrs. Campbell adopted years ago."

"You an orphan!" returned Miss Porter. "Well, if I ever! Who adopted your sister?"

"A poor woman in the country," was Ella's answer.

Miss Porter, who was a notorious flatterer, replied, "I must see her, for if she is any thing like you, I shall love her instantly."

"Oh, she isn't like me" said Ella, with a curl of her lip. "She's smart enough, I suppose, but she hasn't a bit of polish or refinement. She doesn't come here often, and when she does, I am always in a fidget, for fear some of the city girls will call, and she'll do something outre."

"I guess, then, I won't go down, at least not till I'm dressed," answered Miss Porter; and Ella, throwing on a dressing-gown, descended to the parlor, where she met her sister with the ends of her fingers, and a simple, "Ah, Mary, how d'ye do? Are you well?"

After several commonplace remarks, Ella at last asked, "How did you know I was at home?"

"Mr. Knight told me," said Mary.

"Mr. Knight," repeated Ella; "and pray, who is he? I don't believe he's on my list of acquaintances."

"Do you remember the man who carried me to the poor-house?" asked Mary.

"Hush—sh!" said Ella, glancing nervously towards the door. "There is a young lady up stairs, and it isn't necessary for her to know you've been a pauper."

By this time Miss Porter was dressed. She was very fond of display, and wishing to astonish the "country girl" with her silks and satins, came rustling into the parlor.

"My sister," said Ella carelessly.

Miss Porter nodded, and then throwing herself languidly upon the sofa, looked down the street, as if expecting some one. At last, supporting herself on her elbow, she lisped out, "I don't believe that he'th coming, for here 'tis after four!"

"Tisn't likely he'll stay in the graveyard all night," returned Ella. "I wish we'd asked him whose graves he was going to visit, don't you?" Then, by way of saying something more to Mary, she continued, "Oh, you ought to know what an adventure I had yesterday. It was a most miraculous escape, for I should certainly have been killed, if the most magnificent-looking gentleman you ever saw, hadn't caught me just in time to keep Beauty from throwing me. You ought to see his eyes, they were perfectly splendid!"

Mary replied, that she herself thought he had rather handsome eyes.

"You! where did you ever see him?" asked Ella.

"He visited my school yesterday afternoon."

"Oh, no, that can't be the one," returned Ella, while Miss Porter, too, said, "Certainly not; our cavalier never thaw the inthide of a district school-houth, I know."

"I am quite sure he saw one yesterday," said Mary, relating the circumstance of Mr. Knight's meeting him at the spot where Ella came so near getting a fall.

"Did he go home with you?" asked Ella, in a tone plainly indicating that a negative answer was expected.

Mary understood the drift of her sister's questioning, and promptly replied, "Yes, he went home with me, and staid to tea."

Ella's countenance lowered, while Miss Porter exclaimed, "I declare, we may as well give up all hope, for your sister, it seems, has the first claim."

"Pshaw!" said Ella, contemptuously, while Miss Porter, again turning to Mary, asked, "Did you learn his name? If you did, you are more fortunate than we were; and he came all the way home with us, too, leading Ella's pony; and besides that, we met him in the street this morning."

"His name," returned Mary, "is Stuart, and he lives in Boston, I believe."

"Stuart,—Stuart,—" repeated Ella; "I never heard Lizzie Upton, or the Lincolns, mention the Stuarts, but perhaps they have recently removed to the city. Any way, this young man is somebody, I know."

Here Miss Porter, again looking down the road, exclaimed, "There, he's coming, I do believe."

Both girls rushed to the window, but Mr. Stuart was not there; and when they were reseated, Mary very gravely remarked, that he was probably ere this in Worcester, as she saw him in the eastern train.

"Why, really," said Ella, "you seem to be well posted in his affairs. Perhaps you can tell us whose graves he wished to find. He said he had some friends buried here, and inquired for the sexton."

Mary knew nothing about it, and Ella, as if thinking aloud, continued, "It must be that he got belated, and went from the graveyard, across the fields, to the depot;—but, oh horror!" she added, "there comes Lizzie Upton and the rest of the Boston girls. Mary, I guess you'll have to go, or rather, I guess you'll have to excuse me, for I must run up and dress. By the way, wouldn't you like some flowers? If you would just go into the kitchen, and ask Bridget to show you the garden."

Mary had flowers enough at home, and so, in spite of Ella's manoeuvre, she went out at the front door, meeting "Lizzie Upton, and the rest of the Boston girls," face to face. Miss Porter, who acted the part of hostess while Ella was dressing, was quickly interrogated by Lizzie Upton, as to who the young lady was they met in the yard.

"That's Ella Campbell's sister," said Miss Porter. Then lowering her voice to a whisper, she continued, "Don't you believe, Ella isn't Mrs. Campbell's own daughter, but an adopted one!"

"I know that," answered Lizzie; "but this sister, where does she live?"

"Oh, in a kind of a heathenish, out-of-the-way place, and teaches school for a living."

"Well," returned Lizzie, "she is a much finer looking girl than Ella."

"How can you say so," exclaimed three or four girls in a breath, and Lizzie replied, "Perhaps she hasn't so much of what is called beauty in her face, but she has a great deal more intellect."

Here the door-bell again rang; and Ella, having made a hasty toilet, came tripping down the stairs in time to welcome Rose Lincoln, whom she embraced as warmly as if a little eternity, instead of three days, had elapsed since they met.

"I had perfectly despaired of your coming," said she "Oh, how sweet you do look! But where's Jenny?"

Rose's lip curled scornfully, as she replied, "Why, she met Mary Howard in the store, and I couldn't drag her away."

"And who is Mary Howard?" asked Lizzie Upton.

Rose glanced at Ella, who said, "Why, she's the girl you met going out of the yard."

"Oh, yes.—I know,—your sister," returned Lizzie. "Isn't she to be here? I have noticed her in church, and should like to get acquainted with her. She has a fine eye and forehead."

Ella dared not tell Lizzie, that Mary was neither polished nor refined, so she answered, that "she could not stay this afternoon, as Mrs. Mason, the lady with whom she lived, was in a hurry to go home."

Miss Porter looked up quickly from her embroidery, and winked slyly at Ella in commendation of her falsehood. Jenny now came bounding in, her cheeks glowing, and her eyes sparkling like diamonds.

"I'm late, I know," said she, "but I met Mary in the store, and I never know when to leave her. I tried to make her come with me, telling her that as you were her sister 'twas no matter if she weren't invited; but she said that Mrs. Mason had accepted an invitation to take tea with Mrs. Johnson, and she was going there too."

Instantly Lizzie Upton's eyes were fixed upon Ella, who colored scarlet; and quickly changing the conversation, she commenced talking about her adventure of the evening before, and again the "magnificent-looking stranger, with his perfectly splendid eyes," was duly described.

"Oh, yes," said Jenny, who generally managed to talk all the time, whether she was heard or not. "Yes, Mary told me about him. He was in her school yesterday, and if I were going to describe George Moreland, I could not do it more accurately than she did, in describing Mr. Stuart. You never saw George, did you?"

"No," said Ella pettishly, "but seems to me Mary is dreadful anxious to have folks know that Mr. Stuart visited her school."

"No, she isn't," answered Jenny. "I told her that I rode past her school-house yesterday, and should have called, had I not seen a big man's head protruding above the window sill. Of course, I asked who he was, and she told me about him, and how he saved you from a broken neck."

Ella's temper, never the best, was fast giving way, and by the time the company were all gone, she was fairly in a fit of the pouts. Running up stairs, and throwing herself upon the bed, she burst into tears, wishing herself dead, and saying she knew no one would care if she were, for every body liked Mary better than they did her.

Miss Porter, who stood by, terribly distressed of course, rightly guessed that the every body, on this occasion, referred merely to Mr. Stuart and Lizzie Upton. Ella was always jealous of any commendation bestowed upon Mary seeming to consider it as so much taken from herself, and consequently, could not bear that Lizzie should even think well of her. The fact, too, that Mr. Stuart had not only visited her school, but also walked home with her, was a sufficient reason why she should he thoroughly angry. Miss Porter knew that the surest method of coaxing her out of her pouting fit, was to flatter her, and accordingly she repeated at least a dozen complimentary speeches, some of which she had really heard, while others were manufactured for the occasion. In this way the cloud was gradually lifted from her face, and erelong she was laughing merrily at the idea, that a girl "so wholly unattractive as Mary, should ever have made her jealous!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

A NEW PLAN.

The summer was drawing to a close, and with it Mary's school. She had succeeded in giving satisfaction to the entire district with the exception of Mrs. Bradley, who "didn't know why Tim should be licked and thrashed round just because his folks wasn't wuth quite so much as some others," this being, in her estimation, the only reason why the notorious Timothy was never much beloved by his teachers. Mr Knight, with whom Mary was a great favorite, offered her the school for the coming winter, but she had decided upon attending school herself, and after modestly declining his offer, told him of her intention.

"But where's the money coming from?" said he.

Mary laughingly asked him how many bags of shoes he supposed she had stitched during the last two years.

"More'n two hundred, I'll bet," said he.

"Not quite as many as that," answered Mary; "but still I have managed to earn my clothes, and thirty dollars besides; and this, together with my school wages, will pay for one term, and part of another."

"Well, go ahead," returned Mr. Knight. "I'd help you if I could. Go ahead, and who knows but you'll one day be the President's wife."

Like the majority of New England farmers, Mr Knight was far from being wealthy. From sunrise until sundown he worked upon the old homestead where his father had dwelt. Spring after spring, he ploughed and planted the sandy soil. Autumn after autumn he gathered in the slender harvest, and still said he would not exchange his home among the hills for all the broad acres of his brother, who at the far West, counted his dollars by the thousands. He would gladly have helped Mary, but around his fireside were six children dependent upon him for food, clothing, and education, and he could only wish his young friend success in whatever she undertook.

When Widow Perkins heard that Mary was going away to school, she forgot to put any yeast in the bread which she was making, and bidding Sally Ann "watch it until it riz," she posted off to Mrs. Mason's to inquire the particulars, reckoning up as she went along how much fourteen weeks' wages would come to at nine shillings (a dollar and a half New England currency) per week.

"'Tain't no great," said she, as simultaneously with her arrival at Mrs. Mason's door, she arrived at the sum of twenty-one dollars. "'Tain't no great, and I wouldn't wonder if Miss Mason fixed over some of her old gowns for her."

But with all her quizzing, and "pumping," as Judith called it, she was unable to ascertain any thing of importance, and mentally styling Mrs. Mason, Mary, Judith and all, "great gumpheads," she returned home, and relieved Sally Ann from her watch over unleavened bread. Both Mrs. Mason and Mary laughed heartily at the widow's curiosity, though, as Mary said, "It was no laughing matter where the money was to come from which she needed for her books and clothing."

Every thing which Mrs. Mason could do for her she did, and even Judith, who was never famous for generosity; brought in one Saturday morning a half-worn merino, which she thought "mebby could be turned and sponged, and made into somethin' decent," adding, in an undertone, that "she'd had it out airin' on the clothes hoss for more'n two hours!"

Sally Furbush, too, brought over the old purple silk which "Willie's father had given her." She was getting on finely with her grammar, she said, and in a few days she should write to Harper, so that he might have time to engage the extra help he would necessarily need, in bringing out a work of that kind!

"I should dedicate it to Mrs. Grundy," said she, "just to show her how forgiving I can be, but here is a difficulty. A person, on seeing the name, 'Mrs. Polly Grundy,' would naturally be led to inquire for 'Mr. Polly Grundy,' and this inquiry carried out, might cause the lady some little embarrassment, so I've concluded to have the dedication read thus:—'To Willie's father, who sleeps on the western prairie, this useful work is tremblingly, tearfully, yet joyfully dedicated by his relict, Sarah.'"