Mary warmly approved of this plan, and after a few extra flourishes in the shape of a courtesy, Sally started for home.

A few days afterward, Jenny Lincoln came galloping up to the school-house door, declaring her intention of staying until school was out, and having a good time. "It's for ever and ever since I've seen you," said she, as she gathered up the skirt of her blue riding-dress, and followed Mary into the house, "but I've been so bothered with those city girls. Seems as though they had nothing to do but to get up rides in hay carts, or picnics in the woods and since Henry came home they keep sending for us. This afternoon they have all gone blackberrying in a hay cart, but I'd rather come here."

At this point, happening to think that the class in Colburn who were toeing the mark so squarely, would perhaps like a chance to recite, Jenny seated herself near the window, and throwing off her hat, made fun for herself and some little boys, by tickling their naked toes with the end of her riding-whip. When school was out, and the two girls were alone, Jenny entered at once upon the great object of her visit.

"I hear you are going to Wilbraham," said she, "but I want you to go to Mount Holyoke. We are going, a whole lot of us, that is, if we can pass examination. Rose isn't pleased with the idea, but I am. I think 'twill be fun to wash potatoes and scour knives. I don't believe that mother would ever have sent us there if it were not that Ida Selden is going. Her father and her aunt Martha used to be schoolmates with Miss Lyon, and they have always intended that Ida should graduate at Mount Holyoke. Now, why can't you go, too?"

Instantly Mary thought of Mr. Stuart, and his suggestion. "I wish I could," said she, "but I can't. I haven't money enough, and there is no one to give it to me."

"It wouldn't hurt Mrs. Campbell to help you a little," returned Jenny. "Why, last term Ella spent almost enough for candies, and gutta-percha toys, to pay the expense of half a year's schooling, at Mount Holyoke. It's too bad that she should have every thing, and you nothing."

Here Jenny's remarks were interrupted by the loud rattling of wheels, and the halloo of many voices. Going to the door she and Mary saw coming down the road at a furious rate, the old hay cart, laden with the young people from Chicopee, who had been berrying in Sturbridge, and were now returning home in high glee. The horses were fantastically trimmed with ferns and evergreens, while several of the girls were ornamented in the same way. Conspicuous among the noisy group, was Ella Campbell. Henry Lincoln's broad-brimmed hat was resting on her long curls, while her white sun-bonnet was tied under Henry's chin.

The moment Jenny appeared, the whole party set up a shout so deafening, that the Widow Perkins came out in a trice, to see "if the old Harry was to pay, or what." No sooner did Henry Lincoln get sight of Mary, than springing to his feet, and swinging his arm around his head, he screamed out, "Three cheers for the school ma'am and her handsome lover, Billy! Hurrah!"

In the third and last hurrah, the whole company joined, and when that was finished, Henry struck up on a high key,

"Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy, Oh, where have you been charming Billy?"

but only one voice joined in with his, and that was Ella's! Mary reddened at what she knew was intended as an insult, and when she heard her sister's voice chiming in with Henry, she could not keep back her tears.

"Wasn't that smart?" said Jenny, when at last the hay cart disappeared from view, and the noise and dust had somewhat subsided. Then as she saw the tears in Mary's eyes, she added, "Oh, I wouldn't care if they did teaze me about Billy Bender. I'd as lief be teazed about him as not."

"It isn't that," said Mary, smiling in spite of herself, at Jenny's frankness. "It isn't that. I didn't like to hear Ella sing with your brother, when she must have known he meant to annoy me."

"That certainly was wrong," returned Jenny; "but Ella isn't so much to blame as Henry, who seems to have acquired a great influence over her during the few weeks he has been at home. You know she is easily flattered, and I dare say Henry has fully gratified her vanity in that respect, for he says she is the only decent-looking girl in Chicopee. But see, there comes Mrs. Mason, I guess she wonders what is keeping you so long."

The moment Mrs. Mason entered the school-room, Jenny commenced talking about Mount Holyoke, her tongue running so fast, that it entirely prevented any one else from speaking, until she stopped for a moment to take breath. Then Mrs. Mason very quietly remarked, that if Mary wished to go to Mount Holyoke she could do so. Mary looked up inquiringly, wondering what mine had opened so suddenly at her feet; but she received no explanation until Jenny had bidden her good-bye, and gone. Then she learned that Mrs. Mason had just received $100 from a man in Boston, who had years before owed it to her husband, and was unable to pay it sooner. "And now," said Mrs. Mason, "there is no reason why you should not go to Mount Holyoke, if you wish to."

The glad tears which came to Mary's eyes were a sufficient evidence that she did wish to, and the next day a letter was forwarded to Miss Lyon, who promptly replied, expressing her willingness to receive Mary as a pupil. And now Rice Corner was again thrown into a state of fermentation. Mary was going to Mount Holyoke, and what was more marvellous still, Mrs. Mason had bought her a black silk dress, which cost her a dollar a yard! and more than one good dame declared her intention of "giving up," if paupers came on so fast. This having been a pauper was the thing of which Mary heard frequently, now that her prospects were getting brighter. And even Ella, when told that her sister was going to Mount Holyoke, said to Miss Porter, who was still with her, "Why, isn't she getting along real fast for one who has been on the town?"

Mrs. Lincoln, too, and Rose were greatly provoked, the former declaring she would not send her daughters to a school which was so cheap that paupers and all could go, were it not that Lizzie Upton had been there, and Ida Selden was going. Jenny, however, thought differently. She was delighted, and as often as she possibly could, she came to Mrs. Mason's to talk the matter over, and tell what good times they'd have, "provided they didn't set her to pounding clothes," which she presumed they would, just because she was so fat and healthy. The widow assumed a very resigned air, saying "She never did meddle with other folks' business, and she guessed she shouldn't begin by 'tendin' to Mary's, but 'twas a miracle where all the money came from."

A few more of the neighbors felt worried and troubled but as no attention was paid to their remarks, they gradually ceased, and by the time Mary's preparations were completed, curiosity and gossip seemed to have subsided altogether. She was quite a favorite in the neighborhood, and on the morning when she left home, there was many a kind good-bye, and word of love spoken to her by those who came to see her off. Mr. Knight carried her to the depot, where they found Sally Furbush, accompanied by Tasso, her constant attendant. She knew that Mary was to leave that morning, and had walked all that distance, for the sake of seeing her, and giving her a little parting advice. It was not quite time for the cars, and Mr. Knight, who was always in a hurry, said "he guessed he wouldn't stay," so squeezing both of Mary's hands, he bade her good-bye, telling her "to be a good girl, and not get to running after the sparks."

Scarcely was he gone, when Mary's attention was attracted by the sound of many voices, and looking from the window, she saw a group of the city girls advancing towards the depot. Among them was Ella, talking and laughing very loudly Mary's heart beat very rapidly, for she thought her sister was coming to bid her good-bye, but she was mistaken. Ella had no thought or care for her, and after glancing in at the sitting-room, without seeming to see its inmates, though not to see them was impossible, she turned her back, and looking across the river, which was directly in front, she said in her most drawling tone, "Why don't Rose come? I shan't have time to see her at all, I'm afraid."

Lizzie Upton, who was also there, looked at her in astonishment, and then said, "Why, Ella, isn't that your sister?"

"My sister? I don't know. Where?" returned Ella.

Mary laughed, and then Ella, facing about, exclaimed, "Why, Mary, you here? I forgot that you were going this morning."

Before Mary could reply. Sally Furbush arose, and passed her hand carefully over Ella's head. Partly in fear, and partly in anger, Ella drew back from the crazy woman, who said, "Don't be alarmed, little one, I only wanted to find the cavity which I felt sure was there."

Lizzie Upton's half-smothered laugh was more provoking to Ella, than Sally's insinuation of her want of brains, but she soon recovered her equanimity, for Mr. Lincoln's carriage at that moment drove up. Henry sprang nimbly out, kissing his hand to Ella, who blushed, and then turning to Rose, began wishing she, too, was old enough to go to Mount Holyoke.

"I guess you'd pass about as good an examination now, as some who are going," returned Rose, glancing contemptuously towards Mary, to whom Jenny was eagerly talking.

This directed Henry's attention that way, and simultaneously his own and Mary's eyes met. With a peculiar expression of countenance, he stepped towards her, saying "Good morning, school ma'am. For what part are you bound with all this baggage?" pointing to a huge chest with a feather bed tied over it, the whole the property of a daughter of Erin, who stood near, carefully guarding her treasure.

Had he addressed Mary civilly, she would have replied with her usual politeness, but as it was, she made no reply and he turned to walk away. All this time Tasso lay under the table, winking and blinking at his old enemy, with an expression in his eyes, which Henry would hardly have relished, could he have seen him.

"Hark! Isn't that the cars?" said Jenny, as a low, heavy growl fell on her ear; but she soon ascertained what it was, for as Henry was leaving the room, he kicked aside the blue umbrella, which Sal had brought with her for fear of a shower, and which was lying upon the floor.

In an instant, Tasso's growl changed to a bark, and bristling with anger, he rushed towards Henry, but was stopped by Sal just in time to prevent his doing any mischief. With a muttered oath, which included the "old woman" as well as her dog, the young man was turning away, when Jenny said, "Shame on you, to swear before ladies!"

After assuring himself by a look that Ella and the city girls were all standing upon the platform, Henry replied with a sneer, "I don't see any ladies in the room."

Instantly Sal, now more furious than the dog, clutched her long, bony fingers around his arm, saying, "Take back that insult, sir, or Tasso shall tear you in pieces! What am I, if I am not a lady?"

Henry felt sure that Sal meant what she said, and with an air of assumed deference, he replied as he backed himself out of his uncomfortable quarters, "I beg your pardon Mrs. Furbush, I forgot that you were present."

The whistle of the cars was now heard, and in a moment the locomotive stood puffing before the depot. From one of the open windows a fair young face looked out, and a voice which thrilled Mary's every nerve, it seemed so familiar, called out, "Oh, Rosa, Jenny, all of you, I'm so glad you are here; I was afraid there would be some mistake, and I'd have to go alone."

"Isn't your father with you?" asked Henry, bowing so low, that he almost pitched headlong from the platform.

"No," answered the young lady, "he couldn't leave, nor George either, so Aunt Martha is my escort. She's fast asleep just opposite me, never dreaming, I dare say, that we've stopped."

"The mischief," said Henry. "What's to be done? The old gent was obliged to be in Southbridge to-day, so he bade me put Rose and Jenny under your father's protection; but as he isn't here I'll have to go myself."

"No you won't either," returned Ida, "Aunt Martha is as good as a man any time, and can look after three as well as one."

"That's Ida Selden! Isn't she handsome?" whispered Jenny to Mary.

But Mary hardly heard her. She was gazing admiringly at Ida's animated face, and tracing in it a strong resemblance to the boyish features, which looked so mischievously out from the golden locket, which at that moment lay next to her heart.

"All aboard," shouted the shrill voice of the conductor and Mary awoke from her reverie, and twining her arms around Sally Furbush's neck, bade her good-bye.

"The Lord be with you," said Sally, "and be sure you pay strict attention to Grammar!"

Mary next looked for Ella, but she stood at a distance jesting lightly with Henry Lincoln, and evidently determined not to see her sister, who was hurrying towards her, when "All aboard" was again shouted in her ear, while at the same moment, the conductor lifted her lightly upon the step where Rose and Jenny were standing.

"This car is brim full," said Rose, looking over her shoulder, "but I guess you can find a good seat in the next one."

The train was already in motion, and as Mary did not care to peril her life or limbs for the sake of pleasing Rose, she followed her into the car, where there was a goodly number of unoccupied seats, notwithstanding Rose's assertion to the contrary. As the train moved rapidly over the long, level meadow, and passed the Chicopee burying-ground, Mary looked out to catch a glimpse of the thorn-apple tree, which overshadowed the graves of her parents, and then, as she thought how cold and estranged was the only one left of all the home circle, she drew her veil over her face and burst into tears.

"Who is that young lady?" asked Ida, who was riding backward and consequently directly opposite to Mary.

"What young lady?" said Rose; and Ida replied, "The one who kissed that queer-looking old woman and then followed you and Jenny into the cars."

"Oh, that was Mary Howard," was Rose's answer.

"Mary Howard!" repeated Ida, as if the name were one she had heard before, "who is she, and what is she?"

"Nobody but a town pauper," answered Rose, "and one of Jenny's protegee's. You see she is sitting by her."

"She doesn't seem like a pauper," said Ida. "I wish she would take off that veil. I want to see how she looks."

"Rough and blowsy, of course, like any other country girl," was Rose's reply.

By this time Mary had dried her tears, and when they reached the station at Warren, she removed her veil, disclosing to view a face, which instead of being "rough and blowsy" was smooth and fair almost as marble.

"That isn't a pauper, I know," said Ida; and Rose replied, "Well, she has been, and what's the difference?"

"But where does she live now?" continued Ida. "I begin to grow interested."

"I suppose you remember Mrs. Mason, who used to live in Boston," answered Rose. "Well, she has adopted her, I believe, but I don't know much about it, and care a good deal less."

"Mrs. Mason!" repeated Ida. "Why, Aunt Martha thinks all the world of her, and I fancy she wouldn't sleep quite so soundly, if she knew her adopted daughter was in the car. I mean to tell her.—Aunt Martha, Aunt Martha!"

But Aunt Martha was too fast asleep to heed Ida's call, and a gentle shake was necessary to rouse her to consciousness. But when she became fully awake, and knew why she was roused, she started up, and going towards Mary, said in her own peculiarly sweet and winning manner, "Ida tells me you are Mrs. Mason's adopted daughter, and Mrs. Mason is the dearest friend I ever had. I am delighted to see you."

Jenny immediately introduced her to Mary, as Miss Selden, whispering in her ear at the same time that she was George's aunt; then rising she gave her seat to Aunt Martha, taking another one for herself near Rose and Ida. Without seeming to be curious at all, Aunt Martha had a peculiar way of drawing people out to talk of themselves, and by the time they reached the station, where they left the cars for Mt. Holyoke, she had learned a good share of Mary's early history, and felt quite as much pleased with the freshness and simplicity of her young friend, as Mary did with her polished and elegant manners.



CHAPTER XIX.

MT. HOLYOKE

"Oh, forlorn what a looking place!" exclaimed Rose Lincoln, as from the windows of the crowded vehicle in which they had come from the cars, she first obtained a view of the not very handsome village of South Hadley.

Rose was in the worst of humors, for by some mischance, Mary was on the same seat with herself, and consequently she was very much distressed, and crowded. She, however, felt a little afraid of Aunt Martha, who she saw was inclined to favor the object of her wrath, so she restrained her fault-finding spirit until she arrived at South Hadley, where every thing came in for a share of her displeasure.

"That the Seminary!" said she contemptuously, as they drew up before the building. "Why, it isn't half as large, or handsome as I supposed. Oh, horror! I know I shan't stay here long."

The furniture of the parlor was also very offensive to the young lady, and when Miss Lyon came in to meet them, she, too, was secretly styled, "a prim, fussy, slippery-tongued old maid." Jenny, however, who always saw the bright side of every thing, was completely charmed with the sweet smile, and placid face, so well remembered by all who have seen and known, the founder of Mt. Holyoke Seminary. After some conversation between Miss Lyon and Aunt Martha it was decided that Rose and Jenny should room together, as a matter of course, and that Mary should room with Ida. Rose had fully intended to room with Ida herself, and this decision made her very angry: but there was no help for it and she was obliged to submit.

Our readers are probably aware, that an examination in certain branches is necessary, ere a pupil can be admitted into the school at Mt. Holyoke, where the course of instruction embraces three years, and three classes, Junior, Middle, and Senior. Rose, who had been much flattered on account of her scholarship, confidently expected to enter the Middle class. Jenny, too, had the same desire, though she confessed to some misgivings concerning her knowledge of a goodly number of the necessary branches. Ida was really an excellent scholar, and was prepared to enter the Senior class, while Mary aspired to nothing higher, than admission into the Junior. She was therefore greatly surprised, when Aunt Martha, after questioning her as to what she had studied, proposed that she should be examined for the Middle class.

"Oh, no," said Mary quickly, "I should fail, and I wouldn't do that for the world."

"Have you ever studied Latin?" asked Aunt Martha.

Before Mary could reply, Rose exclaimed, "She study Latin! How absurd! Why, she was never away to school in her life."

Aunt Martha silenced her with a peculiar look, while Mary answered, that for more than two years, she had been reading Latin under Mrs. Mason's instruction.

"And you could not have a better teacher," said Aunt Martha. "So try it by all means."

"Yes, do try," said Ida and Jenny, in the same breath; and after a time, Mary rather reluctantly consented.

"I'll warrant she intends to sit by us, so we can tell her every other word," muttered Rose to Jenny, but when the trial came she thought differently.

It would be wearisome to give the examination in detail, so we will only say, that at its close, Rose Lincoln heard with shame and confusion, that she could only be admitted into the Junior Class, her examination having proved a very unsatisfactory one. Poor Jenny, too, who had stumbled over almost every thing, shared the same fate, while Mary, expecting nothing, and hoping nothing, burst into tears when told that she had acquitted herself creditably, in all the branches requisite for an admission into the Middle class.

"Mrs. Mason will be so glad, and Billy, too," was her first thought; and then, as she saw how disappointed Jenny looked, she seized the first opportunity to throw her arms around her neck, and whisper to her how sorry she was that she had failed.

Jenny, however, was of too happy a temperament to remain sad for a long time, and before night her loud, merry laugh had more than once rang out in the upper hall, causing even Miss Lyon to listen, it was so clear and joyous. That afternoon, Aunt Martha, who was going to call upon Mrs. Mason, started for home, leaving the girls alone among strangers. It was a rainy, dreary day, and the moment her aunt was gone, Ida threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Jenny, who occupied the next room, was also low spirited, for Rose was terribly cross, calling her a "ninny hammer," and various other dignified names. Among the four girls, Mary was the only cheerful one, and after a time she succeeded in comforting Ida, while Jenny, catching something of her spirit, began to laugh loudly, as she told a group of girls how many ludicrous blunders she made when they undertook to question her about Euclid, which she had never studied in her life!

And now in a few days life at Mt. Holyoke commenced in earnest. Although perfectly healthy, Mary looked rather delicate, and it was for this reason, perhaps, that the sweeping and dusting of several rooms were assigned to her, as her portion of the labor. Ida and Rose fared much worse, and were greatly shocked, when told that they both belonged to the wash circle!

"I declare," said Rose, "it's too bad. I'll walk home before I'll do it;" and she glanced at her white hands, to make sure they were not already discolored by the dreaded soap suds!

Jenny was delighted with her allotment, which was dish-washing.

"I'm glad I took that lesson at the poor-house years ago," said she one day to Rose, who snappishly replied, "I'd shut up about the poor-house, or they'll think you the pauper instead of Madam Howard."

"Pauper? Who's a pauper?" asked Lucy Downs, eager to hear so desirable a piece of news.

Ida Selden's large black eyes rested reprovingly upon Rose, who nodded towards Mary, and forthwith Miss Downs departed with the information, which was not long in reaching Mary's ears.

"Why, Mary, what's the matter?" asked Ida, when towards the close of the day she found her companion weeping in her room. Without lifting her head, Mary replied, "It's foolish in me to cry, I know, but why need I always be reproached with having been a pauper. I couldn't help it. I promised mother I would take care of little Allie as long as she lived, and if she went to the poor-house, I had to go too."

"And who was little Allie?" asked Ida, taking Mary's hot hands between her own.

In few words Mary related her history, omitting her acquaintance with George Moreland, and commencing at the night when her mother died. Ida was warm-hearted and affectionate, and cared but little whether one were rich or poor if she liked them. From the first she had been interested in Mary, and now winding her arms about her neck, and kissing away her tears, she promised to love her, and to be to her as true and faithful a friend as Jenny. This promise, which was never broken, was of great benefit to Mary, drawing to her side many of the best girls in school, who soon learned to love her for herself, and not because the wealthy Miss Selden seemed so fond of her.

Neither Ida nor Rose were as happy in school, as Mary and Jenny. Both of them fretted about the rules, which they were obliged to observe, and both of them disliked and dreaded their portion of the work. Ida, however, was happier than Rose, for she was fonder of study, and one day when particularly interested in her lessons, she said to Mary, that she believed she should be tolerably contented, were it not for the everlasting washing.

Looking up a moment after, she saw that Mary had disappeared. But she soon returned, exclaiming, "I've fixed it. It's all right. I told her I was a great deal stronger than you, that I was used to washing, and you were not, and that it made your side ache; so she consented to have us exchange, and after this you are to dust for me, and I am to wash for you."

Ida disliked washing so much, that she raised no very strong objections to Mary's plan, and then when she found how great a kindness had really been shown her, she tried hard to think of some way in which to repay it. At last, George Moreland, to whom she had written upon the subject, suggested something which met her views exactly. Both Ida and her aunt had told George about Mary, and without hinting that he knew her, he immediately commenced making minute inquiries concerning her, of Ida, who communicated them to Mary, wondering why she always blushed so deeply, and tried to change the conversation. In reply to the letter in which Ida had told him of Mary's kindness, George wrote, "You say Miss Howard is very fond of music, and that there is no teacher connected with the institution. Now why not give her lessons yourself? You can do it as well as not, and it will be a good way of showing your gratitude."

Without waiting to read farther, Ida ran in quest of Mary, to whom she told what George had written. "You don't know," said she, "how much George asks about you. I never saw him so much interested in any one before, and half the girls in Boston are after him, too."

"Poor fellow, I pity him," said Mary; and Ida continued, "Perhaps it seems foolish in me to say so much about him, but if you only knew him, you wouldn't wonder. He's the handsomest young man I ever saw, and then he's so good, so different from other young men, especially Henry Lincoln."

Here the tea bell rang, and the conversation was discontinued.

When Rose heard that Mary was taking music lessons, she exclaimed to a group of girls with whom she was talking, "Well, I declare, beggars taking music lessons! I wonder what'll come next? Why, you've no idea how dreadfully poor she is. Our summer residence is near the alms-house, and when she was there I saw a good deal of her. She had scarcely any thing fit to wear, and I gave her one of my old bonnets, which I do believe she wore for three or four years."

"Why Rose Lincoln," said Jenny, who had overheard all, and now came up to her sister, "how can you tell what you know is not true?"

"Not true?" angrily retorted Rose. "Pray didn't she have my old bonnet?"

"Yes," answered Jenny, "but I bought it of you, and paid you for it with a bracelet Billy Bender gave me,—you know I did."

Rose was cornered, and as she saw noway of extricating herself, she turned on her heel and walked away, muttering about the meanness of doing a charitable deed, and then boasting of it!

The next day Jenny chanced to go for a moment to Mary's room. As she entered it, Mary looked up, saying, "You are just the one I want to see. I've been writing about you to Billy Bender. You can read it if you choose."

When Jenny had finished reading the passage referred to, she said, "Oh, Mary, I didn't suppose you overheard Rose's unkind remarks about that bonnet."

"But I did," answered Mary, "and I am glad, too, for I had always supposed myself indebted to her instead of you. Billy thought so, too, and as you see, I have undeceived him. Did I tell you that he had left Mr. Selden's employment, and gone into a law office?"

"Oh, good, good. I'm so glad," exclaimed Jenny, dancing about the room. "Do you know whose office he is in?"

"Mr. Worthington's," answered Mary, and Jenny continued: "Why, Henry is studying there. Isn't it funny? But Billy will beat him, I know he will,—he's so smart. How I wish he'd write to me! Wouldn't I feel grand to have a gentleman correspondent?"

"Suppose you write to him," said Mary, laughingly. "Here's just room enough," pointing to a vacant spot upon the paper. "He's always asking about you, and you can answer his questions yourself."

"I'll do it," said Jenny, and seizing the pen, she thoughtlessly scribbled off a ludicrous account of her failure, and of the blunders she was constantly committing, while she spoke of Mary as the pattern for the whole school, both in scholarship and behavior.

"There!" said she, wiping her gold pen upon her silk apron (for Jenny still retained some of the habits of her childhood) "I guess he'll think I'm crazy, but I hope he'll answer it, any way."

Mary hoped so too, and when at last Billy's letter came, containing a neatly written note for Jenny, it was difficult telling which of the two girls was the happier.

Soon after Mary went to Mount Holyoke, she had received a letter from Billy, in which he expressed his pleasure that she was at school, but added that the fact of her being there interfered greatly with his plan of educating her himself. "Mother's ill health," said he, "prevented me from doing any thing until now, and just as I am in a fair way to accomplish my object, some one else has stepped in before me. But it is all right, and as you do not seem to need my services at present, I shall next week leave Mr. Selden's employment, go into Mr. Worthington's law office as clerk, hoping that when the proper time arrives, I shall not be defeated in another plan which was formed in boyhood, and which has become the great object of my life."

Mary felt perplexed and troubled. Billy's letters of late had been more like those of a lover than a brother, and she could not help guessing the nature of "the plan formed in boyhood." She knew she should never love him except with a sister's love, and though she could not tell him so, her next letter lacked the tone of affection with which she was accustomed to write, and on the whole a rather formal affair. Billy, who readily perceived the change, attributed it to the right cause, and from that time his letters became far less cheerful than usual.

Mary usually cried over them, wishing more than once that Billy would transfer his affection from herself to Jenny, and it was for this reason, perhaps, that without stopping to consider the propriety of the matter, she first asked Jenny to write to him, and then encouraged her in answering his notes, which (as her own letters grew shorter) became gradually longer and longer, until at last his letters were addressed to Jenny, while the notes they contained were directed to Mary!



CHAPTER XX.

THE CLOSING OF THE YEAR.

Rapidly the days passed on at Mount Holyoke. Autumn faded into winter, whose icy breath floated for a time over the mountain tops, and then melted away at the approach of spring, which, with its swelling buds and early flowers, gave way in its turn to the long bright days of summer. And now only a few weeks remained ere the annual examination at which Ida was to be graduated. Neither Rose nor Jenny were to return the next year, and nothing but Mr. Lincoln's firmness and good sense had prevented their being sent for when their mother first heard that they had failed to enter the Middle class.

Mrs. Lincoln's mortification was undoubtedly greatly increased from the fact that the despised Mary had entered in advance of her daughters. "Things are coming to a pretty pass," said she. "Yes, a pretty pass; but I might have known better than to send my children to such a school."

Mr. Lincoln could not forbear asking her in a laughing way, "if the schools which she attended were of a higher order than Mount Holyoke."

Bursting into tears, Mrs. Lincoln replied that "she didn't think she ought to be twitted of her poverty."

"Neither do I," returned her husband. "You were no more to blame for working in the factory, than Mary is for having been a pauper!"

Mrs. Lincoln was silent, for she did not particularly care to hear about her early days, when she had been an operative in the cotton mills of Southbridge. She had possessed just enough beauty to captivate the son of the proprietor, who was fresh from college, and after a few weeks' acquaintance they were married. Fortunately her husband was a man of good sense, and restrained her from the commission of many foolish acts. Thus when she insisted upon sending for Rose and Jenny, he promptly replied that they should not come home! Still, as Rose seemed discontented, complaining that so much exercise made her side and shoulder ache, and as Jenny did not wish to remain another year unless Mary did, he consented that they should leave school at the close of the term, on condition that they went somewhere else.

"I shall never make any thing of Henry," said he, "but my daughters shall receive every advantage, and perhaps one or the other of them will comfort my old age."

He had spoken truly with regard to Henry, who was studying, or pretending to study law in the same office with Billy Bender. But his father heard no favorable accounts of him, and from time to time large bills were presented for the payment of carriage hire, wine, and "drunken sprees" generally. So it is no wonder the disappointed father sighed, and turned to his daughters for the comfort his only son refused to give.

But we have wandered from the examination at Mount Holyoke, for which great preparations were being made. Rose, knowing she was not to return, seemed to think all further effort on her part unnecessary; and numerous were the reprimands, to say nothing of the black marks which she received. Jenny, on the contrary, said she wished to retrieve her reputation for laziness, and leave behind a good impression. So, never before in her whole life had she behaved so well, or studied so hard as she did during the last few weeks of her stay at Mount Holyoke. Ida, who was expecting her father, aunt and cousin to be present at the anniversary, was so engrossed with her studies, that she did not observe how sad and low spirited Mary seemed. She had tasted of knowledge, and now thirsted for more; but it could not be; the funds were exhausted, and she must leave the school, never perhaps to return again.

"How much I shall miss my music, and how much I shall miss you," she said one day to Ida, who was giving her a lesson.

"It's too bad you haven't a piano," returned Ida, "you are so fond of it, and improve so fast!" then after a moment she added, "I have a plan to propose, and may as well do it now as any time. Next winter you must spend with me in Boston. Aunt Martha and I arranged it the last time I was at home, and we even selected your room, which is next to mine, and opposite to Aunt Martha's. Now what does your ladyship say to it?"

"She says she can't go," answered Mary.

"Can't go!" repeated Ida. "Why not? Jenny will be in the city, and you are always happy where she is; besides you will have a rare chance for taking music lessons of our best teachers; and then, too, you will be in the same house with George, and that alone is worth going to Boston for, I think."

Ida little suspected that her last argument was the strongest objection to Mary's going, for much as she wished to meet George again, she felt that she would not on any account go to his own home, lest he should think she came on purpose to see him. There were other reasons, too, why she did not wish to go. Henry and Rose Lincoln would both be in the city, and she knew that neither of them would scruple to do or say any thing which they thought would annoy her. Mrs. Mason, too, missed her, and longed to have her at home; so she resisted all Ida's entreaties, and the next letter which went to Aunt Martha, carried her refusal.

In a day or two, Mary received two letters, one from Billy and one from Mrs. Mason, the latter of which contained money for the payment of her bills; but on offering it to the Principal, how was she surprised to learn that her bills had not only been regularly paid and receipted, but that ample funds were provided for the defraying of her expenses during the coming year. A faint sickness stole over Mary, for she instantly thought of Billy Bender, and the obligations she would now be under to him for ever. Then it occurred to her how impossible it was that he should have earned so much in so short a time; and as soon as she could trust her voice to speak, she asked who it was that had thus befriended her.

Miss —— was not at liberty to tell, and with a secret suspicion of Aunt Martha, who had seemed much interested in her welfare, Mary returned to her room to read the other letter, which was still unopened. It was some time since Billy had written to her alone, and with more than her usual curiosity, she broke the seal; but her head grew dizzy, and her spirits faint, as she read the passionate outpouring of a heart which had cherished her image for years, and which, though fearful of rejection, would still tell her how much she was beloved. "It is no sudden fancy," said he, "but was conceived years ago, on that dreary afternoon, when in your little room at the poor-house, you laid your head in my lap and wept, as you told me how lonely you were. Do you remember it, Mary? I do; and never now does your image come before me, but I think of you as you were then, when the wild wish that you should one day be mine first entered my heart. Morning, noon, and night have I thought of you, and no plan for the future have I ever formed which had not a direct reference to you. Once, Mary, I believed my affection for you returned, but now you are changed greatly changed. Your letters are brief and cold, and when I look around for the cause, I am led to fear that I was deceived in thinking you ever loved me, as I thought you did. If I am mistaken, tell me so; but if I am not, if you can never be my wife, I will school myself to think of you as a brother would think of an only and darling sister."

This letter produced a strange effect upon Mary. She thought how much she was indebted to one who had stood so faithfully by her when all the world was dark and dreary. She thought, too, of his kindness to the dead, and that appealed more strongly to her sympathy than aught else he had ever done for her. There was no one to advise her, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, she sat down and commenced a letter, the nature of which she did not understand herself, and which if sent, would have given a different coloring to the whole of her after life. She had written but one page, when the study bell rang, and she was obliged to put her letter by till the morrow. For several days she had not been well, and the excitement produced by Billy's letter tended to increase her illness, so that on the following morning when she attempted to rise, she found herself seriously ill. During the hours in which she was alone that day, she had ample time for reflection, and before night she wrote another letter to Billy, in which she told him how impossible it was for her to be the wife of one whom she had always loved as an own, and dear brother. This letter caused Mary so much effort, and so many bitter tears, that for several days she continued worse, and at last gave up all hope of being present at the examination.

"Oh it's too bad," said Ida, "for I do want you to see Cousin George, and I know he'll be disappointed too, for I never saw any thing like the interest he seems to take in you."

A few days afterwards as Mary was lying alone, thinking of Billy, and wondering if she had done right in writing to him as she did, Jenny came rushing in wild with delight.

Her father was down stairs, together with Ida's father George, and Aunt Martha. "Most the first thing I did," said she, "was to inquire after Billy Bender! I guess Aunt Martha was shocked, for she looked so queer. George laughed, and Mr. Selden said he was doing well, and was one of the finest young men in Boston. But why don't you ask about George? I heard him talking about you to Rose, just as I left the parlor."

Mary felt sure that any information of her which Rose might give would not be very complimentary, and she thought right; for when Rose was questioned concerning "Miss Howard," she at first affected her ignorance of such a person; and then when George explained himself more definitely, she said, "Oh, that girl! I'm sure I don't know much about her, except that she's a charity scholar, or something of that kind."

At the words "charity scholar," there was a peculiar smile on George's face; but he continued talking, saying, "that if that were the case, she ought to be very studious and he presumed she was."

"As nearly as I can judge of her," returned Rose, "she is not remarkable for brilliant talents; but," she added, as she met Ida's eye, "she has a certain way of showing off, and perhaps I am mistaken with regard to her."

Very different from this was the description given of her by Ida, who now came to her cousin's side, extolling Mary highly, and lamenting the illness which would prevent George from seeing her. Aunt Martha, also, spoke a word in Mary's favor, at the same time endeavoring to stop the unkind remarks of Rose, whom she thoroughly disliked, and who she feared was becoming too much of a favorite with George. Rose was not only very handsome, but she also possessed a peculiar faculty of making herself agreeable whenever she chose, and in Boston she was quite a favorite with a certain class of young men. It was for George Moreland, however, that her prettiest and most coquettish airs were practised. He was the object which she would secure; and when she heard Mary Howard so highly commended in his presence, she could not forbear expressing her contempt, fancying that he, with his high English notions, would feel just as she did, with regard to poverty and low origin. As for George, it was difficult telling whom he did prefer, though the last time Rose was in Boston, rumor had said that he was particularly attentive to her; and Mrs. Lincoln, who was very sanguine, once hinted to Ida, the probability that a relationship would sooner or later exist between the two families.

Rose, too, though careful not to hint at such a thing in Ida's presence, was quite willing that others of her companions at Mount Holyoke should fancy there was an intimacy, if not an engagement between herself and Mr. Moreland. Consequently he had not been in South Hadley twenty-four hours, ere he was pointed out by some of the villagers, as being the future husband of the elder Miss Lincoln, whose haughty, disagreeable manners had become subject of general remark. During the whole of George's stay at Mount Holyoke, Rose managed to keep him at her side, entertaining him occasionally with unkind remarks concerning Mary, who, she said, was undoubtedly feigning her sickness, so as not to appear in her classes, where she knew she could do herself no credit; "but," said she, "as soon as the examination is over, she'll get well fast enough, and bother us with her company to Chicopee."

In this Hose was mistaken, for when the exercises closed Mary was still too ill to ride, and it was decided that she should remain a few days until Mrs. Mason could come for her. With many tears Ida and Jenny bade their young friend good-bye, but Rose, when asked to go up and see her turned away disdainfully, amusing herself during their absence by talking and laughing with George Moreland.

The room in which Mary lay, commanded a view of the yard and gateway; and after Aunt Martha, Ida, and Jenny had left her, she arose, and stealing to the window, looked out upon the company as they departed. She could readily divine which was George Moreland, for Rose Lincoln's shawl and satchel were thrown over his arm, while Rose herself walked close to his elbow, apparently engrossing his whole attention. Once he turned around, but fearful of being herself observed, Mary drew back behind the window curtain, and thus lost a view of his face. He, however, caught a glimpse of her, and asked if that was the room in which Miss Howard was sick.

Rose affected not to hear him, and continued enumerating the many trials which she had endured at school, and congratulating herself upon her escape from the "horrid place." But for once George was not an attentive listener. Notwithstanding his apparent indifference, he was greatly disappointed at not seeing Mary. It was for this he had gone to Mount Holyoke; and in spite of Rose's endeavors to make him talk, he was unusually silent all the way, and when they at last reached Chicopee, he highly offended the young lady by assisting Jenny to alight instead of herself.

"I should like to know what you are thinking about," she said rather pettishly, as she took his offered hand to say good-bye.

With a roguish look in his eye, George replied, "I've been thinking of a young lady. Shall I tell you her name?"

Rose blushed, and looking interestingly embarrassed answered, that of course 'twas no one whom she knew.

"Yes, 'tis," returned George, still holding her hand and as Aunt Martha, who was jealously watching his movements from the window, just then called out to him "to jump in, or he'd be left," he put his face under Rose's bonnet, and whispered, "Mary Howard!"

"Kissed her, upon my word!" said Aunt Martha with a groan, which was rendered inaudible to Ida by the louder noise of the engine.



CHAPTER XXI.

VACATION.

In Mrs. Mason's pleasant little dining parlor, the tea-table was neatly spread for two, while old Judith, in starched gingham dress, white muslin apron, bustled in and out, occasionally changing the position of a curtain or chair, and then stepping backward to witness the effect. The stuffed rocking chair, with two extra cushions, and a pillow, was drawn up to the table, indicating that an invalid was expected to occupy that seat, while near one of the plates was a handsome bouquet, which Lydia Knight had carefully arranged, and brought over as a present for her young teacher. A dozen times had Lydia been told to "clip down to the gate and see if they were comin';" and at last, seating herself resignedly upon the hall stairs, Judith began to wonder "what under the sun and moon had happened."

She had not sat there long, ere the sound of wheels again drew her to the door, and in a moment old Charlotte and the yellow wagon entered the yard. Mary, who was now nearly well, sprang out, and bounding up the steps, seized Judith's hand with a grasp which told how glad she was to see her.

"Why, you ain't dreadful sick, is you?" said Judith peering under her bonnet.

"Oh, no, not sick at all," returned Mary; and then, as she saw the chair, with its cushions and pillows, she burst into a loud laugh, which finally ended in a hearty cry, when she thought how kind was every one to her.

She had been at home but a few days when she was solicited to take charge of a small select school. But Mrs Mason thought it best for her to return to Mount Holyoke, and accordingly she declined Mr. Knight's offer, greatly to his disappointment, and that of many others. Mrs. Bradley, who never on any occasion paid her school bill, was the loudest in her complaints, saying that, "for all Tim never larnt a speck, and stood at the foot all summer long when Mary kept before, he'd got so sassy there was no living with him, and she wanted him out of the way."

Widow Perkins, instead of being sorry was glad, for if Mary didn't teach, there was no reason why Sally Ann shouldn't. "You'll never have a better chance," said she to her daughter, "there's no stifficut needed for a private school, and I'll clap on my things and run over to Mr Knight's before he gets off to his work."

It was amusing to see Mr. Knight's look of astonishment, when the widow made her application. Lydia, who chanced to be present, hastily retreated behind the pantry door, where with her apron over her mouth, she laughed heartily as she thought of a note, which the candidate for teaching had once sent them, and in which "i's" figured conspicuously, while her mother was "polightly thanked for those yeast?"

Possibly Mr. Knight thought of the note, too, for he gave the widow no encouragement, and when on her way home she called for a moment at Mrs. Mason's, she "thanked her stars that Sally Ann wasn't obliged to keep school for a livin', for down below where she came from, teachers warn't fust cut!"

One morning about a week after Mary's return, she announced her intention of visiting her mother's grave. "I am accustomed to so much exercise," said she, "that I can easily walk three miles, and perhaps on my way home I shall get a ride."

Mrs Mason made no objection, and Mary was soon on her way. She was a rapid walker, and almost before she was aware of it, reached the village. As she came near Mrs. Campbell's, the wish naturally arose that Ella should accompany her. Looking up she saw her sister in the garden and called to her.

"Wha-a-t?" was the very loud and uncivil answer which came back to her, and in a moment Ella appeared round the corner of the house, carelessly swinging her straw flat, and humming a fashionable song. On seeing her sister she drew back the corners of her mouth into something which she intended for a smile, and said, "Why, I thought it was Bridget calling me, you looked so much like her in that gingham sun-bonnet. Won't you come in?"

"Thank you," returned Mary, "I was going to mother's grave, and thought perhaps you would like to accompany me."

"Oh, no," said Ella, in her usual drawling tone, "I don't know as I want to go. I was there last week and saw the monument."

"What monument?" asked Mary, and Ella replied "Why, didn't you know that Mrs. Mason, or the town, or somebody, had bought a monument, with mother's and father's, and Franky's, and Allie's name on it?"

Mary waited for no more, but turned to leave, while Ella, who was anxious to inquire about Ida Selden, and who could afford to be gracious, now that neither Miss Porter, nor the city girls were there, called after her to stop and rest, when she came back. Mary promised to do so, and then hurrying on, soon reached the graveyard, where, as Ella had said, there stood by her parents' graves a large handsome monument.

William Bender was the first person who came into her mind, and as she thought of all that had passed between them, and of this last proof of his affection, she seated herself among the tall grass and flowers, which grew upon her mother's grave, and burst into tears. She had not sat there long, ere she was roused by the sound of a footstep. Looking up, she saw before her the young gentleman, who the year previous had visited her school in Rice Corner. Seating himself respectfully by her side, he spoke of the three graves, and asked if they were her friends who slept there. There was something so kind and affectionate in his voice and manner, that Mary could not repress her tears, and snatching up her bonnet which she had thrown aside she hid her face in it and again wept.

For a time, Mr. Stuart suffered her to weep, and then gently removed the gingham bonnet, and holding her hand between his, he tried to divert her mind by talking upon other topics, asking her how she had been employed during the year, and appearing greatly pleased, when told that she had been at Mount Holyoke. Observing, at length, that her eyes constantly rested upon the monument, he spoke of that, praising its beauty, and asking if it were her taste.

"No," said she, "I never saw it until to-day, and did not even know it was here."

"Some one wished to surprise you, I dare say," returned Mr. Stuart. "It was manufactured in Boston, I see. Have you friends there?"

Mary replied that she had one, a Mr. Bender, to which Mr. Stuart quickly rejoined, "Is it William Bender? I have heard of him through our mutual friend George Moreland, whom you perhaps have seen."

Mary felt the earnest gaze of the large, dark eyes which were fixed upon her face, and coloring deeply, she replied that they came from England in the same vessel.

"Indeed!" said Mr. Stuart. "When I return to the city shall I refresh his memory a little with regard to you?"

"I'd rather you would not," answered Mary. "Our paths in life are very different; and he of course would feel no interest in me."

"Am I to conclude that you, too, feel no interest in him?" returned Mr. Stuart, and again his large eyes rested on Mary's face, with a curious expression.

But she made no reply, and soon rising up, said it was time for her to go home.

"Allow me to accompany you as far as Mrs. Campbell's," said Mr. Stuart. "I am going to call upon Miss Ella, whose acquaintance I accidentally made last summer. Suppose you call too. You know her, of course?" Mary replied that she did, and was about to speak of the relationship between them, when Mr. Stuart abruptly changed the conversation, and in a moment more they were at Mrs. Campbell's door. Ella was so much delighted at again seeing Mr. Stuart, that she hardly noticed her sister at all, and did not even ask her to remove her bonnet. After conversing a while upon indifferent subjects, Mr. Stuart asked Ella to play, saying he was very fond of music. But Ella, like other fashionable ladies, "couldn't of course play any thing,—was dreadfully out of practice, and besides that her music was all so old-fashioned."

Mr. Stuart had probably seen such cases before, and knew how to manage them, for he continued urging the matter, until Ella arose, and throwing back her curls, sauntered to wards the piano, saying she should be obliged to have some one turn the leases for her. Mr. Stuart of course volunteered his services, and after a violent turning of the music-stool by way of elevating it, and a turning back by way of lowering it, Ella with the air of a martyr, declared herself ready to play whatever Mr. Stuart should select, provided it were not "old."

A choice being made she dashed off into a spirited waltz, skipping a good many notes, and finally ending with a tremendous crash. Fond as Mr. Stuart was of music, he did not call for a repetition from her, but turning to Mary asked if she could play.

Ella laughed aloud at the idea, and when Mary replied that she did play a little, she laughed still louder, saying, "Why, she can't play, unless it's 'Days of Absence,' with one hand, or something of that kind."

"Allow me to be the judge," said Mr. Stuart, and leading Mary to the piano, he bade her play any thing she pleased.

Ida had been a faithful teacher, and Mary a persevering pupil, so that whatever she played was played correctly and with good taste; at least Mr. Stuart thought so, for he kept calling for piece after piece, until she laughingly told him her catalogue was nearly exhausted, and she'd soon be obliged to resort to the scales!

Ella looked on in amazement, and when Mary had finished playing, demanded of her where she had learned so much, and who was her teacher; adding that her fingering was wretched; "but then," said she, "I suppose you can't help it, your fingers are so stiff!"

For a moment Mr. Stuart regarded her with an expression which it seemed to Mary she had seen before, and then consulting his watch, said he must go, as it was nearly car time, After he was gone, Ella asked Mary endless questions as to where she met him, what he said, and if she told him they were sisters. "How elegantly he was dressed," said she, "Didn't you feel dreadfully ashamed of your gingham sun-bonnet and gown?"

"Why, no," said Mary. "I never once thought of them."

"I should, for I know he notices every thing," returned Ella; and then leaning on her elbow so as to bring herself in range of the large mirror opposite, she continued, "seems to me my curls are not arranged becomingly this morning."

Either for mischief, or because she really thought so, Mary replied "that they did not look as well as usual;" whereupon Ella grew red in the face, saying that "she didn't think she looked so very badly."

Just then the first dinner bell rang, and starting up Ella exclaimed, "Why-ee, I forgot that ma expected General H. to dine. I must go and dress this minute."

Without ever asking her sister to stay to dinner, she hastily left the room. Upon finding herself so unceremoniously deserted, Mary tied on the despised gingham bonnet and started for home. She had reached the place where Ella the year before met with Mr. Stuart, when she saw a boy, whom she knew was living at the poor-house, coming down the hill as fast as a half blind old horse could bring him. When he got opposite to her he halted, and with eyes projecting like harvest apples, told her to "jump in, for Mrs. Parker was dying, and they had sent for her."

"I've been to your house," said he, "and your marm thought mebby I'd meet you."



Mary immediately sprang in, and by adroitly questioning Mike, whose intellect was not the brightest in the world, managed to ascertain that Mrs. Parker had been much worse for several days, that Sal Furbush had turned nurse; faithfully attending her night and day, and occasionally sharing "her vigils" with a "sleek, fancy-looking girl, who dressed up in meetin' clothes every day, and who had first proposed sending for Mary." Mary readily guessed that the "sleek, fancy-looking" girl was Jenny, and on reaching the poor house she found her suspicions correct, for Jenny came out to meet her, followed by Sally, who exclaimed, "Weep, oh daughter, and lament, for earth has got one woman less and Heaven one female more!"

Passing into the house, Mary followed Jenny to the same room where once her baby sister had lain, and where now upon the same table lay all that was mortal of Mrs. Parker. Miss Grundy, who was standing near the body, bowed with a look of very becoming resignation, and then as if quite overcome, left the room. Just then a neighbor, who seemed to be superintending affairs, came in, and Mary asked what she could do to assist them.

"Nothing until to-morrow, when if you please you can help make the shroud," answered the woman, and Jenny catching Mary around the neck, whispered, "You'll stay all night with me; there's no one at home but Rose, and we'll have such a nice time."

Mary thought of the little room up stairs where Alice had died, and felt a desire to sleep there once more, but upon inquiry she found that it was now occupied by Sally Furbush.

"You must come and see my little parlor," said she to Mary, and taking her hand she led her up to the room, which was greatly improved. A strip of faded, but rich carpeting was before the bed. A low rocking-chair stood near the window, which was shaded with a striped muslin curtain, the end of which was fringed out nearly a quarter of a yard, plainly showing Sally's handiwork. The contents of the old barrel were neatly stowed away in a square box, on the top of which lay a worn portfolio, stuffed to its utmost capacity with manuscript.

"For all this elegance," said Sally, "I am indebted to my worthy and esteemed friend, Miss Lincoln."

But Mary did not hear, for her eyes were riveted upon another piece of furniture. At the foot of the bed stood Alice's cradle, which Billy Bender had brought there on that afternoon now so well remembered by Mary.

"Oh, Sally," said she, "how came this here?"

"Why," returned Sally, hitting it a jog, "I don't sleep any now, and I thought the nights would seem shorter, if I had this to rock and make believe little Willie was in it. So I brought it down from the garret, and it affords me a sight of comfort, I assure you!"

Mary afterwards learned that often during the long winter nights the sound of that cradle could be heard, occasionally drowned by Sally's voice, which sometimes rose almost to a shriek, and then died away in a low, sad wail, as she sang a lullaby to the "Willie who lay sleeping on the prairie at the West."

As there was now no reason why she should not do so, Mary accompanied Jenny home, where, as she had expected, she met with a cool reception from Rose, who merely nodded to her, and then resumed the book she was reading. After tea, Mary stepped for a moment into the yard, and then Rose asked Jenny what she intended doing with her "genteel visitor."

"Put her in the best chamber, and sleep there myself," said Jenny, adding that "they were going to lie awake all night just to see how it seemed."

But in spite of this resolution, as midnight advanced Jenny found that Mary's answers, even when Billy Bender was the topic, became more and more unsatisfactory, and finally ceased altogether. Concluding to let her sleep a few minutes, and then wake her up, Jenny turned on her pillow and when her eyes again opened, the morning sun was shining through the half-closed shutters, and the breakfast bell was jingling in the lower hall.

When Mary returned to the poor-house, she found a new arrival in the person of Mrs. Perkins! The widow had hailed Mike as he passed her house the day before, and on learning how matters stood, offered to accompany him home. Mike, who had an eye for "fancy-looking girls," did not exactly like Mrs. Perkins' appearance. Besides that, his orders were to bring Mary, and he had no idea of taking another as a substitute. Accordingly, when on his return from Mrs. Mason's, he saw the widow standing at her gate, all equipped with parasol and satchel, he whipped up his horse, and making the circuit of the school-house, was some ways down the road ere the widow suspected his intentions. "Thanking her stars" (her common expression) "that she had a good pair of feet," Mrs. Perkins started on foot, reaching the poor-house about sunset. She was now seated in what had been Mrs. Parker's room, and with pursed-up lips, and large square collar very much like the present fashion, was stitching away upon the shroud, heaving occasionally a long-drawn sigh, as she thought how lonely and desolate poor Mr. Parker must feel!

"Will you give me some work?" asked Mary, after depositing her bonnet upon the table.

"There's nothing for you," returned Mrs. Perkins. "I can do all that is necessary, and prefer working alone."

"Yes, she shall help too, if she wants to," snapped out Mrs. Grundy, with one of her old shoulder jerks. "Mary's handy with the needle, for I larnt her myself."

In a short time Mrs. Perkins disappeared from the room, and Sally's little bright eyes, which saw every thing, soon spied her out in the woodshed asking Mr. Parker "if Polly Grundy couldn't be kept in the kitchen where she belonged."

Scarcely had she left the shed when Miss Grundy herself appeared, fretting about "the meddlesome old widow who had come there stickin' round before Mrs. Parker was hardly cold!"

This put a new idea into Sally's head, and the whole household was startled as she broke out singing, "the loss of one is the gain of another," and so forth. Mrs. Perkins proposed that she should be shut up, but Miss Grundy, for once in Sally's favor, declared "she'd fight, before such a thing should be done;" whereupon Mrs. Perkins lamented that the house had now "no head," wondering how poor Mr. Parker would get along with "such an unmanageable crew."

Numerous were the ways with which the widow sought to comfort the widower, assuring him "that she ached for him clear to her heart's core! and I know how to pity you, too," said she, "for when my Hezekiah died I thought I couldn't stand it." Then by way of administering further consolation, she added that "the wust was to come, for only them that had tried it knew how lonesome it was to live on day after day, and night after night, week in and week out, without any husband or wife."

Mr. Parker probably appreciated her kindness, for when after the funeral the following day she announced her intention of walking home, he ordered Mike to "tackle up," and carry her. This was hardly in accordance with the widow's wishes, and when all was in readiness, she declared that she was afraid to ride after Mike's driving. Uncle Peter was then proposed as a substitute, but the old man had such a dread of Mrs. Perkins, who Sal (for mischief) had said was in love with him, that at the first intimation he climbed up the scuttle hole, where an hour afterwards he was discovered peeping cautiously out to see if the coast was clear. Mr. Parker was thus compelled to go himself, Miss Grundy sending after him the very Christian-like wish that "she hoped he'd tip over and break the widow's neck!"



CHAPTER XXII.

EDUCATION FINISHED.

Vacation was over, and again in the halls of Mount Holyoke was heard the tread of many feet, and the sound of youthful voices, as one by one the pupils came back to their accustomed places. For a time Mary was undecided whether to return or not, for much as she desired an education, she could not help feeling delicate about receiving it from a stranger; but Mrs. Mason, to whom all her thoughts and feelings were confided, advised her to return, and accordingly the first day of the term found her again at Mount Holyoke, where she was warmly welcomed by her teachers and companions. Still it did not seem like the olden time, for Ida was not there, and Jenny's merry laugh was gone. She had hoped that her sister would accompany her, but in reply to her persuasions, Ella answered that "she didn't want to work,—she wasn't obliged to work,—and she wouldn't work!" quoting Rose Lincoln's "pain in the side, callous on her hand, and cold on her lungs," as a sufficient reason why every body should henceforth and for ever stay away from Mount Holyoke.

Mrs. Lincoln, who forgot that Rose had complained of a pain in her side long before she ever saw South Hadley, advised Mrs. Campbell, by all means, never to send her daughter to such a place. "To be sure it may do well enough," said she, "for a great burly creature like Mary Howard, but your daughter and mine are altogether too delicate and daintily bred to endure it."

Mrs. Campbell of course consented to this, adding that she had secured the services of a highly accomplished lady as governess for Ella, and proposing that Rose and Jenny, instead of accompanying their mother to the city as usual, should remain with her during the winter, and share Ella's advantages. To this proposition, Mrs. Lincoln readily assented, and while Mary, from habitual exercise both indoors and out, was growing more and more healthful and vigorous, Rose Lincoln, who was really delicate, was drooping day by day, and growing paler and paler in the closely heated school-room, where a breath of fresh air rarely found entrance, as the "accomplished governess" could not endure it. Daily were her pupils lectured upon the necessity of shielding themselves from the winter winds, which were sure "to impart such a rough, blowzy appearance to their complexion."

Rose profited well by this advice, and hardly any thing could tempt her into the open air, unless it were absolutely necessary. All day long she half reclined upon a small sofa, which at her request was drawn close to the stove, and even then complaining of being chilly she sometimes sat with her shawl thrown over her shoulders. Jenny, on the contrary, fanned herself furiously at the farthest corner of the room, frequently managing to open the window slyly, and regale herself with the snow which lay upon the sill. Often, too, when her lessons were over for the day, she would bound away, and after a walk of a mile or so, would return to the house with her cheeks glowing, and her eyes sparkling like stars. Burnishing a striking contrast to her pale, sickly sister, who hovered over the stove, shivering if a window were raised, or a door thrown open.

In the course of the winter Mrs. Lincoln came up to visit her daughters, expressing herself much pleased with Rose's improved looks and manners. "Her complexion was so pure" she said, "so different from what it was when she came from Mount Holyoke."

Poor Jenny, who, full of life and spirits came rushing in to see her mother, was cut short in her expression of joy by being called "a perfect bunch of fat!"

"Why, Jenny, what does make you so red and coarse?" said the distressed mother. "I know you eat too much," and before Mrs. Lincoln went home, she gave her daughter numerous lectures concerning her diet; but it only made matters worse; and when six weeks after, Mrs. Lincoln came again she found that Jenny had not only gained five pounds, but that hardly one of her dresses would meet!

"Mercy me!" said she, the moment her eye fell upon Jenny's round, plump cheeks, and fat shoulders, "you are as broad as you are long. What a figure you would cut in Boston!"

For once the merry Jenny cried, wondering how she could help being healthy and fat. Before Mrs. Lincoln left Chicopee, she made a discovery, which resulted in the removal of Jenny to Boston. With the exception of the year at Mount Holyoke, Jenny had never before passed a winter in the country, and now everything delighted her. In spite of her governess's remonstrance, all her leisure moments were spent in the open air, and besides her long walks, she frequently joined the scholars, who from the district school came over at recess to slide down the long hill in the rear of Mrs. Campbell's barns and stables. For Jenny to ride down hill at all was bad enough, "but to do so with district school girls, and then be drawn up by coarse, vulgar boys, was far worse;" and the offender was told to be in readiness to accompany her mother home, for she could not stay in Chicopee another week.

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Rose, "for now I shan't freeze to death nights."

Mrs. Lincoln demanded what she meant, and was told that Jenny insisted upon having the window down from the top, let the weather be what it might; "and," added Rose 'when the wind blows hard I am positively obliged to hold on to the sheets to keep myself in bed!"

"A Mount Holyoke freak," said Mrs. Lincoln. "I wish to mercy neither of you had ever gone there."

Rose answered by a low cough, which her mother did not hear, or at least did not notice. Jenny, who loved the country and the country people, was not much pleased with her mother's plan. But for once Mrs. Lincoln was determined, and after stealing one more sled-ride down the long hill, and bidding farewell to the old desk in the school-house, sacred for the name carved three years before with Billy Bender's jack-knife, Jenny went back with her mother to Boston, leaving Rose to droop and fade in the hot, unwholesome atmosphere of Miss Hinton's school-room.

Not long after Jenny's return to the city, she wrote to Mary an amusing account of her mother's reason for removing her from Chicopee. "But on the whole, I am glad to be at home," said she, "for I see Billy Bender almost every day. I first met him coming down Washington Street, and he walked with me clear to our gate. Ida Selden had a party last week, and owing to George Moreland's influence, Billy was there. He was very attentive to me, though Henry says 'twas right the other way. But it wasn't. I didn't ask him to go out to supper with me. I only told him I'd introduce him to somebody who would go, and he immediately offered me his arm. Oh, how mother scolded, and how angry she got when she asked me if I wasn't ashamed, and I told her I wasn't!

"Billy doesn't appear just as he used to. Seems as though something troubled him; and what is very strange, he never speaks of you, unless I do first. You've no idea how handsome he is. To be sure, he hasn't the air of George Moreland, and doesn't dress as elegantly, but I think he's finer looking. Ever so many girls at Ida's party asked who he was, and said 'twas a pity he wasn't rich, but that wouldn't make any difference with me,—I'd have him just as soon as though he was wealthy.

"How mother would go on if she should see this! But I don't care,—I like Billy Bender, and I can't help it, and entre nous, I believe he likes me better than he did! But I must stop now, for Lizzie Upton has called for me to go with her and see a poor blind woman in one of the back alleys."

From this extract it will be seen that Jenny, though seventeen years of age, was the same open-hearted, childlike creature as ever. She loved Billy Bender, and she didn't care who knew it. She loved, too, to seek out and befriend the poor, with which Boston, like all other large cities, abounded. Almost daily her mother lectured her upon her bad taste in the choice of her associates, but Jenny was incorrigible, and the very next hour might perhaps be seen either walking with Billy Bender, or mounting the rickety stairs of some crazy old building, where a palsied old woman or decrepit old man watched for her coming, and blessed her when she came.

Early in the spring Mr. Lincoln went up to Chicopee to make some changes in his house, preparatory to his family's removal thither. When he called at Mrs. Campbell's to see Rose, he was greatly shocked at her altered and languid appearance. The cough, which her mother had not observed fell ominously on his ear; for he thought of a young sister who many years before in the bloom of girlhood had passed away from his side. A physician was immediately called and after an examination Rose's lungs were pronounced diseased, though not as yet beyond cure. She was of course taken from school; and with the utmost care, and skilful nursing, she gradually grew better.

Jenny, who had never been guilty of any great love for books, was also told that her school days were over, and congratulated herself upon being a "full grown young lady," which fact no one would dispute, who saw her somewhat large dimensions.

When Ella learned that Jenny as well as Rose was emancipated from the school-room, she immediately petitioned her mother for a similar privilege, saying that she knew all that was necessary for her to know. Miss Hinton, too, being weary of one pupil, and desiring a change for herself, threw her influence in Ella's favor, so that at last Mrs. Campbell yielded; and Ella, piling up her books, carried them away, never again referring to them on any occasion, but spending her time in anticipating the happiness she should enjoy the following winter; when she was to be first introduced to Boston society.

Unlike this was the closing of Mary's school days. Patiently and perseveringly, through the year she had studied, storing her mind with useful knowledge; and when at last the annual examination came, not one in the senior class stood higher, or was graduated with more honor than herself. Mrs. Mason, who was there, listened with all a parent's pride and fondness to her adopted child, as she promptly responded to every question. But it was not Mrs. Mason's presence alone which incited Mary to do so well. Among the crowd of spectators she caught a glimpse of a face which twice before she had seen, once in the school-room at Rice Corner, and once in the graveyard at Chicopee. Turn which way she would, she felt, rather than saw, how intently Mr. Stuart watched her, and when at last the exercises were over, and she with others arose to receive her Diploma, she involuntarily glanced in the direction where she knew he sat. For an instant their eyes met, and in the expression of his, she read an approval warmer than words could have expressed.

That night Mary sat alone in her room, listening almost nervously to the sound of every footstep, and half starting up if it came near her door. But for certain reasons Mr. Stuart did not think proper to call, and while Mary was confidently expecting him, he was several miles on his way home.

In a day or two Mary returned to Chicopee, but did not, like Ella, lay her books aside and consider her education finished. Two or three hours each morning were devoted to study, or reading of some kind. For several weeks nothing was allowed to interfere with this arrangement, but at the end of that time, the quiet of Mrs. Mason's house was disturbed by the unexpected arrival of Aunt Martha and Ida, who came up to Chicopee for the purpose of inducing Mrs. Mason and Mary to spend the coming winter in Boston. At first Mrs. Mason hesitated, but every objection which either she or Mary raised was so easily put aside, that she finally consented, saying she would be ready to go about the middle of November. Aunt Martha, who was a bustling, active little woman, and fancied that her brother's household always went wrong without her, soon brought her visit to a close, and within the week went back to Boston, together with Ida.

The day following their departure, Mrs. Perkins came over to inquire who "them stuck up folks was, and if the youngest wasn't some kin to the man that visited Mary's school two years before;" saying "they favored each other enough to be brother and sister."

"Why, so they do," returned Mary. "I have often tried to think who it was that Ida resembled; but they are not at all related, I presume."

Mrs. Mason said nothing, and soon changing the conversation, told Mrs. Perkins of her projected visit.

"Wall, if it don't beat all what curis' things turn up!" said the widow. "You are going to Boston, and mercy knows what'll become of me,—but laws, I ain't a goin' to worry; I shall be provided for some way."

"Why, what is the matter?" asked Mrs. Mason, noticing for the first time that her visitor seemed troubled.

After walking to the window to hide her emotions, and then again resuming her rocking chair, the widow communicated to them the startling information that Sally Ann was going to be married!

"Married! To whom?" asked Mrs. Mason and Mary in the same breath, but the widow said they must "guess;" so after guessing every marriageable man or boy in town they gave it up, and were told that it was no more nor less than Mr. Parker!

"Mr. Parker!" repeated Mary. "Why, he's old enough to be her father, ain't he?"

"Oh, no," returned Mrs. Perkins; "Sally Ann will be thirty if she lives till the first day of next January."

"You have kept the matter very quiet," said Mrs. Mason; and the widow, exacting from each a promise never to tell as long as they lived, commenced the story of her wrongs.

It seems that not long after Mrs. Parker's demise, Mr. Parker began to call at the cottage of the widow, sometime to inquire after her health, but oftener to ask about a red heifer which he understood Mrs. Perkins had for sale! On these occasions Sally Ann was usually invisible, so week after week Mr. Parker continued to call, talking always about the "red heifer," and whether he'd better buy her or not.

"At last," said the widow, "I got sick on't, and one day after he'd sat more'n two hours, says I, 'Ebenezer, if you want that red heifer, say so, and that'll end it.' Up he jumps, and says he, 'I'll let you know in a few days;' then pullin' from his trowsers pocket two little nurly apples, he laid 'em on the table as a present for Sally Ann! Wall, the next time he come I was sick, and Sally Ann let him in. I don't know what possessed me, but thinks to me I'll listen, and as I'm a livin' woman, instead of ever mentioning the heifer, he asked as fair and square as ever a man could, if she'd have him! and Sally Ann, scart nigh about to death, up and said 'Yes.'"

Here the widow, unable to proceed further, stopped, but soon regaining breath continued, "Nobody but them that's passed through it can guess how I felt. My head swam, and when I come to I was lyin' on the broad stair."

"Are they to be married soon?" asked Mrs. Mason, and Mrs. Perkins answered, "Of course. Was there ever an old fool of a widower who wasn't in a hurry? Next Thursday is the day sot, and I've come to invite you, and see if you'd lend me your spoons and dishes, and them little towels you use on the table, and your astor lamps, and some flowers if there's any fit, and let Judy come over to help about cookin' the turkey and sperrib!"

Mrs. Mason promised the loan of all these things, and then the widow arose to go. Mary, who accompanied her to the door, could not help asking whether Mr. Parker had finally bought her red heifer.

The calico sun-bonnet trembled, and the little gray eyes flashed indignantly as she said, "That man never wanted my red heifer a bit more than he wanted me!"

True to her promise, Mrs. Mason the next Thursday sent Judith over to the cottage with her "spoons, dishes, little towels, and astor lamp," while she herself carried over the best and fairest flowers which had escaped the frosts of autumn. Mary was chosen to dress the bride, who, spite of her red hair, would have looked quite well, had her skirt been a trifle longer and wider. Mrs. Perkins had insisted that five breadths of silk was sufficient, consequently Sally Ann looked as Sal Furbush said, "not wholly unlike a long tallow candle, with a red wick."

Mrs. Perkins, who flourished in a lace cap and scarlet ribbons, greeted her son-in-law with a burst of tears, saying she little thought when they were young that she should ever be his mother!

For the sake of peace Mr. Parker had invited Miss Grundy to be present at the wedding, but as this was the first intimation that Miss Grundy had received of the matter, she fell into a violent fit of anger, bidding him to "go to grass with his invitations," and adding very emphatically, that "she'd have him to know she never yet saw the day when she'd marry him, or any other living man."

Mr. Parker of course couldn't dispute her, so he turned away, wondering within himself "what made wimmen so queer!"

The day following the wedding, the bride went to her new home, where she was received by Miss Grundy with a grunt which was probably intended for a "how d'ye do." Uncle Peter expressed his pleasure at making the acquaintance of one more of the "fair sect," but hoped that "estimable lady her mother, wouldn't feel like visiting her often, as mothers were very apt to make mischief." Sally Furbush was the only cool and collected one present, and she did the honors of the house so gracefully and well, that but for the wildness of her eyes and an occasional whispering to herself, the bride would never have suspected her of insanity.



CHAPTER XXIII.

LIFE IN BOSTON.

"Come this way, Mary. I'll show you your chamber. It's right here next to mine," said Ida Selden, as on the evening of her friend's arrival she led her up to a handsomely furnished apartment, which for many weeks had borne the title of "Mary's room."

"Oh, how pleasant!" was Mary's exclamation, as she surveyed the room in which every thing was arranged with such perfect taste.

A cheerful coal fire was blazing in the grate, for no murderous stove was ever suffered to invade the premises where Aunt Martha ruled. The design of the Brussels carpet was exquisitely beautiful, and the roses upon it looked as if freshly plucked from the parent stalk. At one end of the room, and just opposite the grate, were two bay windows, overlooking Mr. Selden's fine, large garden, and shaded by curtains of richly embroidered lace. In front of the fire was a large easy chair, covered with crimson damask; and scattered about the room were ottomans, divans, books, pictures, and every thing which could in any way conduce to a young lady's comfort or happiness. On the marble mantel there stood two costly vases, filled with rare flowers, among which Mary recognized her favorites. But ere she had time to speak of it, Ida opened a side door, disclosing to view a cosy little bedroom, with a large closet and bathing room adjoining.

"Here," said she, "you are to sleep; but you needn't expect to be entirely exclusive, for every night when I feel cold or fidgety, I shall run in here and sleep with you. Is it a bargain?"

Mary was too happy to speak, and dropping into the easy chair she burst into tears. In a moment Ida, too, was seated in the same chair, and with her arm around Mary's neck was wondering why she wept. Then as her own eyes chanced to fall upon the vases, she brought one of them to Mary, saying, "See, these are for you,—a present from one, who bade me present them with his compliments to the little girl who nursed him on board the Windermere, and who cried because he called her ugly!"

Mary's heart was almost audible in its beatings, and her cheeks took the hue of the cushions on which she reclined. Returning the vase to the mantel-piece, Ida came back to her side, and bending closer to her face, whispered, "Cousin George told me of you years ago when he first came here, but I forgot all about it, and when we were at Mount Holyoke, I never suspected that you were the little girl he used to talk so much about. But a few days before he went away he reminded me of it again, and then I understood why he was so much interested in you. I wonder you never told me you knew him, for of course you like him. You can't help it."

Mary only heard a part of what Ida said. "Just before he went away.—" Was he then gone, and should she not see him after all? A cloud gathered upon her brow, and Ida readily divining its cause, replied, "Yes, George is gone. Either he or father must go to New Orleans, and so George of course went. Isn't it too bad? I cried and fretted, but he only pulled my ears, and said he should think I'd be glad for he knew we wouldn't want a great six-footer domineering over us, and following us every where, as he would surely do were he at home."

Mary felt more disappointed than she was willing to acknowledge, and for a moment she half wished herself back in Chicopee, but soon recovering her equanimity, she ventured to ask how long George was to be gone.

"Until April, I believe," said Ida; "but any way you are to stay until he comes, for Aunt Martha promised to keep you. I don't know exactly what George said to her about you, but they talked together more than two hours, and she says you are to take music lessons and drawing lessons, and all that. George is very fond of music."

Here thinking she was telling too much, Ida suddenly stopped, and as the tea bell just then rang, she started up, saying, "Oh, I forgot that father was waiting in the parlor to see you. I've said so much about you that his curiosity is quite roused, but I can introduce you at the table just as well." Our lady readers will pardon Mary if before meeting Mr. Selden she gave herself a slight inspection in the long mirror, which hung in her dressing room. Passing the brush several times through her glossy hair, and smoothing down the folds of her neatly fitting merino, she concluded that she looked well enough for a traveller, and with slightly heightened color, followed Ida into the supper room, where she found assembled Mrs. Mason, Aunt Martha, and Mr. Selden. The moment her eye fell upon the latter, she recognized the same kindly beaming eye and pleasant smile, which had won her childish heart, when on board the Windermere he patted her head, as George told how kind she had been to him.

"We have met before, I believe," said he, and warmly shaking her hand he bade her welcome to Boston.

Then seating her by his side at the table he managed by his kind attentions to make both her and Mrs. Mason feel perfectly at home. Aunt Martha, too, was exceedingly polite, but after what Ida had told her, Mary could not help feeling somewhat embarrassed in her presence. This, however, gradually wore away, and before the evening was over she began to feel very much at home, and to converse with Aunt Martha as freely and familiarly as with Ida.

The next morning between ten and eleven the door bell rang, and in a moment Jenny Lincoln, whose father's house was just opposite, came tripping into the parlor. She had lost in a measure that rotundity of person so offensive to her mother, and it seemed to Mary that there was a thoughtful expression on her face never seen there before, but in all other respects, she was the same affectionate, merry-hearted Jenny.

"I just this minute heard you were here, and came over just as I was," said she, glancing at the same time at her rich, though rather untidy morning wrapper. After asking Mary if she wasn't sorry George had gone, and if she expected to find Mr. Stuart, she said, "I suppose you know Ella is here, and breaking every body's heart, of course. She went to a concert with us last evening, and looked perfectly beautiful. Henry says she is the handsomest girl he ever saw, and I do hope she'll make something of him, but I'm afraid he is only trifling with her, just as he tries to do with every body."

"I am afraid so too," said Ida, "but now Mary has come perhaps he'll divide his attentions between the two."

If there was a person in the world whom Mary thoroughly detested, it was Henry Lincoln, and the idea of his trifling with her, made her eyes sparkle and flash so indignantly that Ida noticed it, and secretly thought that Henry Lincoln would for once find his match. After a time Mary turned to Jenny, saying, "You haven't told me a word about,—about William Bender. Is he well?"

Jenny blushed deeply, and hastily replying that he was the last time she saw him, started up, whispering in Mary's ear, "Oh, I've got so much to tell you,—but I must go now."

Ida accompanied her to the door, and asked why Rose too did not call. In her usual frank, open way, Jenny answered, "You know why. Rose is so queer."

Ida understood her and replied, "Very well; but tell her that if she doesn't see fit to notice my visitors, I certainly shall not be polite to hers."

This message had the desired effect; for Rose, who was daily expecting a Miss King, from Philadelphia, felt that nothing would mortify her more than to be neglected by Ida, who was rather a leader among the young fashionables. Accordingly after a long consultation with her mother, she concluded it best to call upon Mary. In the course of the afternoon, chancing to be near the front window, she saw Mr. Selden's carriage drive away from his door, with Ida and her visitor.

"Now is my time," thought she; and without a word to her mother or Jenny, she threw on her bonnet and shawl, and in her thin French slippers, stepped across the street and rang Mr. Selden's door bell. Of course she was "so disappointed not to find the young ladies at home," and leaving her card for them, tripped back, highly pleased with her own cleverness.

Meantime Ida and Mary were enjoying their ride about the city, until coming suddenly upon an organ-grinder and monkey, the spirited horses became frightened and ran, upsetting the carriage, and dragging it some distance. Fortunately Ida was only bruised, but Mary received a severe cut upon her head, which, with the fright, caused her to faint. A young man, who was passing down the street and saw the accident, immediately came to the rescue; and when Mary awoke to consciousness, Billy Bender was supporting her, and gently pushing back from her face the thick braids of her long hair. At first she thought she was not much hurt, but when she attempted to lift her head she uttered a cry of pain, and laid it heavily back upon his bosom.

"Who is she?—Who is she?" asked the eager voices of the group around, but no one answered, until a young gentleman, issuing from one of the fashionable drinking saloons, came blustering up, demanding "what the row was."

Upon seeing Ida, his manner instantly changed, and after learning that she, with another young lady, had been upset, he ordered the crowd "to stand back," at the same time forcing his way forward until he caught a sight of Mary's face.

"Whew, Bill," said he, "your old flame the pauper, isn't it?"

It was fortunate for Henry Lincoln that Billy Bender's arms were both in use, otherwise he might have measured his length upon the side walk, which exercise he would hardly have relished in the presence of Ida. As it was, Billy frowned angrily upon him, and in a fierce whisper bade him beware how he used Miss Howard's name. By this time the horses were caught, anther carriage procured, and Mary, still supported by Billy Bender, was carefully lifted into it, and borne back to Mr. Selden's house. Henry Lincoln also accompanying her, and giving out numerous orders as to "what ought to be done!"

Many of Ida's friends, hearing of the accident, flocked in to see her, and to inquire after the young lady who was injured. Among the first who called was Lizzie Upton, whom the reader has once met in Chicopee. On her way home she stopped at Mrs. Campbell's, where she was immediately beset by Ella, to know "who the beautiful young lady was that Henry Lincoln had so heroically saved from a violent death,—dragging her out from under the horses' heels!"

Lizzie looked at her a moment in surprise, and then replied, "Why, Miss Campbell, is it possible you don't know it was your own sister!"

It was Henry Lincoln himself who had given Ella her information, without, however, telling the lady's name; and now, when she learned that 'twas Mary, she was too much surprised to answer, and Lizzie continued, "I think you are laboring under a mistake. It was not Mr. Lincoln, who saved your sister's life, but a young law student, whom you perhaps have seen walking with George Moreland."

Ella replied that she never saw George Moreland, as he left Boston before she came; and then as she did not seem at all anxious to know whether Mary was much injured or not, Lizzie soon took her leave. Long after she was gone, Ella sat alone in the parlor, wondering why Henry should tell her such a falsehood, and if he really thought Mary beautiful. Poor simple Ella,—she was fast learning to live on Henry Lincoln's smile, to believe each word that he said, to watch nervously for his coming and to weep if he stayed away. There were other young men in Boston, who, attracted by her pretty face, and the wealth of which she was reputed to be heiress, came fawningly around her, but with most strange infatuation, she turned from them all, caring only for Henry Lincoln. He, on the contrary, merely sought her society for the sake of passing away an idle hour, boasting among his male acquaintances of the influence had acquired over her, by complimenting her curls and pretty face! He knew that she was jealous of any praise or attention bestowed by him upon another, and had purposely told her what he did of Mary, exulting within himself as he saw the pain his words inflicted.

"I know he was only trying to tease me," was the conclusion to which Ella finally came, and then there arose in her mind a debate as to whether, under the circumstances, it were not best to treat her sister with rather more respect than she was wont to do. "The Seldens," thought she, "are among the first. If they notice her others will, and why should not I?"