CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

OLIVE was not with Abby at her confinement, after all—not from any fault of her own, but because Mr. Forester had very clearly intimated that he did not want her, and preferred even his own sister Emma, whom he did not seem to like very well either. But though Olive was not with her, Aunt Merton was—to explain which, we must go back a little.

As the time of trial drew near, Emma Forester, who was staying with Abby, saw that there was something which weighed upon her mind and disturbed her very much.

Emma was a kind-hearted and practical woman—she had need to be so, having exercised in her own person all the common-sense which had been brought to bear upon the family affairs since she was twelve years' old. She was not a favorite with her brothers or sisters, and truth to say, Emma's manners were not amiable: she was apt to be short and rather sharp in her replies, and to criticise, especially her brother William, pretty severely. She had been very much displeased with him for his marriage, an affair which his mother considered as at worst only an amiable eccentricity—but her anger did not extend to her little sister-in-law, for whom she felt very sorry, well-knowing what was before her.

William had positively declined having Olive to stay with Abby during her confinement, not so much in words, as in looks and tones, giving it to be understood that he preferred having his house to himself. He would not have had Emma either, if he could have helped himself, but she left him no choice, coming of her own accord about six weeks beforehand, and establishing herself for a long stay, without consulting him.

Abby was delighted to have Emma, since she could not have Olive. They suited very well: Emma from temper and habit liking to direct, and Abby pleased to be directed. Emma took at once the whole charge of housekeeping off her sister's hands, leaving her to take the rest she so much needed: and this in itself was a great relief.

But her good offices did not end here. She saw that Abby was very unhappy—that she had some secret trouble, apart from the vague fear of death which had haunted her by turns for a long time. And she set herself kindly and delicately to discover and if possible to remedy it. At last, after much coaxing, it all came out in a gush of tears.

"O Emma! I want to see aunt Rebecca so much. I want to tell her how very sorry I am for displeasing her, and ask her to forgive me."

"Well, love, what hinders you from writing to her? I dare say she would come and see you at once, if she knew you desired to see her."

"I am sure she would," sobbed Abby. "Olive says she always asks about me. I would give any thing to see her once more."

"Why not write immediately?" asked Emma.

"William does not wish to have me, Emma. He does not like aunt, and he thinks uncle has insulted him. I did speak about it once, but—" A new gush of tears followed, as she recalled the scene.

"Don't cry, my dear—now you really must not!" said Emma, with authority. "I think it can be managed, and if it can not, you must not make yourself ill about it. Lie down, child, and don't try to sew: I will attend to all that."

Abby still looked anxious. "I don't know whether it is best for you to say any thing, Emma. I am afraid—"

"Tut! Tut! My dear. He is not my husband, you know. I have not said that I shall speak to him either, but I want you to be gratified, if possible."

"You do not think it is a notion—do you, Emma?"

"No, child; I think it is a feeling that does you credit. And even if it were, I don't see why your notions should not be gratified, as well as those of other people."

"Well, I don't know," sighed Abby. "I am afraid I am very troublesome and fanciful sometimes. Nothing ever used to disturb me when I was a girl. Olive used to cry five times to my once. But lately, some how, every thing seems so heavy and hard to me—even things that would not have made any impression on me a year ago. I am afraid it is my fault, and that I am growing very unamiable."

"You are sick, child; that is all."

"I am glad you think so. You are so good to me, Emma. I don't know how I shall ever repay you."

"Pshaw!" returned Emma shortly. "One must be hard-hearted indeed, to be any thing but good to such a poor little forlorn bird as you are. I am glad if I can do any thing for you, I am sure."

William was out in the evening. There was a grand concert in town, and the tickets were only a dollar. He had lost his place as accountant that morning, and wanted something to divert his mind from what even he thought rather an unpleasant circumstance. So he went to the concert, and afterwards took an oyster-supper downtown with a friend, feeling not at all uneasy at being out late, since he knew Emma would not let his wife sit up for him. He was a little vexed to find Emma herself awaiting his return.

"Why did you sit up?" he asked. "You know I can let myself in."

"I did not sit up altogether for you," replied Emma. "I had a piece of work to finish to-night. But I do want to speak to you about Abby."

"Is she ill?" asked Mr. Forester, rather anxiously.

"She is as well as she has been for some days past, but she is very unhappy, poor child."

"What does she want now?" said he, with the air of a man accustomed to yield to a vast number of unreasonable desires upon the part of his wife. "I am ready to do any thing in reason."

"She wants to see her aunt," replied Emma, as usual coming to the point at once.

Mr. Forester's face was darkened by a very unpleasant frown. "I thought I had settled that matter once for all," he said, tapping his finger upon the table. "I told Abby that when her uncle would apologize for his treatment of me, I would let her see him, and not before. I must say, she forgets her duty as a wife, in complaining of me to you, and I do not think the better of you for encouraging her in it."

"She has not complained of you!" returned Emma, indignantly. "She thinks you are a demi-god, or somewhere near it, poor child."

"How did this come out, then?"

"I guessed it, and she admitted that it was so."

"And told you I would not let her write?"

"She said you thought it was not best."

"I do think so. I think, too, that Abby forgets herself strangely, in cherishing a desire which she knows to be directly contrary to my judgment. Since you are in her confidence, you may tell her that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Merton shall ever enter my doors, till they make me a humble apology. In her present condition, there is nothing to be done but to get along with her whims as easily as possible, but when she is better—it don't signify talking of it now! I thought you knew that I had too much pride and self-respect to be over-crowed by my wife's relations."

He took up his candle to go up-stairs.

"Very good," said Emma, coolly. "Keep your pride and self-respect, and lose your wife. Do you know what Dr. M. thinks of her?"

William hesitated, turned, and came back to the table. "Doctors are so fanciful," he said peevishly.

Emma did not reply.

"Do you really think, Emma, that there is danger?"

"There is always danger," was the brief response.

"I should be sorry to cross her unnecessarily," he continued, after another pause. "She tries her best to please me, I must say, but,—don't you think, Emma, she is very childish?"

"Very, or she would never have married you," was the rather unpromising reply. "But you are the last person who ought to complain of that. You knew what she was when you took her."

"I knew she was young and girlish, and thought I could form her mind—"

"You had better have formed your own first," interrupted his sister.

"I thought I could make her what I wanted. You know what sort of woman I always admired—a gentle, yielding character that would twine round her husband like the honeysuckle round an elm."

"Like a pea round a pumpkin-vine would be the better comparison in your case," said Emma. "You never could stand alone yourself, much less sustain any thing else. But there is no use in talking of that now: the mischief is done, and you have only to make the best of it. Now, the case stands thus. Abby, like, all young girls in such circumstances, thinks she is certainly going to die, and I do not know but she is right, for Dr. M. is very anxious—at any rate, she thinks so. She is longing, from the bottom of her affectionate little heart to see the people who have brought her up, and been father and mother to her—and to be friends with them. It is a reasonable wish, too. But you, for the sake of sustaining your absurd pride, deny her this comfort—perhaps the last that it may be yours to grant. You admit that she has never gone contrary to your wishes since you married her, and, on the contrary, has striven in every way to please you, and yet you will not make this small sacrifice to soothe her hour of trial—perhaps of death!"

"Settle it in your own fashion!" said Mr. Forester abruptly, and turning away. "I am willing she should have the whole clan here, Olive and all, if it will do her any good. Only let me know when they are coming that I may be out of the way, and avoid the scene. I must look out for something to do, I suppose, and I have not much hope of finding it here. I can make that an excuse for running away for a few days."

"Something to do! What do you mean?" asked his sister, with a feeling of anxiety which prevented her from noticing, as she otherwise would have done, the heartlessness of this speech.

"Oh! I have given up my engagement with Hancock, and shall be out of work after to-morrow," he replied, with a vain attempt to appear unconcerned.

"William, are you mad? Why did you throw up your situation without knowing that you had something to turn to, at this time of all others? What was the matter?"

"The matter was that we could not agree, and so we thought it best to part," returned Mr. Forester doggedly. "He wanted to pin me down to the desk from Monday morning till Saturday night, ten hours a day. I thought I had a right to some relaxation now and then. So I went off on a fishing-party two or three times, you know, and was not there when he expected me. Then I COULD not give my whole attention to figures; it is quite too tiresome and stupid, and narrows down one's mind to a mere point. The consequence was, that I made some trifling mistakes, and so you see—"

"I see," said Emma, finishing the sentence for him, "that as usual, you have no one to blame but yourself! William, when will you ever be a man? You talk of Abby's being a child, and so she is, but a good and obedient child; while you are a perverse, self-willed boy—a torment to yourself and every one that has any thing to do with you."

She walked nervously up and down the room a few times. William took up a pen and began to draw figures all over a sheet of music-paper. He was used to his sister's fault-finding, and waited patiently till she should exhaust her vexation, and propose some remedy for his embarrassments.

"There is no use in all that," he said at last; "and besides, you will disturb Abby."

"Very true," replied Emma, pausing in her walk, and throwing herself into a corner of the sofa. "I am glad you have the grace to think of her. How much have you beforehand?"

"Well, perhaps two hundred dollars—perhaps a little more. I do not know exactly how much of my salary I have drawn."

"Don't you keep an account?"

"No, indeed! I tried it once, but the cigars, and so on, mounted up so—"

His sister made a gesture of impatience, and he returned to his trees.

"Is that all you have to depend upon?"

"Pretty much all. There may be a little coming in from publishers."

"And out of this, your rent is to be paid—and the physician, and poor Katy, and the nurse, and housekeeping to be carried on! How do you think it is all to be done?"

"I don't know, I am sure," replied William, with an air of virtuous resignation. "I hope it will all come right some way. I must find something else to do, after I have enjoyed a little vacation, and poor Abby is right again. And now, don't you think we had better break up this council and retire? If she wakes, she may be alarmed. I won't say any thing to her, but you may tell her that she may write as penitent a letter as she pleases, disowning her husband and all his relations, if she will—"

"You know she does not want to do that. She only wants—"

"She only wants what is right, and you, too, I dare say, sis, though you are rather sharp in your way of putting it. Come, now, don't look so miserable," he added, in a coaxing way, putting his arm round her. "I will be as steady as old Hancock himself, if you will only kiss and be friends."

Emma yielded, as she almost always did in the end, to her fascinating brother's soothing and coaxing, so far as to kiss him good-night. But she lay awake till almost morning, thinking what was to become of her brother and sister when worse came to the worst—when they had spent all they had, and exhausted every one's patience.

Abby roused up as William entered, and begged to know if there was any thing wrong, but being gayly assured that every thing was very right, went quietly to sleep again.

As for William, nothing disturbed his slumbers: if he had been going to be hanged the next morning, he would have slept equally well, comforting himself with the reflection that something favorable would certainly happen before the time came.

Abby was very happy next morning when Emma informed her that there was no farther objection to her writing to her aunt, but her joy was a little damped when she was told (for Emma thought best to tell her) that William would probably have to be away upon business at the time. Still, it was with a joyful heart that she sat down to indite her letter, which she wrote and rewrote with a nervous anxiety, till Emma, seeing the state of the case, took the best copy from her hand, pronounced it good enough, folded and sealed it, and then placed it before Abby, to direct. William carried it to the post, without any remark, and made his wife very happy all day by a great many kind words, and some little attentions, which cost him nothing, but which were invaluable to her.

The family at Mr. Merton's were seated at the breakfast-table, when the letter was brought in.

Mrs. Merton took it, and broke the seal. And when Charlotte looked up from one of her own a moment after, she was both astonished and alarmed to see such an unusual sight as tears rolling down her mother's cheeks. She rose hastily, as did Mr. Merton, and the Black Prince, with his accustomed delicacy, withdrew, under the pretext of seeking hot cakes, but remained close by the outside of the door—perhaps to be within call.

"It is from Abby," said Mrs. Merton, as soon as she could find a voice. "The poor dear child has come to her senses at last. Read it, Charlotte, my dear."

And Charlotte read, being obliged to pause more than once in the course of it. When she had done, she looked anxiously from one to the other.

"You will go—you will go at once, father, will you not?"

"Certainly, my dear child, if your mother says so. I dislike the idea of meeting Forester, but poor Abby must not be disappointed. Yes, we will go at once."

"You will not see him," said Charlotte. "Did you not notice, she says he will be obliged to go away upon business?"

"Then we will set out without delay—as early as to-morrow," said Mrs. Merton.

"Why not to-day?" asked her husband. "There is time enough."

"Perhaps it will be better to leave space for a letter to precede us," suggested Mrs. Merton. "We must not startle her, you know."

Mr. Merton acquiesced, and Charlotte sat down, at once, to write the letter.

How delighted Abby was when she received it! She laughed and cried by turns, kissed her husband and thanked him so many times that he really began to think he had made a meritorious sacrifice, and felt very self-complacent in consequence. He half-resolved to stay and face it out, but found his courage failing the next morning, and went off, bidding his wife a most affectionate farewell, thinking, as he went, how badly he should feel if he were to lose her, and beginning at once to set his possible feelings first to rhyme and then to music, till he composed an affecting song, called the "Widower's Lament."

Abby would sit at the window and watch for carriages till she was wearied out, and obliged to lie down upon the sofa, in spite of herself. Then she fell asleep, and when she awoke, she found her aunt and uncle sitting beside her.

It is impossible to say what extravagances she might have committed, if aunt Rebecca had not put on her most impressive face of authority, and absolutely forbidden her to speak one word. Abby submitted, and lay still, hardly daring to think that she was awake, and not dreaming. She still lay upon the sofa, feeling very weak, but very happy, while the others went out to tea, listening, with subdued pleasure, to their voices, and enjoying the thought that uncle and aunt Merton were taking tea in her house.

How exactly it seemed like old times, when aunt Rebecca brought her her tea in the little silver mug which she had always used at home, and which had been sent to her, with the rest of her possessions, at the time of her marriage. She could almost believe that she had never been away at all.

Aunt Merton was one who never did any thing by halves. When she made up her mind to take Abby into favor, she did it heartily, and showed that she did, by making no allusions to the past, except such as were necessary in talking over affairs in M. The neighbors, the servants, the garden, above all, Laura's approaching marriage, were all talked over again and again, till Mr. Merton suggested that Abby must be tired, and that they had better go.

Abby, however, was very anxious to have them stay. There was plenty of room, and if aunt thought she could be comfortable—.

Aunt had no doubt at all about that, and so they staid. It was well they did, for Abby was taken ill in the night, and after some hours of considerable danger, was "as well as could be expected," with a fine little daughter.

Emma telegraphed to her brother with but a faint hope of his getting the message, for she knew he would probably be off fishing or scenery-hunting, and so it proved. He did not return till nearly a week had elapsed, and knew nothing of the matter till Emma met him at the door. He was sufficiently alarmed, on hearing the state of the case, to ward off the lecture which had been brewing for him, and she had hard work to keep him from rushing up to his wife's room at once.

Aunt Merton came down to see him, while he was waiting for Emma to prepare Abby, and though nothing but politeness, and even cordiality, were expressed in her tone, she succeeded, in ten minutes, in making him feel more like some condemned piece of furniture about to be sent to auction than like the master of his own house.

Abby was not so well as she had been, and William was cautioned against exciting her. He was very much affected at the sight of the wee colorless face, looking smaller than ever from the absence of the accustomed curls, and showed so much feeling that Mrs. Merton began to think she had done him injustice.

Abby brightened up very much after he came home, and she really was very happy—happy in her baby, which she found some difficulty in imagining to be really hers—in her husband whom she felt was showing to excellent advantage—in having so many friends about her, and every one so much kinder than she deserved. She felt sad when she thought of their all going away and leaving her alone. But then there would be baby, and she thought she could not be very lonely.

Emma wished very much that she could stay, but she well knew that it would be impossible.

Mrs. Forester and Emmeline fancied they were unable to live without her. Emmeline liked to think that she had delicate health, and that it hurt her to work. She could go to two or three parties in a week, and dance till two o'clock in the morning, though it always made her feel dreadfully to dust the parlor, and fatigued her almost to extinction to make her own bed. She always got a terrible headache over plain sewing, though she could embroider for hours, yes, even upon silver canvas, and her crochet collars and mats almost equalled real lace in fineness. In short, Emmeline could play to any extent, but work always made her sick directly.

Mrs. Forester never thought that Emmeline ought to be crossed in any thing. She was not strong herself, and she was very fanciful besides being proud, and her pride was constantly brought into active exercise by the reduced circumstances of the family, and the consequent struggle to keep up appearances. When Emma was at home, she earned something by translating and editing for a publisher of children's books, and moreover she took the whole oversight of the household, besides doing a great part of the work. It is easy to see that she could not be spared.

Abby did not recover so rapidly as they had at first hoped. She did not seem to have any particular disorder, but she gained strength very slowly, and now and then slight symptoms of a tendency to disease of the lungs alarmed her aunt and the physician. She was very much distressed when she found that William had lost his place, for she was beginning to realize how much it cost them to keep house, and she knew her husband would never exercise any sort of economy. It cost her a feverish night, and she was worse for three or four days.

Mr. Merton saw that something had gone wrong and that Mr. Forester was out of employment. And after a day or two, he ventured to make some inquiries of that gentleman relative to his affairs.

Mr. Forester was decidedly stiff and cold at first, but he could not withstand Mr. Merton's kindness, and moreover he was at his wits' end for the means of supporting himself and his wife. His mother had heretofore been his resource when he had exhausted his own finances, but she had impoverished herself in her efforts to help him. And Emma, in answer to a hint of the sort, had informed him that any farther assistance from that quarter was entirely out of the question. He confessed to Mr. Merton, at last, that he had hardly the means of defraying the expenses of his wife's confinement, to say nothing of the cost of housekeeping. He had drawn on Mr. Hancock for his salary as fast as it became due, and instead of having, as he supposed, a considerable balance in that gentleman's hands, he was actually some few dollars in debt to him.

There was no use in any reproaches, and Mr. Merton made none, but promised to see what he could do towards finding him employment. Mr. Forester was very much obliged, and thought to himself that it might not, after all, be a bad thing to have made up friends with his wife's rich uncle. After two or three days, Mr. Merton held another conversation with him, in the course of which he told him that he had procured for him a situation as accountant and draughtsman in a large foundry and machine-shop. The salary was liberal, but close attention to business would be absolutely necessary, in order to retain the place. He took the opportunity to press upon Mr. Forester's attention the great advantage of keeping regular accounts, and being economical of time as well as money. He thought the young gentleman might find time to finish his law studies, and be prepared to enter into business as a lawyer in the course of a year, promising him all the assistance in his power, and Mr. Forester thanked him, and listened respectfully, with some faint idea of following the advice. He went to work the next day, with great vigor.

At the end of a week's trial, his employer professed himself perfectly satisfied, and engaged him for a year, at a salary which, care and economy, would be sufficient to support them in comfort. With this care removed from her mind, Abby began to improve rapidly, and in the course of a few days was so much better that her aunt thought she might venture to leave her to herself.

"Suppose," said she to her husband, "that we go round the other way, stop at Basswoods, and take Olive home with us. It will be so much pleasanter than for her to come alone."

Mr. Merton thought it an excellent idea, and, accordingly, as Olive was sitting at the piano one evening after tea, she was surprised by the sudden entrance of her uncle and aunt.

At first she was frightened, thinking that Abby must be worse. But a moment's thought reassured her, and she gave herself up to the unexpected enjoyment. They had proposed to stay at the hotel, but Mrs. Felton had abundance of room, as Isabella Lambert was at her sister's: she was very urgent with them to remain, and Mrs. Merton finally consented, after stipulating that she should make no difference in the family arrangements. There was, indeed, no need of her doing so, for Mrs. Felton's housekeeping was always carried on upon a very liberal scale—so liberal, indeed, that Olive thought she could not make much by her boarders.

"Why, really, my love, you are delightfully situated here—are you not?" said Mrs. Merton, as she surveyed Olive's comfortable room. "I had no idea that you were in such luxurious quarters. I should think Mrs. Felton might be a trifle wearisome sometimes, however."

"One soon gets used to it," replied Olive, smiling. "I know exactly how much importance to attach to her complaints, and in general mind them no more than the rain on the windows. She is really very kind to me, and I have no excuse for being dissatisfied or home-sick, except the desire to see you all."

"And Miss Felton—what a delightful person she is!" pursued Mrs. Merton. "She is not pretty, but there is such a charming cheerfulness about her face and voice that she really seems to bring the sunshine into the room with her. If she only had a little more style, she would really make a sensation in society. You must bring her home with you some time, Olive, to make a visit. I should be quite delighted to have her, and I think a little of the world would be a great advantage to her."

"I am glad you like her," said Olive, feeling as though she did not care to have Ruth improved in that way. "She is one of my most intimate friends. I want you to see Mrs. Tower; she is very different from Ruth, but equally excellent."

"All in good time, my dear. I mean to see all your friends before I go, and your school, too. How soon is it out?"

"There is only one week more."

"And then you have an examination, I suppose?"

"No, aunt, I am thankful to say, we do not. We have a review-day every fortnight, and the last two weeks of the term are spent in the same way, but we have no public display, except in declamation and compositions. The school is open to visitors at all times, and we have a good many, especially on repetition-days. If you will come in to-morrow, we shall be very glad to see you. I assure you I am proud of my girls. But I want to hear all about Abby and the baby."

Mrs. Merton was very ready to tell; and Abby's affairs, and Laura's approaching marriage, occupied the evening. Olive was very much touched at hearing of her uncle's kindness, and especially on learning what neither Abby nor William yet knew, that he had defrayed the entire expenses of her sister's confinement, besides leaving in Abby's hands a sum sufficient to last till William should receive his first quarter's salary. She could not help feeling some sympathy for what she supposed must be William's mortification at being oblige to receive assistance from one whom he had so deeply wronged, but she might have spared herself the trouble.

That talented young gentleman had early imbibed the idea that he was created to amuse himself, and the rest of mankind to wait upon him. From the exaltation of his fancied genius and refinement, he looked calmly down upon those lower mortals, whose grovelling minds permitted them to learn and labor truly to get their own living, in the state of life to which God had called them. He had felt a little annoyed at first, on discovering that Mr. Merton had left money with Abby, but the feeling did not prevent him from spending seven or eight dollars of it upon some new engravings which had struck his fancy, and which, he assured Abby, were so cheap that it would have been really foolish not to buy them.

"Economy!" he said, when she remonstrated with him. "Oh! Yes, of course, we must practise economy, but your uncle can not expect me to deny myself all gratifications. I can not live without books and pictures."

"In what, then, do you propose to economize?" persisted Abby.

"Oh! Why—in dress and housekeeping—any thing, in short, but intellectual pleasures."

Abby shook her head. "The housekeeping costs as little as it can, William."

"But could you not manage with a less expensive girl, my dear? I have heard of servants getting only six shillings a week, and we give Katy twelve!"

"I do not like to part with Katy," replied Abby, her heart sinking at the prospect of a new and cheap girl. "She has just learned to be useful, and attends to baby so nicely."

"Oh! Well, I only mentioned it. I thought, when it came to your own case, you would not be so very desirous of saving. It is easy to be economical of other people's enjoyments."

Abby's pale face flushed, and the tears filled her eyes.

"There, now, don't cry! I am sorry I said any thing, but you are so cool in proposing your economy to me. But come, cheer up, my little darling. I am coming to take you to ride presently."

Abby cheered up, and was thankful for the prospect of a little fresh air, for she was not able to walk out yet. But when the carriage came, there was a new cause of annoyance.

"Why do you wear that coarse blanket of a thing, my dear?" said William, glancing disdainfully at the large woollen shawl Abby had put on. "It makes you look like a servant."

"I have no other," replied Abby, coloring. "My cloak is not warm enough, and I can not wrap the baby in it."

"Oh! Pray don't take the baby. She will be sure to cry, as they always do when they ought not to, and besides, it will tire you to death. I am sure your cloak is warm enough, my love," he continued, dexterously removing the obnoxious shawl, and throwing it over the arm of the sofa. "You do not know how mild and pleasant it is. Come, you are too bad to make such a figure of yourself, when you know how much I like to have you admired, and you are ten times prettier than ever."

So Abby wore the cloak, returned home chilled through, and was very ill next day, in consequence. Mr. Forester was very sorry, paid her every attention, and to prevent the possibility of such an accident happening again, went out and bought a new shawl, for which he paid thirty dollars.

To return to Basswoods! Mrs. Merton was delighted with the place and the people, and quite astonished to find so much refinement in a country village. Mrs. Gregory made a little party for her: so did Mrs. Gordon, and at both did Mrs. Merton win golden opinions from all sorts of people, by her elegant appearance and charming manners. It was a peculiarity of hers that every one with whom she conversed ten minutes, felt as though he or she had received a personal favor. Some of Mrs. Tucker's adherents, who had hitherto been rather unfriendly to Olive, suddenly turned completely round, and were warm in their praises of her and her relations.

In short, Mrs. Merton's visit did a great deal of good, and Olive enjoyed it extremely. She told her aunt she thought it would not do to offer to pay Mrs. Felton for their board, and Mrs. Merton, after considerable hesitation, consented to give up the idea, thinking that she could make it up in some other way. Accordingly, she afterwards sent Mrs. Felton a beautiful dress and shawl, with an elegant letter, which Mrs. Felton showed to all the village, thanking her for all her kindness to her niece, and requesting her to accept the accompanying articles from herself and her husband, as a testimonial of her gratitude.

A proud and happy woman was Mrs. Felton. Ruth was pleased with the delicacy of the attention to her mother, and Mr. Felton, whose conversation was usually summed up in a semidiurnal report of the state of the weather, gave vent to the profound and original idea, that in point of fact, some people were very different from other people.