"You are mistaken, sir," answered Mary; "Ella does not wish to be free. But come with me; I promised to bring you."

With an air of desperation, Henry took his hat, and started with Mary for Mrs. Campbell's. Oh, how eagerly Ella sprang forward to meet him, and burying her face in his bosom, she sobbed like a child.

"Hush, Ella, this is foolish," said he; and then seating her in a chair, he asked, "why he was sent for."

"I was afraid,—afraid you might think I did not love you now," answered Ella.

"I could not blame you if you did not," said Henry. "Matters have changed since we last met, and I am not mean enough to expect you to keep your engagement."

"But if I expect it,—If I wish it?" asked Ella, raising her tear-wet eyes to his face.

"You are excited now," said he, "but in a few days you'll thank me for my decision. An alliance with poverty could be productive of nothing but unhappiness to you; and while I thank you for your unselfish love, I cannot accept it, for I am determined that, so long as I am poor, I shall never marry; and the sooner you forget me, the better, for, Ella, I am not deserving of your love."

Then, with a cold adieu, he left her; and when, half an hour afterwards, Mary entered the parlor, she found her sister lying upon the sofa, perfectly motionless, except when a tremor of anguish shook her slight frame. A few words explained all, and taking her head in her lap, Mary tried to soothe her. But Ella refused to be comforted; and as she seemed to prefer being alone, Mary ere long left her, and bent her steps towards Mr. Lincoln's dwelling, which presented a scene of strange confusion. The next day was the auction, and many people of both sexes had assembled to examine, and find fault with, the numerous articles of furniture, which were being removed to the auction room.

"Where's them silver candlesticks, and that cake-basket that cost up'ards of a hundred dollars?" asked one fussy, vulgar-looking old woman, peering into closets and cupboards, and even lifting trunk lids in her search. "I want some such things, and if they go for half price or less, mebby Israel will bid; but I don't see 'em. I'll warrant they've hid 'em."

Mary was just in time to hear this remark, and she modestly replied, that Mr. Lincoln's creditors had generously presented him with all the silver, which was now at Mr. Selden's.

The woman stared impudently at her a moment, and then said, "Now, that's what I call downright cheatin'? What business has poor folks with so much silver. Better pay their debts fust. That's my creed."

Mary turned away in disgust, but not until she heard the woman's daughter whisper, "Don't, mother,—that's Miss Howard,—Mrs. Campbell's niece," to which the mother replied, "Wall, who cares for that? Glad I gin her a good one. Upper crust ain't no better than I be."

Passing through the hall, where several other women were examining and depreciating Mrs. Lincoln's costly carpets, pronouncing them "half cotton," &c., Mary made her way up the stairs, where in a chamber as yet untouched, she found Jenny and with her William Bender. Mrs. Lincoln's cold, scrutinizing eyes were away, and Mr. Lincoln had cordially welcomed William to his house, telling him of his own accord where his daughter could be found. Many a time in his life for Mary's sake had William wished that he was rich, but never had he felt so intense a longing for money, as he did when Jenny sat weeping at his side, and starting at each new sound which came up from the rabble below.

"Oh, Mary, Mary!" she said, as the latter entered the room, "to-morrow every thing will be sold, and I shall have no home. It's dreadful to be poor."

Mary knew that from bitter experience, and sitting down by her young friend, her tears flowed as freely as Jenny's had often flowed for her, in the gray old woods near Chicopee poor-house. Just then there was an unusual movement in the yard below, and looking from the window, Jenny saw that they were carrying the piano away.

"This is worse than all," said she. "If they only knew how dear that is to me, or how dear it will be when—"

She could not finish, but Mary knew what she would say. The piano belonged to Rose, whose name was engraved upon its front, and when she was dead, it would from that fact be doubly dear to the sister. A stylish-looking carriage now drew up before the house, from which Mrs. Campbell alighted and holding up her long skirts, ascended the stairs, and knocked at Jenny's door.

"Permeely," called out the old lady who had been disappointed in her search for the silver candlesticks, "wasn't that Miss Campbell? Wall, she's gone right into one of them rooms where t'other gal went. I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Lincoln's best things was hid there, for they keep the door locked."

Accidentally Mr. Lincoln overheard this remark, and in his heart he felt that his choicest treasure was indeed there. His wife, from whom he naturally expected sympathy, had met him with desponding looks and bitter words, reproaching him with carelessness, and saying, as in similar circumstances ladies too often do, that "she had forseen it from the first, and that had he followed her advice, 'twould not have happened."

Henry, too, seemed callous and indifferent, and the father alone found comfort in Jenny's words of love and encouragement. From the first she had stood bravely by him refusing to leave the house until all was over; and many a weary night, when the great city was hushed and still, a light had gleamed from the apartment where, with her father, she sat looking over his papers, and trying to ascertain as far as possible, to what extent he was involved. It was she who first suggested the giving up of every thing; and when Henry, less upright than his noble sister, proposed the withholding of a part, she firmly answered, "No, father don't do it. You have lost your property, but do not lose your self-respect."

Always cheerful, and sometimes even gay in his presence, she had succeeded in imbuing him with a portion of her own hopeful spirit, and he passed through the storm far better than he could otherwise have done. Mrs. Campbell's visit to the house was prompted partly from curiosity, and partly from a desire to take away Jenny, who was quite a favorite with her.

"Come, my dear," said she, pushing back the short, thick curls which clustered around Jenny's forehead, "you must go home with me. This is no place for you. Mary will go too," she continued; and then on an "aside" to Mary, she added, "I want you to cheer up Ella; she sits alone in her room, without speaking or noticing me in any way."

At first Jenny hesitated, but when William whispered that she had better go; and Mrs. Campbell, as the surest way of bringing her to a decision, said, "Mr. Bender will oblige me by coming to tea," she consented, and closely veiled, passed through the crowd below, who instinctively drew back, and ceased speaking, for wherever she was known, Jenny was beloved. Arrived at Mrs. Campbell's, they found Ella, as her mother had said, sitting alone in her room, not weeping, but gazing fixedly down the street, as if expecting some one who did not come!

In reply to Jenny's anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, Mary frankly told all, and then Jenny, folding her arms around the young girl, longed to tell her how unworthy was the object of such love. But Henry was her brother, and she could not. Softly caressing Ella's cheek, she whispered to her of brighter days which perhaps would come. The fact that it was his sister—Henry's sister—opened anew the fountain of Ella's tears, and she wept for a long time; but it did her good, and for the remainder of the afternoon she seemed more cheerful, and inclined to converse.

The next day was the auction, and it required the persuasion of both Mrs. Campbell and Mary to keep Jenny from going, she knew not whither herself, but any where, to be near and take one more look at the dear old furniture as it passed into the hands of strangers. At last Mrs. Campbell promised that black Ezra, who had accompanied her from Chicopee, should go and report faithfully all the proceedings, and then Jenny consented to remain at home, though all the day she seemed restless and impatient, wondering how long before Uncle Ezra would return, and then weeping as in fancy she saw article after article disposed of to those who would know little how to prize it.

About five o'clock Uncle Ezra came home, bringing a note from Ida, saying that the carriage would soon be round for Mary and Jenny, both of whom must surely come, as there was a pleasant surprise awaiting them. While Mary was reading this, Jenny was eagerly questioning Uncle Ezra with regard to the sale, which, he said, "went off uncommon well," owing chiefly, he reckoned, "to a tall, and mighty good-lookin' chap, who kept bidding up and up, till he got 'em about where they should be. Then he'd stop for someone else to bid."

"Who was he?" asked Mary, coming forward, and joining Jenny.

"Dun know, Miss; never seen him afore," said Uncle Ezra, "but he's got heaps of money, for when he paid for the pianner, he took out a roll of bills near about big as my two fists!"

"Then the piano is gone," said Jenny sadly, while Mary asked how much it brought.

"Three hundred dollars was the last bid I heard from that young feller, and somebody who was biddin' agin him said, 'twas more'n 'twas wuth."

"It wasn't either," spoke up Jenny, rather spiritedly, "It cost five hundred, and it's never been hurt a bit."

"Mr. Bender bought that little fiddle of your'n," continued Uncle Ezra, with a peculiar wink, which brought the color to Jenny's cheeks; while Mary exclaimed, "Oh, I'm so glad you can have your guitar again."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the carriage, which came for the young ladies, who were soon on their way to Mr. Selden's, Mary wondering what the surprise was, and Jenny hoping William would call in the evening. At the door they met Ida, who was unusually merry,—almost too much so for the occasion, it seemed to Mary, as she glanced at Jenny's pale, dispirited face. Aunt Martha, too, who chanced to cross the hall, shook Mary's hand as warmly as if she had not seen her for a year, and then with her broad, white cap-strings flying back, she repaired to the kitchen to give orders concerning the supper.

Mary did not notice it then, but she afterwards remembered, that Ida seemed quite anxious about her appearance, for following her to her room, she said, "You look tired, Mary. Sit down and rest you awhile. Here, take my vinaigrette,—that will revive you." Then as Mary was arranging her hair, she said, "Just puff out this side a little more;—there, that's right. Now turn round, I want to see how you look."

"Well, how do I?" asked Mary, facing about as Ida directed.

"I guess you'll do," returned Ida. "I believe Henry Lincoln was right, when he said that this blue merino, and linen collar, was the most becoming dress you could wear: but you look well in every thing, you have so fine a form."

"Don't believe all her flattery," said Jenny, laughingly "She's only comparing your tall, slender figure with little dumpy me; but I'm growing thin,—see," and she lapped her dress two or three inches in front.

"Come, now let's go down," said Ida, "and I'll introduce you, to Jenny's surprise, first."

With Ida leading the way, they entered the music room, where in one corner stood Rose's piano, open, and apparently inviting Jenny to its side. With a joyful cry, she sprang forward, exclaiming, "Oh, how kind in your father; I almost know we can redeem it some time. I'll teach school,—any thing to get it again."

"Don't thank father too much," answered Ida, "for he has nothing to do with it, except giving it house room, and one quarter's teaching will pay that bill!"

"Who did buy it, then?" asked Jenny; and Ida replied, "Can't tell you just yet. I must have some music first. Come, Mary, you like to play. Give me my favorite, 'Rosa Lee,' with variations."

Mary was passionately fond of music, and, for the time she had taken lessons, played uncommonly well. Seating herself at the piano, she became oblivious to all else around her, and when a tall figure for a moment darkened the doorway, while Jenny uttered a suppressed exclamation of surprise, she paid no heed, nor did she become conscious of a third person's presence until the group advanced towards her, Ida and Jenny leaning upon the piano, and the other standing at her right, a little in the rear. Thinking, if she thought at all, that it was William Bender, Mary played on until the piece was finished, and then, observing that her companions had left the room, she turned and met the dark, handsome eyes,—not of William Bender, but of one who, with a peculiar smile, offered her his hand, saying, "I believe I need no introduction to Miss Howard, except a slight change in the name, which instead of being Stuart is Moreland!"

Mary never knew what she said or did. She only remembered a dizzy sensation in her head, a strong arm passed round her, and a voice which fully aroused her as it called her "Mary," and asked if she were faint. Just then Ida entered the room, announcing tea, and asking her if she found "Mr. Stuart" much changed? At the tea-table Mary sat opposite George, and every time she raised her eyes, she met his fixed upon her, with an expression so like that of the picture in the golden locket which she still wore, that she wondered she had not before recognized George Moreland in the Mr. Stuart who had so puzzled and mystified her. After supper she had an opportunity of seeing why George was so much beloved at home. Possessing rare powers of conversation, he seemed to know exactly what to say, and when to say it, and with a kind word and pleasant smile for all, he generally managed to make himself a favorite, notwithstanding his propensity to tease, which would occasionally show itself in some way or other. During the evening William Bender called, and soon after Henry Lincoln also came in, frowning gloomily when he saw how near to each other were William and his sister, while he jealously watched them, still keeping an eye upon George and Mary, the latter of whom remembered her young sister, and treated him with unusual coldness. At last, complaining of feeling blue, he asked Ida to play, at the same time sauntering towards the music room, where stood his sister's piano. "Upon my word," said he, "this looks natural. Who bought it?" and he drummed a few notes of a song.

"Mr. Moreland bought it. Wasn't he kind?" said Jenny, who all the evening had been trying for a chance to thank George, but now when she attempted to do so he prevented her by saying, "Oh don't—don't—I can imagine all you wish to say, and I hate to be thanked. Rose and I are particular friends, and it afforded me a great deal of pleasure to purchase it for her—but," he added, glancing at his watch, "I must be excused now, as I promised to call upon my ward."

"Who's that?" asked Jenny, and George replied that it was a Miss Herndon, who had accompanied him from New Orleans to visit her aunt, Mrs. Russell.

"He says she's an heiress, and very beautiful," rejoined Ida, seating herself at the piano.

Instantly catching at the words "heiress" and "beautiful," Henry started up, asking "if it would be against all the rules of propriety for him to call upon her thus early."

"I think it would," was George's brief answer, while Mary's eyes flashed scornfully upon the young man, who, rather crestfallen, announced himself ready to listen to Ida whom he secretly styled "an old maid," because since his first remembrance she had treated him with perfect indifference.

That night before retiring the three girls sat down by the cheerful fire in Mary's room to talk over the events of the day, when Mary suddenly asked Ida to tell her truly, if it were not George who had paid her bills at Mount Holyoke.

"What bills?" said Jenny, to whom the idea was new while Ida replied, "And suppose it was?"

"I am sorry," answered Mary, laying her head upon the table.

"What a silly girl," said Ida. "He was perfectly able, and more than willing, so why do you care?"

"I do not like being so much indebted to any one," was Mary's reply, and yet in her secret heart there was a strange feeling of pleasure in the idea that George had thus cared for her, for would he have done so, if—. She dared not finish that question even to herself,—dared not ask if she hoped that George Moreland loved her one half as well as she began to think she had always loved him. Why should he, with his handsome person and princely fortune, love one so unworthy, and so much beneath him? And then, for the first time, she thought of her changed position since last they met. Then she was a poor, obscure schoolmistress,—now, flattered, caressed, and an heiress. Years before, when a little pauper at Chicopee, she had felt unwilling that George should know how destitute she was, and now in the time of her prosperity she was equally desirous that he should, for a time at least, remain ignorant of her present condition.

"Ida," said she, lifting her head from the table "does George know that I am Mrs. Campbell's niece?"

"No," answered Ida, "I wanted to tell him, but Aunt Martha said I'd better not."

"Don't then," returned Mary, and resuming her former position she fell into a deep reverie, from which she was at last aroused, by Jenny's asking "if she intended to sit up all night?"

The news that George Moreland had returned, and bought Rose Lincoln's piano, besides several other articles, spread rapidly, and the day following his arrival Mary and Ida were stopped in the street by a group of their companions, who were eager to know how George bore the news that his betrothed was so ill, and if it was not that which had brought him home so soon, and then the conversation turned upon Miss Herndon, the New Orleans lady who had that morning appeared in the street; "And don't you think," said one of the girls, "that Henry Lincoln was dancing attendance upon her? If I were you," turning to Mary, "I'd caution my sister to be a little wary of him. But let me see, their marriage is to take place soon?"

Mary replied that the marriage was postponed indefinitely, whereupon the girls exchanged meaning glances and passed on. In less than twenty-four hours, half of Ella's acquaintances were talking of her discarding Henry on account of his father's failure, and saying "that they expected it, 'twas like her."

Erelong the report, in the shape of a condolence, reached Henry, who caring but little what reason was assigned for the broken engagement, so that he got well out of it assumed a much injured air, but said "he reckoned he should manage to survive;" then pulling his sharp-pointed collar up another story, and brushing his pet mustache, wherein lay most of his mind, he walked up street, and ringing at Mrs. Russell's door, asked for Miss Herndon, who vain as beautiful, suffered his attentions, not because she liked him in the least, but because she was fond of flattery, and there was something exceedingly gratifying in the fact that at the North, where she fancied the gentlemen to be icicles, she had so soon made a conquest. It mattered not that Mrs. Russell told her his vows were plighted to another. She cared nothing for that. Her life had been one long series of conquests, until now at twenty-five there was not in the whole world a more finished or heartless coquette than Evren Herndon.

Days passed on, and at last rumors reached Ella, that Henry was constant in his attendance upon the proud southern beauty, whose fortune was valued by hundreds of thousands. At first she refused to believe it, but when Mary and Jenny both assured her it was true, and when she her self had ocular demonstration of the fact, she gave way to one long fit of weeping; and then, drying her eyes, declared that Henry Lincoln should see "that she would not die for him."

Still a minute observer could easily have seen that her gayety was feigned, for she had loved Henry Lincoln as sincerely as she was capable of loving, and not even George Moreland, who treated her with his old boyish familiarity could make her for a moment forget one who now passed her coldly by, or listened passively while the sarcastic Evren Herndon likened her to a waxen image, fit only for a glass case!



CHAPTER XXXI.

A QUESTION

Towards the last of April, Mrs. Mason and Mary returned to their old home in the country. On Ella's account, Mrs. Campbell had decided to remain in the city during a part of the summer, and she labored hard to keep Mary also, offering as a last inducement to give Mrs. Mason a home too. But Mrs. Mason preferred her own house in Chicopee, and thither Mary accompanied her, promising, however, to spend the next winter with her aunt, who wept at parting with her more than she would probably have done had it been Ella.

Mary had partially engaged to teach the school in Rice Corner, but George, assuming a kind of authority over her, declared she should not.

"I don't want your eyes to grow dim and your cheeks pale, in that little pent-up room," said he. "You know I've been there and seen for myself."

Mary colored, for George's manner of late had puzzled her, and Jenny had more than once whispered in her ear "I know George loves you, for he looks at you just as William does at me, only a little more so!"

Ida, too, had once mischievously addressed her as "Cousin," adding that there was no one among her acquaintances whom she would as willingly call by that name. "When I was a little girl," said she, "they used to tease me about George, but I'd as soon think of marrying my brother. You never saw Mr. Elwood, George's classmate, for he's in Europe now. Between you and me, I like him and—"

A loud call from Aunt Martha prevented Ida from finishing, and the conversation was not again resumed. The next morning Mary was to leave, and as she stood in the parlor talking with Ida, George came in with a travelling satchel in his hand, and a shawl thrown carelessly over his arm.

"Where are you going?" asked Ida.

"To Springfield. I have business there," said George.

"And when will you return?" continued Ida, feeling that it would be doubly lonely at home.

"That depends on circumstances," said he. "I shall stop at Chicopee on my way back, provided Mary is willing."

Mary answered that she was always glad to see her friends, and as the carriage just then drove up, they started together for the depot. Mary never remembered of having had a more pleasant ride than that from Boston to Chicopee George was a most agreeable companion, and with him at her side she seemed to discover new beauties in every object which they passed, and felt rather sorry when the winding river, and the blue waters of Pordunk Pond warned her that Chicopee Station was near at hand.

"I shall see you next week," said George, as he handed her from the cars, which the next moment rolled over the long meadow, and disappeared through the deep cut in the sandy hillside.

For a week or more Judith had been at Mrs. Mason's house, putting things to rights, and when the travellers arrived they found every thing in order. A cheerful fire was blazing in the little parlor, and before it stood the tea-table nicely arranged, while two beautiful Malta kittens, which during the winter had been Judith's special care, lay upon the hearth-rug asleep, with their soft velvet paws locked lovingly around each other's neck.

"Oh, how pleasant to be at home once more, and alone," said Mrs. Mason, but Mary did not reply. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and much as she liked being alone, the presence of a certain individual would not probably have marred her happiness to any great extent. But he was coming soon, and with that in anticipation, she appeared cheerful and gay as usual.

Among the first to call upon them was Mrs. Perkins who came early in the morning, bringing her knitting work and staying all day. She had taken to dressmaking, she said, and thought may-be she could get some new ideas from Mary's dresses, which she very coolly asked to see. With the utmost good humor, Mary opened her entire wardrobe to the inspection of the widow, who, having recently forsaken the Unitarian faith, and gone over to the new Methodist church in River street, turned conscientiously away from the gay party dresses, wondering how sensible people, to say nothing of Christian people, could find pleasure in such vanities!

"But then," said she, "I hear you've joined the Episcopals, and that accounts for it, for they allow of most any thing, and in my opinion ain't a whit better than the Catholics."

"Why, we are Catholic. Ain't you?" asked Mary.

The knitting work dropped, and with a short ejaculatory prayer of "Good Lord," Mrs. Perkins exclaimed, "Well, I'm glad you've owned up. Half on 'em deny it,—but there 'tis in black and white in the Prayer Book, 'I believe in the Holy Catholic Church.'"

It was in vain that Mary referred her to the Dictionary for a definition of the word 'Catholic.' She knew all she wanted to know, and she shouldn't wonder, bein' 'twas Friday, if Miss Mason didn't have no meat for dinner.

The appearance of a nicely roasted bit of veal quieted her fears on that subject, and as the effects of the strong green tea became apparent, she said, "like enough she'd been too hard on the Episcopals, for to tell the truth, she never felt so solemn in her life as she did the time she went to one of their meetins'; but," she added, "I do object to them two gowns, and I can't help it!"

At last the day was over, and with it the visit of the widow, who had gathered enough gossiping materials to last her until the Monday following, when the arrival in the neighborhood of George Moreland, threw her upon a fresh theme, causing her to wonder "if 'twan't Mary's beau, and if he hadn't been kinder courtin' her ever since the time he visited her school."

She felt sure of it when, towards evening, she saw them enter the school-house, and nothing but the presence of a visitor prevented her from stealing across the road, and listening under the window. She would undoubtedly have been highly edified, could she have heard their conversation. The interest which George had felt in Mary when a little child, was greatly increased when he visited her school in Rice Corner, and saw how much she was improved in her manners and appearance; and it was then that he conceived the idea of educating her, determining to marry her if she proved to be all he hoped she would.

That she did meet his expectations, was evident from the fact that his object in stopping at Chicopee, was to settle a question which she alone could decide. He had asked her to accompany him to the school-house, because it was there his resolution had been formed, and it was there he would make it known. Mary, too, had something which she wished to say to him. She would thank him for his kindness to her and her parents' memory; but the moment she commenced talking upon the subject, George stopped her, and for the first time since they were children, placed his arm around her waist, and kissing her smooth white brow, said, "Shall I tell you, Mary, how you can repay it?"

She did not reply, and he continued, "Give me a husband's right to care for you, and I shall be repaid a thousand fold."

Whatever Mary's answer might have been, and indeed we are not sure that she answered at all, George was satisfied; and when he told her how dear she was to him, how long he had loved her, and asked if he might not hope that he, too, had been remembered, the little golden locket which she placed in his hand was a sufficient reply. Without Ida's aid he had heard of the relationship existing between Mrs. Campbell and Mary, but it made no difference with him. His mind had long been made up, and in taking Mary for his wife, he felt that he was receiving the best of Heaven's blessings.

Until the shadows of evening fell around them they sat there, talking of the future, which George said should be all one bright dream of happiness to the young girl at his side, who from the very fulness of her joy wept as she thought how strange it was that she should be the wife of George Moreland, whom many a dashing belle had tried in vain to win. The next morning George went back to Boston, promising to return in a week or two, when he should expect Mary to accompany him to Glenwood, as he wished to see Rose once more before she died.



CHAPTER XXXII.

GOING HOME.

The windows of Rose Lincoln's chamber were open, and the balmy air of May came in, kissing the white brow of the sick girl, and whispering to her of swelling buds and fair young blossoms, which its breath had wakened into life, and which she would never see.

"Has Henry come?" she asked of her father, and in the tones of her voice there was an unusual gentleness, for just as she was dying Rose was learning to live.

For a time she had seemed so indifferent and obstinate, that Mrs. Howland had almost despaired. But night after night, when her daughter thought she slept, she prayed for the young girl, that she might not die until she had first learned the way of eternal life. And, as if in answer to her prayers, Rose gradually began to listen, and as she listened, she wept, wondering though why her grandmother thought her so much more wicked than any one else. Again, in a sudden burst of passion, she would send her from the room, saying, "she had heard preaching enough, for she wasn't going to die,—she wouldn't die any way."

But at last such feelings passed away, and as the sun of her short life was setting, the sun of righteousness shone more and more brightly over her pathway, lighting her through the dark valley of death. She no longer asked to be taken home, for she knew that could not be, but she wondered why her brother stayed so long from Glenwood, when he knew that she was dying.

On her return from the city, Jenny had told her as gently as possible of his conduct towards Ella, and of her fears that he was becoming more dissipated than ever. For a time Rose lay perfectly still, and Jenny, thinking she was asleep, was about to leave the room, when her sister called her back, and bidding her sit down by her side, said, "Tell me, Jenny, do you think Henry has any love for me?"

"He would be an unnatural brother if he had not," answered Jenny, her own heart yearning more tenderly towards her sister, whose gentle manner she could not understand.

"Then," resumed Rose, "if he loves me, he will be sorry when I am dead, and perhaps it may save him from ruin."

The tears dropped slowly from her long eyelashes, while Jenny, laying her round rosy cheek against the thin pale face near her, sobbed out, "You must not die,—dear Rose. You must not die, and leave us."

From that time the failure was visible and rapid, and though letters went frequently to Henry, telling him of his sister's danger, he still lingered by the side of the brilliant beauty, while each morning Rose asked, "Will he come to-day?" and each night she wept that he was not there.

Calmly and without a murmur she had heard the story of their ruin from her father, who could not let her die without undeceiving her. Before that time she had asked to be taken back to Mount Auburn, designating the spot where she would be buried, but now she insisted upon being laid by the running brook at the foot of her grandmother's garden, and near a green mossy bank where the spring blossoms were earliest found, and where the flowers of autumn lingered longest. The music of the falling water, she said would soothe her as she slept, and its cool moisture keep the grass green and fresh upon her early grave.

One day, when Mrs. Lincoln was sitting by her daughter and, as she frequently did, uttering invectives against Mount Holyoke, &c., Rose said, "Don't talk so, mother. Mount Holyoke Seminary had nothing to do with hastening my death. I have done it myself by my own carelessness;" and then she confessed how many times she had deceived her mother, and thoughtlessly exposed her health, even when her lungs and side were throbbing with pain. "I know you will forgive me," said she, "for most severely have I been punished."

Then, as she heard Jenny's voice in the room below, she added, "There is one other thing which I would say to you Ere I die, you must promise that Jenny shall marry William Bender. He is poor, I know, and so are we, but he has a noble heart, and now for my sake, mother, take back the bitter words you once spoke to Jenny, and say that she may wed him. She will soon be your only daughter, and why should you destroy her happiness? Promise me, mother, promise that she shall marry him."

Mrs. Lincoln, though poor, was proud and haughty still, and the struggle in her bosom was long and severe, but love for her dying child conquered at last, and to the oft-repeated question, "Promise me, mother, will you not?" she answered, "Yes, Rose, yes, for your sake I give my consent though nothing else could ever have wrung it from me."

"And, mother," continued Rose, "may he not be sent for now? I cannot be here long, and once more I would see him, and tell him that I gladly claim him as a brother."

A brother! How heavily those words smote upon the heart of the sick girl. Henry was yet away, and though in Jenny's letter Rose herself had once feebly traced the words, "Come, brother,—do come," he still lingered, as if bound by a spell he could not break. And so days went by and night succeeded night, until the bright May morning dawned, the last Rose could ever see. Slowly up the eastern horizon came the warm spring sun, and as its red beams danced for a time upon the wall of Rose's chamber, she gazed wistfully upon it, murmuring, "It is the last,—the last that will ever rise for me."

William Bender was there. He had come the night before, bringing word that Henry would follow the next day. There was a gay party to which he had promised to attend Miss Herndon, and he deemed that a sufficient reason why he should neglect his dying sister, who every few minutes asked eagerly if he had come. Strong was the agony at work in the father's heart, and still he nerved himself to support his daughter while he watched the shadows of death as one by one they crept over her face. The mother, wholly overcome, declared she could not remain in the room, and on the lounge below she kept two of the neighbors constantly moving in quest of the restoratives which she fancied she needed. Poor Jenny, weary and pale with watching and tears, leaned heavily against William; and Rose, as often as her eyes unclosed and rested upon her, would whisper, "Jenny,—dear Jenny, I wish I had loved you more."

Grandma Howland had laid many a dear one in the grave, and as she saw another leaving her, she thought, "how grew her store in Heaven," and still her heart was quivering with anguish, for Rose had grown strongly into her affection. But for the sake of the other stricken ones she hushed her own grief, knowing it would not be long ere she met her child again. And truly it seemed more meet that she with her gray hair and dim eyes should die even then, than that Rose, with the dew of youth still glistening upon her brow, should thus early be laid low.

"If Henry does not come," said Rose, "tell him it was my last request that he turn away from the wine-cup, and say, that the bitterest pang I felt in dying, was a fear that my only brother should fill a drunkard's grave. He cannot look upon me dead, and feel angry that I wished him to reform. And as he stands over my coffin, tell him to promise never again to touch the deadly poison."

Here she became too much exhausted to say more, and soon after fell into a quiet sleep. When she awoke, her father was sitting across the room, with his head resting upon the window sill, while her own was pillowed upon the strong arm of George Moreland, who bent tenderly over her, and soothed her as he would a child. Quickly her fading cheek glowed, and her eye sparkled with something of its olden light; but "George,—George," was all she had strength to say, and when Mary, who had accompanied him, approached her, she only knew that she was recognized by the pressure of the little blue-veined hand, which soon dropped heavily upon the counterpane, while the eyelids closed languidly, and with the words, "He will not come," she again slept, but this time 'twas the long, deep sleep, from which she would never awaken.

* * * * *

Slowly the shades of night fell around the cottage where death had so lately left its impress. Softly the kind-hearted neighbors passed up and down the narrow staircase, ministering first to the dead, and then turning aside to weep as they looked upon the bowed man, who with his head upon the window sill, still sat just as he did when they told him she was dead. At his feet on a little stool was Jenny, pressing his hands, and covering them with the tears she for his sake tried in vain to repress.

At last, when it was dark without, and lights were burning upon the table, there was the sound of some one at the gate, and in a moment Henry stepped across the threshold, but started and turned pale when he saw his mother in violent hysterics upon the lounge, and Mary Howard bathing her head and trying to soothe her. Before he had time to ask a question, Jenny's arms were wound around his neck, and she whispered, "Rose is dead.—Why were you so late?"

He could not answer. He had nothing to say, and mechanically following his sister he entered the room where Rose had died. Very beautiful had she been in life; and now, far more beautiful in death, she looked like a piece of sculptured marble; as she lay there so cold, and still, and all unconscious of the scalding tears which fell upon her face, as Henry bent over her, kissing her lips, and calling upon her to awake and speak to him once more.

When she thought he could bear it, Jenny told him of all Rose had said, and by the side of her coffin, with his hand resting upon her white forehead, the conscience-stricken young man swore, that never again should ardent spirits of any kind pass his lips, and the father who stood by and heard that vow, felt that if it were kept, his daughter had not died in vain.

The day following the burial. George and Mary returned to Chicopee, and as the next day was the one appointed for the sale of Mr. Lincoln's farm and country house, he also accompanied them.

"Suppose you buy it," said he to George as they rode over the premises. "I'd rather you'd own it than to see it in the hands of strangers."

"I intended doing so," answered George, and when at night he was the owner of the farm, house and furniture, he generously offered it to Mr. Lincoln rent free, with the privilege of redeeming it whenever he could.

This was so unexpected, that Mr. Lincoln at first could hardly find words to express his thanks, but when he did he accepted the offer, saying, however, that he could pay the rent, and adding that he hoped two or three years of hard labor in California, whither he intended going, would enable him to purchase it back. On his return to Glenwood, he asked William, who was still there, "how he would like to turn farmer for a while."

Jenny looked up in surprise, while William asked what he meant.

Briefly then Mr. Lincoln told of George's generosity, and stating his own intentions of going to California, said that in his absence somebody must look after the farm, and he knew of no one whom he would as soon trust as William.

"Oh, that'll be nice," said Jenny, whose love for the country was as strong as ever. "And then, Willie, when pa comes back we'll go to Boston again and practise law, you and I!"

William pressed the little fat hand which had slid into his, and replied, that much as he would like to oblige Mr. Lincoln, he could not willingly abandon his profession, in which he was succeeding even beyond his most sanguine hopes. "But," said he, "I think I can find a good substitute in Mr. Parker, who is anxious to leave the poor-house. He is an honest, thorough-going man, and his wife, who is an excellent housekeeper, will relieve Mrs. Lincoln entirely from care."

"Mercy!" exclaimed the last-mentioned lady, "I can never endure that vulgar creature round me. First, I'd know she'd want to be eating at the same table, and I couldn't survive that!"

Mr. Lincoln looked sad. Jenny smiled, and William replied, that he presumed Mrs. Parker herself would greatly prefer taking her meals quietly with her husband in the kitchen.

"We can at least try it," said Mr. Lincoln, in a manner so decided that his wife ventured no farther remonstrance, though she cried and fretted all the time, seemingly lamenting their fallen fortune, more than the vacancy which death had so recently made in their midst.

Mr. Parker, who was weary of the poor-house, gladly consented to take charge of Mr. Lincoln's farm, and in the course of a week or two Jenny and her mother went out to their old home, where every thing seemed just as they had left it the autumn before. The furniture was untouched, and in the front parlor stood Rose's piano and Jenny's guitar, which had been forwarded from Boston. Mr. Lincoln urged his mother-in-law to accompany them, but she shook her head, saying, "the old bees never left their hives," and she preferred remaining in Glenwood.

Contrary to Mrs. Lincoln's fears, Sally Ann made no advances whatever towards an intimate acquaintance, and frequently days and even weeks would elapse without her ever seeing her mistress, who spent nearly all her time in her chamber, musing upon her past greatness, and scolding Jenny, because she was not more exclusive. While the family were making arrangements to move from Glenwood to Chicopee. Henry for the first time in his life began to see of how little use he was to himself or any one else. Nothing was expected of him, consequently nothing was asked of him, and as his father made plans for the future, he began to wonder how he himself was henceforth to exist. His father would be in California, and he had too much pride to lounge around the old homestead, which had come to them through George Moreland's generosity.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he too would go with his father,—he would help him repair their fortune,—he would not be in the way of so much temptation as at home,—he would be a man, and when he returned home, hope painted a joyful meeting with his mother and Jenny, who should be proud to acknowledge him as a son and brother. Mr. Lincoln warmly seconded his resolution, which possibly would have never been carried out, had not Henry heard of Miss Herndon's engagement with a rich old bachelor whom he had often heard her ridicule. Cursing the fickleness of the fair lady, and half wishing that he had not broken with Ella, whose fortune, though not what he had expected, was considerable, he bade adieu to his native sky, and two weeks after the family removed to Chicopee, he sailed with his father for the land of gold.

But alas! The tempter was there before him, and in an unguarded moment he fell. The newly-made grave, the narrow coffin, the pale, dead sister, and the solemn vow were all forgotten, and a debauch of three weeks was followed by a violent fever, which in a few days cut short his mortal career. He died alone, with none but his father to witness his wild ravings, in which he talked of his distant home, of Jenny and Rose, Mary Howard, and Ella, the last of whom he seemed now to love with a madness amounting almost to frenzy. Tearing out handfuls of his rich brown hair, he thrust it into his father's hand, bidding him to carry it to Ella, and tell her that the heart she had so earnestly coveted was hers in death. And the father, far more wretched now than when his first-born daughter died, promised every thing, and when his only son was dead, he laid him down to sleep beneath the blue sky of California, where not one of the many bitter tears shed for him in his far off home could fall upon his lonely grave.



CHAPTER XXXIII

CONCLUSION.

Great was the excitement in Rice Corner when it was known that on the evening of the tenth of September a grand wedding would take place, at the house of Mrs. Mason. Mary was to be married to the "richest man in Boston," so the story ran, and what was better yet, many of the neighbors were to be invited. Almost every day, whether pleasant or not, Jenny Lincoln came over to discuss the matter, and to ask if it were not time to send for William, who was to be one of the groomsmen, while she, together with Ida, were to officiate as bridesmaids. In this last capacity Ella had been requested to act, but the tears came quickly to her large mournful eyes, and turning away she wondered how Mary could thus mock her grief!

From one fashionable watering place to another Mrs. Campbell had taken her, and finding that nothing there had power to rouse her drooping energies, she had, towards the close of the summer, brought her back to Chicopee, hoping that old scenes and familiar faces would effect what novelty and excitement had failed to do. All unworthy as Henry Lincoln had been, his sad death had cast a dark shadow across Ella's pathway. Hour after hour would she sit, gazing upon the locks of shining hair, which over land and sea had come to her in a letter from the father, who told her of the closing scene, when Henry called for her, to cool the heat of his fevered brow. Every word and look of tenderness was treasured up, and the belief fondly cherished that he had always loved her thus, else why in the last fearful struggle was she alone remembered of all the dear ones in his distant home?

Not even the excitement of her sister's approaching marriage could awaken in her the least interest, and if it were mentioned in her presence she would weep, wondering what she had done that Mary should be so much happier than herself, and Mrs. Campbell remembering the past, could but answer in her heart that it was just. Sometimes Ella accused her sister of neglect, saying she had no thought for any one, except George Moreland, and his elegant house in Boston. It was in vain that Mary strove to convince her of her mistake. She only shook her head, hoping her sister would never know what it was to be wretched and desolate as she was. Mary could have told her of many weary days and sleepless nights, when there shone no star of hope in her dark sky, and when even her only sister turned from her in scorn; but she would not, and wiping away the tears which Ella's unkindness had called forth, she went back to her home, where busy preparations were making for her bridal.

Never before had Mrs. Perkins, or the neighborhood generally, had so much upon their hands at one time. Two dressmakers were sewing for Mary. A colored cook, with a flaming red turban, came up from Worcester to superintend the culinary department, and a week before the wedding Aunt Martha also arrived, bringing with her a quantity of cut glass of all sizes and dimensions, the uses of which could not even be guessed, though the widow declared upon her honor, a virtue by which she always swore, that two of them were called "cellar dishes," adding that the "Lord only knew what that was!"

With all her quizzing, prying, and peeking, Mrs. Perkins was unable to learn any thing definite with regard to the wedding dress, and as a last resort, she appealed to Jenny, "who of course ought to know, seein' she was goin' to stand up with 'em."

"O, yes, I know," said Jenny, mischievously, and pulling from her pocket a bit of brown and white plaid silk,—Mary's travelling dress,—she passed it to the widow, who straightway wondered at Mary's taste in selecting "that gingham-looking thing!"

Occasionally the widow felt some doubt as she heard rumors of pink brocades, India muslins, heavy silks, and embroidered merino morning-gowns; "but law," thought she "them are for the city. Any thing 'll do for the country, though I should s'pose she'd want to look decent before all the Boston top-knots that are comin'."

Three days before the wedding, the widow's heart was made glad with a card of invitation, though she wondered why Mrs. Mason should say she would be "at home." "Of course she'd be to hum,—where else should she be!"

It was amusing to see the airs which Mrs. Perkins took upon herself, when conversing with some of her neighbors, who were not fortunate enough to be invited. "They couldn't ask every body, and 'twas natural for them to select from the best families."

Her pride, however, received a fall when she learned that Sally Furbush had not only been invited, and presented with a black silk dress for the occasion, but that George Moreland, who arrived the day preceding the wedding, had gone for her himself, treating her with all the deference that he would the most distinguished lady. And truly for once Sally acquitted herself with a great deal of credit, and remembering Miss Grundy's parting advice, to "keep her tongue between her teeth," she so far restrained her loquacity, that a stranger would never have thought of her being crazy.

The bridal day was bright, beautiful, and balmy, as the first days of September often are, and when the sun went down, the full silvery moon came softly up, as if to shower her blessings upon the nuptials about to be celebrated. Many and brilliant lights were flashing from the windows of Mrs. Mason's cottage, which seemed to enlarge its dimensions as one after another the guests came in. First and foremost was the widow with her rustling silk of silver gray, and the red ribbons which she had sported at Sally Ann's wedding. After a series of manoeuvres she had succeeded in gaining a view of the supper table, and now in a corner of the room she was detailing the particulars to an attentive group of listeners.

"The queerest things I ever see," said she, "and the queerest names, too. Why, at one end of the table is a muslin de laine puddin'—"

"A what?" asked three or four ladies in the same breath, and the widow replied,—"May-be I didn't get the name right,—let me see:—No, come to think, it's a Charlotte somebody puddin' instead of a muslin de laine. And then at t'other end of the table is what I should call a dish of hash, but Judith says it's 'chicken Sally,' and it took the white meat of six or seven chickens to make it. Now what in the world they'll ever do with all them legs and backs and things, is more'n I can tell, but, land sake there come some of the puckers. Is my cap on straight?" she continued, as Mrs. Campbell entered the room, together with Ella, and a number of Boston ladies.

Being assured that her cap was all right, she resumed the conversation by directing the attention of those nearest her to Ella, and saying in a whisper, "If she hain't faded in a year, then I don't know; but, poor thing, she's been disappointed, so it's no wonder!" and thinking of her own experience with Mr. Parker, the widow's heart warmed toward the young girl, who, pale and languid, dropped into the nearest seat, while her eyes moved listlessly about the room. The rich, showy dresses of the city people also, came in for observation, and while the widow marvelled at their taste in wearing "collars as big as capes," she guessed that Mary'd feel flat in her checkered silk, when she came to see every body so dressed up.

And now guest after guest flitted down the narrow staircase and entered the parlor, which with the bedroom adjoining was soon filled. Erelong Mr. Selden, who seemed to be master of ceremonies appeared, and whispered something to those nearest the door. Immediately the crowd fell back, leaving a vacant space in front of the mirror. The busy hum of voices died away, and only a few suppressed whispers of, "There!—Look!—See!—Oh, my!" were heard, as the bridal party took their places.

The widow, being in the rear, and rather short, slipped off her shoes, and mounted into a chair, for a better view, and when Mary appeared, she was very nearly guilty of an exclamation of surprise, for in place of the "checkered silk" was an elegant moire antique, and an expensive bertha of point lace, while the costly bridal veil, which swept the floor, and fell in soft folds on either side of her head, was confined to the heavy braids of her hair by diamond fastenings. A diamond necklace encircled her slender throat, and bracelets of the same shone upon her round white arms. The whole was the gift of George Moreland, who had claimed the privilege of selecting and presenting the bridal dress, and who felt a pardonable pride when he saw how well it became Mary's graceful and rather queenly form.

At her left stood her bridesmaids, Ida and Jenny, while at George's right, were Mr. Elwood and William Bender the latter of whom looked on calmly while the solemn words were spoken which gave the idol of his boyhood to another and if he felt a momentary pang when he saw how fondly the newly made husband bent over his young bride, it passed away as his eye fell upon Jenny, who was now dearer to him, if possible, than Mary had ever been.

Among the first to congratulate "Mrs. Moreland," was Sally Furbush, followed by Mrs. Perkins, who whispered to George that "she kinder had a notion how 'twoud end when she first saw him in the school-house; but I'm glad you've got him," turning to Mary, "for it must be easier livin' in the city than keepin' school. You'll have a hired girl, I s'pose?"

When supper was announced, the widow made herself very useful in waiting upon the table, and asking some of the Boston ladies "if they'd be helped to any thing in them dishes," pointing to the finger glasses, which now for the first time appeared in Rice Corner! The half suppressed mirth of the ladies convinced the widow that she'd made a blunder, and perfectly disgusted with "new-fangled fashions" she retreated into the kitchen, were she found things more to her taste, and "thanked her stars, she could, if she liked, eat with her fingers, and wipe them on her pocket handkerchief!"

Soon after her engagement, Mary had asked that Sally should go with her to her city home. To this George willingly consented, and it was decided that she should remain with Mrs. Mason until the bridal party returned from the western tour they were intending to take. Sally knew nothing of this arrangement until the morning following the wedding, when she was told that she was not to return to the poor-house again.

"And verily, I have this day met with a great deliverance," said she, and tears, the first shed in many a year mingled with the old creature's thanks for this unexpected happiness. As Mary was leaving, she whispered in her ear "If your travels lead you near Willie's grave, drop a tear on it for my sake. You'll find it under the buckeye tree, where the tall grass and wild flowers grow."

George had relatives in Chicago, and after spending a short time in that city, Mary, remembering Sally's request, expressed a desire to visit the spot renowned as the burial place of "Willie and Willie's father." Ever ready to gratify her slightest wish, George consented, and towards the close of a mild autumnal day, they stopped at a small public house on the border of a vast prairie. The arrival of so distinguished looking people caused quite a commotion, and after duly inspecting Mary's handsome travelling dress, and calculating its probable cost, the hostess departed to prepare the evening meal, which was soon forthcoming.

When supper was over, and the family had gathered into the pleasant sitting room, George asked if there was ever a man in those parts by the name of "Furbush."

"What! Bill Furbush?" asked the landlord.

George did not know, but thought likely that might have seen his name, as his son was called William.

"Lud, yes," returned the landlord. "I knowed Bill Furbush well,—he came here about the same time I did, he from Massachusetts, and I from Varmount; but, poor feller, he was too weakly to bear much, and the first fever he took finished him up. His old woman was as clever a creature as ever was, but she had some high notions."

"Did she die too?" asked George.

Filling his mouth with an enormous quid of tobacco, the landlord continued, "No, but it's a pity she didn't, for when Bill and the boy died, she went ravin' mad, and I never felt so like cryin' as I did when I see her a tearin' her hair an goin' on so. We kept her a spell, and then her old man' brother's girl came for her and took her off; and the last I heard, the girl was dead, and she was in the poor-house somewhere east. She was born there, I b'lieve."

"No she warn't, either," said the landlady, who for some minutes had been aching to speak. "No she warn't, either. I know all about it. She was born in England, and got to be quite a girl before she came over. Her name was Sarah Fletcher, and Peter Fletcher, who died with the cholera, was her own uncle, and all the connection she had in this country;—but goodness suz, what ails you?" she added, as Mary turned deathly white, while George passed his arm around her to keep her from falling. "Here, Sophrony, fetch the camphire; she's goin' to faint."

But Mary did not faint, and after smelling the camphor, she said, "Go on, madam, and tell me more of Sarah Fletcher."

"She can do it," whispered the landlord with a sly wink. "She knows every body's history from Dan to Beersheby."

This intimation was wholly lost on the good-humored hostess, who continued, "Mr. Fletcher died when Sarah was small, and her mother married a Mr. ——, I don't justly remember his name"

"Temple?" suggested Mary.

"Yes, Temple, that's it. He was rich and cross, and broke her heart by the time she had her second baby. Sarah was adopted by her Grandmother Fletcher who died, and she came with her uncle to America."

"Did she ever speak of her sisters?" asked Mary, and the woman replied, "Before she got crazy, she did. One of 'em, she said, was in this country somewhere, and t'other the one she remembered the best, and talked the most about, lived in England. She said she wanted to write to 'em, but her uncle, he hated the Temples, so he wouldn't let her, and as time went on she kinder forgot 'em, and didn't know where to direct, and after she took crazy she never would speak of her sisters, or own that she had any."

"Is Mr. Furbush buried near here?" asked George; and the landlord answered, "Little better than a stone's throw. I can see the very tree from here, and may-be your younger eyes can make out the graves. He ought to have a grave stun, for he was a good feller."

The new moon was shining, and Mary, who came to her husband's side, could plainly discern the buckeye tree and the two graves where "Willie and Willie's father" had long been sleeping. The next morning before the sun was up, Mary stood by the mounds where often in years gone by Sally Furbush had seen the moon go down, and the stars grow pale in the coming day, as she kept her tireless watch over her loved and lost.

"Willie was my cousin—your cousin," said Mary, resting her foot upon the bit of board which stood at the head of the little graves. George understood her wishes, and when they left the place, a handsome marble slab marked the spot where the father and his infant son were buried.

* * * * *

Bewildered, and unable to comprehend a word, Sally listened while Mary told her of the relationship between them; but the mists which for years had shrouded her reason were too dense to be suddenly cleared away; and when Mary wept, winding her arms around her neck and calling her "Aunt;" and when the elegant Mrs. Campbell, scarcely less bewildered than Sally herself, came forward addressing her as "sister," she turned aside to Mrs. Mason, asking in a whisper "what had made them crazy."

But when Mary spoke of little Willie's grave, and the tree which overshadowed it, of the green prairie and cottage by the brook, once her western home, Sally listened, and at last one day, a week or two after her arrival in Boston, she suddenly clasped her hands closely over her temples, exclaiming, "It's come! It's come! I remember now,—the large garden,—the cross old man,—the dead mother,—the rosy-cheeked Ella I loved so well—"

"That was my mother,—my mother," interrupted Mary.

For a moment Sally regarded her intently, and then catching her in her arms, cried over her, calling her, "her precious child," and wondering she had never noticed how much she was like Ella.

"And don't you remember the baby Jane?" asked Mrs Campbell, who was present.

"Perfectly,—perfectly," answered Sally. "He died, and you came in a carriage; but didn't cry,—nobody cried but Mary."

It was in vain that Mary tried to explain to her that Mrs. Campbell was her sister,—once the baby Jane. Sally was not to be convinced. To her Jane and the little Alice were the same. There was none of her blood in Mrs. Campbell's veins, "or why," said she, "did she leave us so long in obscurity, me and my niece, Mrs. George Moreland, Esq.!"

This was the title which she always gave Mary when speaking of her, while to Ella, who occasionally spent a week in her sister's pleasant home, she gave the name of "little cipher," as expressing exactly her opinion of her. Nothing so much excited Sally, or threw her into so violent a passion, as to have Ella call her aunt.

"If I wasn't her kin when I wore a sixpenny calico," said she, "I certainly am not now that I dress in purple and fine linen."

When Sally first went to Boston, George procured for her the best possible medical advice, but her case was of so long standing that but little hope was entertained of her entire recovery. Still every thing was done for her that could be done, and after a time she became far less boisterous than formerly, and sometimes appeared perfectly rational for days. She still retained her taste for literature, and nothing but George's firmness and decision prevented her from sending off the manuscript of her grammar, which was now finished. It was in vain that he told her she was not now obliged to write for a living, as he had more than enough for her support.

She replied it was not money she coveted, but reputation,—a name,—to be pointed at as Mrs. Sarah Furbush, authoress of "Furbush's Grammar," &c.,—this was her aim!

"You may write all you choose for the entertainment of ourselves and our friends," said George, "but I cannot allow you to send any thing to a publisher,"

Sally saw he was in earnest, and at last yielded the point, telling Mary in confidence that "she never saw any one in her life she feared as she did Esquire Moreland when he set his foot down!"

And George did seem to have a wonderful influence over her, for a single look from him would quiet her when in her wildest moods. In spite of the desire she once expressed of finding her sister, Mrs. Campbell's pride at first shrank from acknowledging a relationship between herself and Sally Furbush, but the fact that George Moreland brought her to his home, treating her in every respect as his equal, and always introducing her to his fashionable friends as his aunt, gradually reconciled her to the matter, and she herself became at last very attentive to her, frequently urging her to spend a part of the time with her. But Sal always refused, saying that "for the sake of her niece she must be very particular in the choice of her associates!"

True to her promise, on Mary's twenty-first birth-day, Mrs Campbell made over to her one fourth of her property, and Mary, remembering her intentions towards William Bender, immediately offered him one half of it. But he declined accepting it, saying that his profession was sufficient to support both himself and Jenny, for in a few weeks Jenny, whose father had returned from California, was coming, and already a neat little cottage, a mile from, the city, was being prepared for her reception. Mary did not urge the matter, but many an article of furniture more costly than William was able to purchase found its way into the cottage, which with its overhanging vines, climbing roses, and profusion of flowers, seemed just the home for Jenny Lincoln.

And when the flowers were in full bloom, when the birds sung amid the trees, and the summer sky was bright and blue, Jenny came to the cottage, a joyous, loving bride, believing her own husband the best in the world, and wondering if there was ever any one as happy as herself. And Jenny was very happy. Blithe as a bee she flitted about the house and garden, and if in the morning a tear glistened in her laughing eyes as William bade her adieu, it was quickly dried, and all day long she busied herself in her household matters, studying some agreeable surprise for her husband, and trying for his sake to be very neat and orderly. Then when the clock pointed the hour for his return, she would station herself at the gate, and William, as he kissed the moisture from her rosy cheek, thought her a perfect enigma to weep when he went away, and weep when he came home.

There was no place which Ella loved so well to visit, of where she seemed so happy, as at the "Cottage," and as she was of but little use at home, she frequently spent whole weeks with Jenny, becoming gradually more cheerful,—more like herself, but always insisting that she should never be married.

The spring following Mary's removal to Boston, Mrs. Mason came down to the city to live with her adopted daughter, greatly to the delight of Aunt Martha, whose home was lonelier than it was wont to be, for George was gone, and Ida too had recently been married to Mr. Elwood, and removed to Lexington, Kentucky.

And now a glance at Chicopee, and our story is done. Mr. Lincoln's California adventure had been a successful one, and not long after his return he received from George Moreland a conveyance of the farm, which, under Mr. Parker's efficient management, was in a high state of cultivation. Among the inmates of the poor-house but few changes have taken place. Miss Grundy, who continues at the helm, has grown somewhat older and crosser; while Uncle Peter labors industriously at his new fiddle, the gift of Mary, who is still remembered with much affection.

Lydia Knight, now a young lady of sixteen, is a pupil at Mount Holyoke, and Mrs. Perkins, after wondering and wondering where the money came from, has finally concluded that "some of George's folks must have sent it!"

THE END.



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Tempest and Sunshine $1.50

English Orphans $1.50

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Meadow Brook $1.50

Dora Deane $1.50

Cousin Maude $1.50

Marian Grey $1.50

Edith Lyle (New) $1.50

Darkness and Daylight $1.50

Hugh Worthington $1.50

Cameron Pride $1.50

Rose Mather $1.50

Ethelyn's Mistake $1.50

Millbank $1.50

Edna Browning $1.50

West Lawn (New) $1.50

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Alone $1.50

Hidden Path $1.50

Moss Side $1.50

Nemesis $1.50

Miriam $1.50

At Last $1.50

Helen Gardner $1.50

True as Steel (New) $1.50

Sunnybank $1.50

Husbands and Homes $1.50

Ruby's Husband $1.50

Phemie's Temptation $1.50

The Empty Heart $1.50

Jessamine $1.50

From My Youth Up $1.50

My Little Love (New) $1.50

Charles Dickens—15 Vols.-"Carleton's Edition."

Pickwick, and Catalogue $1.50

Dombey and Son $1.50

Bleak House $1.50

Martin Chuzzlewit $1.50

Barnaby Rudge—Edwin Drood $1.50

Child's England—Miscellaneous $1.50

David Copperfield $1.50

Nicholas Nickleby $1.50

Little Dorrit $1.50

Our Mutual Friend $1.50

Curiosity Shop—Miscellaneous $1.50

Sketches by Boz—Hard Times $1.50

Oliver Twist—and—The Uncommercial Traveler $1.50

Great Expectations—and—Pictures of Italy and America $1.50

Christmas Books—and—A Tale of Two Cities $1.50

Sets of Dickens' Complete Works, in 15 vols.—[elegant $60.00 half calf bindings]

Augusta J. Evans' Novels.

Beulah $1.75

Macaria $1.75

Inez $1.75

St. Elmo $2.00

Vashti $2.00

Infelice (New) $2.00

Miriam Coles Harris.

Rutledge $1.50

Frank Warrington $1.50

Louie's Last Term, etc $1.50

Richard Vandermarck $1.50

The Sutherlands $1.50

St. Philip's $1.50

Round Hearts, for Children $1.50

A Perfect Adonis. (New) $1.50

May Agnes Fleming's Novels.

Guy Earlacourt's Wife $1.75

A Terrible Secret $1.75

Norine'a Revenge $1.75

A Wonderful Woman $1.75

A Mad Marriage $1.75

One Night's Mystery $1.75

Kate Canton. (New) $1.75

Parlor Table Companion.

A Home Treasury of Biography, Romance, $1.50 Poetry, History, etc.

Julie P. Smith's Novels.

Widow Goldsmith's Daughter $1.75

Chris and Otho $1.75

Ten Old Maids $1.75

His Young Wife. (New) $1.75

The Widower $1.75

The Married Belle $1.75

Courting and Farming $1.75

Captain Mayne Reid—Illustrated

The Scalp Hunters $1.50

The Rifle Rangers $1.50

The War Trail $1.50

The Wood Rangers $1.50

The Wild Huntress $1.50

The White Chief $1.50

The Tiger Hunter $1.50

The Hunter's Feast $1.50

Wild Life $1.50

Osceola, the Seminole $1.50

A.S. Roe's Select Stories.

True to the Last $1.50

The Star and the Cloud $1.50

How Could He Help It? $1.50

A Long Look Ahead $1.50

I've Been Thinking $1.50

To Love and to be Loved $1.50

Charles Dickens.

Child's History of England.—Carleton's New $1.25 "School Edition." Illustrated

Hand-Books of Society.

Habits of Good Society.—The nice points of taste $1.50 and good manners

Art of Conversation.—For those who wish to be $1.50 agreeable talkers or listeners

Arts of Writing, Reading, and Speaking.—For $1.50 self-improvement

New Diamond Edition.—Small size, elegantly $3.00 bound, 3 volumes in a box

Mrs. Hill's Cook Book.

Mrs. A.P. Hill's New Cookery Book, and family $2.00 domestic receipts

Famous Books—"Carleton's Edition."

Robinson Crusoe.—New 12mo edition, with $1.00 illustrations by ERNEST GRISET

Swiss Family Robinson.—New 12mo edition, with $1.00 illustrations by MARCEL

The Arabian Nights.—New 12mo edition, with $1.00 illustrations by DEMORAINE

Don Quixote.—New 12mo edition, with illustrations $1.00 by GUSTAVE DORE

Victor Hugo.

Les Miserables.—An English translation from the $2.50 original French. Octavo

Les Miserables.—In the Spanish Language. Two volumes, $5.00 cloth bound

Popular Italian Novels.

Doctor Antonio.—A love story of Italy. By Ruffini $1.75

Beatrice Cenci.—By Guerrazzi. With a steel $1.75 engraving from Guido's Picture

M. Michelet's Remarkable Works.

Love (L'amour),—English translation from the $1.50 original French

Woman (La Femme)—English translation from the $1.50 original French

Joaquin Miller.

The One Fair Woman—A new novel, the scene $2.00 laid chiefly in Italy

Joseph Rodman Drake.

The Culprit Fay.—The well-known fairy poem, with 100 $2.00 illustrations

Artemus Ward's Comic Works.

A New Stereotype Edition.—Embracing the whole of his $2.00 writings, with a Biography of the author, and profusely illustrated by various artists

Josh Billings.

His Complete Writings—with Biography, steel portrait, $2.00 and 100 illustrations

"New York Weekly" Series.

Thrown on the World $1.50

Peerless Cathleen $1.50

Faithful Margaret $1.50

Curse of Everleigh (In press) $1.50

Love Works Wonders do $1.50

Nick Whiffles $1.50

Lady Leonora $1.50

The Grinder Papers $1.50

A Bitter Atonement. (In press) $1.50

A New Novel. do $1.50

Carleton's Popular Quotations.

A New Hand-Book—The most popular Quotations, $1.50 with original authorship

Frank Lee Benedict's Novels.

'Twixt Hammer and Anvil $1.75

Madame $1.75

Violet Fane's Poems.

Constance's Fate; or Denzil Place $1.50

From Dawn to Noon $1.50

P.T. Barnum.

Lion Jack. For young folks $1.50

Jack in the Jungle (In press) $1.50

M.M. Pomeroy ("Brick.")

Sense—(a serious book) $1.50

Gold-Dust Do $1.50

Our Saturday Nights $1.50

Nonsense—(a comic book) $1.50

Brick-Dust Do $1.50

Home Harmonies (New) $1.50

Celia E. Gardner's Novels.

Stolen Waters—(in verse) $1.50

Broken Dreams. Do $1.50

A New Novel. (In press)

Tested (In prose) $1.75

Rich Medway's Two Loves. Do $1.75

A Woman's Wiles. (New) $1.75

Ernest Renan's French Works.

The Life of Jesus $1.75

Lives of the Apostles $1.75

The Life of St. Paul $1.75

The Bible in India.—By Jacolliot $2.00

Geo. W. Carleton.

Our Artist in Cuba.—Pictures $1.50

Our Artist in Peru.—Do $1.50

Our Artist in Africa.(In press) $1.50

Our Artist in Mexico. Do $1.50

Verdant Green.

A Racy English College Story—with numerous $1.50 original comic illustrations

Allan Pinkerton.

Model Town and Detectives $1.50

A new book, in press $1.50

Spiritualists and Detectives $1.50

Mollie Maguires and Detectives $1.50



Robert Dale Owen.

The Debatable Land Between this World and the Next $2.00

Threading My Way.—Twenty-five years of Autobiography $1.50

The Game of Whist.

Pole on Whist.—The late English standard work. $1.00 New enlarged edition

Miscellaneous Works.

Milly Darrell—A Novel by Miss M. E. Braddon, author $1.50 "Aurora Floyd," etc

Me; July and August—A New York lady's trials on a $1.00 Country Farm

Lights and Shadows of Spiritualism—By D.D. Home $2.00

West India Pickles—Journal of a Tropical Yacht Cruise, $1.50 by W.P. Talboys

G.A. Crofutt's Trans-Continental Tourist—New York to S. $1.50 Francisco

Laus Veneris and other Poems—By Algernon Charles $1.50 Swinburne

Parodies and Poems and My Vacation—By C.H. Webb (John $1.50 Paul)

Comic History of the United States—Livingston Hopkins. $1.50 Illustrated

Mother Goose Melodies Set to Music—with comic $1.00 illustrations

Morning Glories—By Louisa Alcott, author of "Little $1.50 Women," etc

Offenbach in America.—Translated from the Paris edition $1 50

The Annals of a Baby.—A companion to "Helen's Babies" $1.00

Betsy and I are Out.—And other Poems, by N.S. Emerson $1.50

A Woman in the Case.—A novel by Miss Bessie Turner. $1.50 With portrait

How to Make Money; and How to Keep It.—By Thomas A. $1.50 Davies

Our Children.—Teaching Parent's how to keep them in $2.00 Health. Dr. Gardner

Watchman; What of the Night.—By Dr. John Cumming, of $1.50 London

St. Jude's Assistant.—A new satirical novel of City $1.50 Clerical Life

Johnny Ludlow.—A collection of entertaining English $1.50 Stories

Glimpses of the Supernatural.—Facts, Records, and $2.00 Traditions

Fanny Fern Memorials.—With a Biography by James Parton $2.00

Tales From the Operas.—A collection of Stories based $1.50 upon the opera plots

New Nonsense Rhymes—By W.H. Beckett, with illustrations $1.00 by C.G. Bush

Wood's Guide to the City of New York.—Beautifully $1.00 illustrated

The Art of Amusing.—A book of home amusements, with $1.50 illustrations

A Book About Lawyers.—A curious and interesting volume. $2.00 By Jeaffreson

A Book About Doctors. Do. $2.00

The Birth and Triumph of Love.—Full of exquisite tinted $1.00 illustrations

Progressive Petticoats.—A satrical tale by Robert B. $1.50 Roosevelt

Ecce Femina; or, the Woman Zoe.—Cuyler Prime, author $1.00 "Mary Brandegee"

Souvenirs of Travel.—By Madame Octavia Walton Le Vert, $2.00 of Mobile, Ala.

Woman, Love and Marriage.—A spicy little work by Fred $1.50 Saunders

Shiftless Folks.—A new novel by Fannie Smith, "Widow $1.75 Goldsmith's Daughter"

A Woman in Armor.—A powerful new novel by Mary Hartwell $1.50

The Fall of Man.—A Darwinian satire. Author of "New .50 Gospel of Peace"

The Chronicles of Gotham.—A modern satire. Do. .25

Phemie Frost's Experiences.—By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens $1.75

Ballad of Lord Bateman.—With illustrations by .25 Cruikshank, (paper)

The Yachtman's Primer.—For amateur sailors. T.R. .50 Warren, (paper)

Rural Architecture.—By M. Field. With plans and $2.00 illustrations

Transformation Scenes in the United States.—By Hiram $1.50 Fulier

Marguerite's Journal.—Story for girls. Introduction by $1.50 author "Rutledge"

Kingsbury Sketches.—Pine Grove Doings, by John H. $1.50 Kingsbury. Illustrated

Miscellaneous Novels.

Led Astray.—By Octave Feuillet $1 75

She Loved Him Madly.—Borys $1.75

Through Thick and Thin.—Mery $1.75

So Fair Yet False.—Chavette $1.75

A Fatal Passion.—C. Bernard $1.75

Manfred.—F.D. Guerazzi $1.75

Seen and Unseen $1.50

Purple and Fine Linen.—Fawcett $1.75

Pauline's Trial.—L.L.D. Courtney $1.50

A Charming Widow.—Macquoid $1.75

True to Him Ever.—By F.W.R. $1.50

The Forgiving Kiss.—By M. Loth $1.75

Loyal Unto Death $1.75

Kenneth, My King.—S.A. Brock $1.75

Heart Hungry.—M.J. Westmoreland $1.75

Clifford Troupe. Do. $1.75

Silcott Mill.—Maria D. Deslonde $1.75

John Maribel. Do. $1.75

Ebon and Gold.—C.L. McIlvain $1.50

Passing the Portal.—Mrs. Victor $1.50

Out of the Cage.—G.W. Owen $1.50

Saint Leger.—Richard B. Kimball $1.75

Was He Successful? Do. $1.75

Undercurrents of Wall St. Do. $1.75

Romance of Student Life. Do. $1.75

To-Day.—Richard B. Kimball $1.75

Life in San Domingo. Do. $1.50

Henry Powers, Banker. Do. $1.75

Bessie Wilmerton.—Westcott $1.75

Cachet.—Mrs. M.J.R. Hamilton $1.75

Romance of Railroad.—Smith $1.50

Charette.—An American novel $1.50

Fairfax.—John Esten Cooke $1.50

Hilt to Hilt. Do. $1.50

Out of the Foam. Do. $1.50

Hammer and Rapier. Do. $1.50

Warwick.—By M.T. Walworth $1.75

Lulu. Do. $1.75

Hotspur. Do. $1.75

Stormcliff. Do. $1.75

Delaplaine. Do. $1.75

Beverly. Do. $1.75

Beldazzle's Bachelor Studies $1.00

Antidote to Gates Ajar .25

The Snoblace Ball .25

Northern Ballads.—Anderson $1.00

O.C. Kerr Papers.—4 vols. in 1 $2.00

Victor Hugo.—His life $2.00

Sandwiches.—Artemus Ward .25

Widow Spriggins.—Widow Bedott $1.75

THE END