I found, on lookin' round the house the next mornin', that Philury had kep' things in quite good shape. Although truly the buttery looked like a lonesome desert, and the cubbards like empty tents the Arabs had left desolate.

But I knew I could soon make 'em blossom like the rosy with provisions, which I proceeded at once to do, with Philury's help.

While I wus a rollin' out the pie-crust, Philury told me “she had changed her mind about long engagements.”

And while I wus a makin' the cookies, she broached it to me that “she and Ury was goin' to be married the next week.”

I wus agreable to the idee, and told her so. I like 'em both. Ury is a tall, limber-jinted sort of a chap, sandy complected, and a little round shouldered, but hard-workin' and industrious, and seems to take a interest.

His habits are good: he never drinks any thing stronger than root-beer, and he never uses tobacco—never has chawed any thing to our house stronger than gum. He used that, I have thought sometimes, more than wuz for his good. And I thought it must be expensive, he consumed such quantities of it. But he told me he made it himself out of beeswax and rozum.

And I told Josiah that I shouldn't say no more about it; because, although it might be a foolish habit, gum was not what you might call inebriatin'; it was not a intoxicatin' beverage, and didn't endanger the publick safety. So he kep' on a chawin' it, to home and abroad. He kep' at it all day, and at night if he felt lonesome.

I had mistrusted this, because I found a great chunk now and then on the head-board; and I tackled him about it, and he owned up.

“When he felt lonesome in the night,” he said, “gum sort o' consoled him.”

Well, I thought that in a great lonesome world, that needed comfort so much, if he found gum a consoler, I wouldn't break it up. So I kep' still, and would clean the head-board silently with kerosine and a woolen rag.

And Philury is a likely girl. Very freckled, but modest and unassuming. She is little, and has nice little features, and a round little face; and though she can't be said to resemble it in every particular, yet I never could think of any thing whenever I see her, but a nice little turkey-egg.

She is very obligin', and would always curchy and smile, and say “Yes'm” whenever I asked her to do any thing. She always would, and always will, I s'pose, do jest what you tell her to,—as near as she can; and she is thought a good deal of.

Wall, she has liked Ury for some time—that has been plain to see: she thought her eyes of him, and he of her. He has got eight or nine hundred dollars laid up; and I thought it was well enough for 'em to marry if they wanted to, and so I told Josiah the first time he come into the house that forenoon.

And he said “he guessed our thinkin' about it wouldn't alter it much, one way or the other.”

And I said “I s'posed not.” But says I, “I spoke out, because I feel quite well about it. I like 'em both, and think they'll make a happy couple: and to show my willin'ness still further, I mean to make a weddin' for her; for she hain't got no mothers, and Miss Gowdy won't have it there, for you know there has been such a hardness between 'em about that grindstun. So I'll have it here, get a good supper, and have 'em married off respectable.”

He hung back a little at first, but I argued him down. Says I,—

“I have heerd you say, time and agin, that you liked 'em, and wanted 'em to do well: now, what do good wishes ammount to, unless you are willin' to back 'em up with good acts?” Says I, “I might say that I wished 'em well and happy, and that would be only a small expendature of wind, that wouldn't be no loss to me, and no petickuler help to them. But if I show my good will towards 'em by stirrin' up fruit-cakes and bride-cake, and pickin' chickens, and pressin' 'em, and makin' ice-cream and coffee and sandwitches, and workin' myself completely tired out, a wishin' 'em well, why, then they can depend on it that I am sincere in my good wishes.”

“Wall,” says Josiah, “if you wish me well, I wish you would get me a little sunthin' to eat before I starve: it is past eleven o'clock.”

“The hand is on the pinter,” says I calmly. “But start a good fire, and I will get dinner.”

So he did, and I did, and he never made no further objections to my enterprise; and it was all understood that I should get their weddin' supper, and they should start from here on their tower.

And I offered, as she and Miss Gowdy didn't agree, that she might come back here, if she wanted to, and get some quiltin' done, and get ready for housekeepin'. She was tickled enough with the idee, and said she would help me enough to pay for her board. Ury's time wouldn't be out till about a month later.

I told her she needn't work any for me. But she is a dretful handy little thing about the house, or outdoors. When Josiah was sick, and when the hired man happened to be away, she would go right out to the barn, and fodder the cattle jest as well as a man could. And Josiah said she milked faster than he could, to save his life. Her father had nine girls and no boys; and he brought some of the girls up when they was little, kinder boy-like, and they knew all about outdoor work.

Wall, it was all decided on, that they should come right back here jest as soon as they ended their tower. They was a goin' to Ury's sister's, Miss Reuben Henzy's, and laid out to be gone about four days, or from four days to a week.

And I went to cookin' for the weddin' about a week before it took place. I thought I would invite the minister and his wife and family, and Philury's sister-in-law's family,—the only one of her relations who lived near us, and she was poor; and her classmates at Sunday school,—there was twelve of 'em,—and our children and their families. And I asked Miss Gowdey'ses folks, but didn't expect they would come, owin' to that hardness about the grindstun. But everybody else come that was invited; and though I am far from bein' the one that ort to say it, the supper was successful. It was called “excellent” by the voice, and the far deeper language of consumption.

They all seemed to enjoy it: and Ury took out his gum, and put it under the table-leaf before he begun to eat; and I found it there afterwards. He was excited, I s'pose, and forgot to take it agin when he left the table.

Philury looked pretty. She had on a travellin'-dress of a sort of a warm brown,—a color that kinder set off her freckles. It was woosted, and trimmed with velvet of a darker shade; and her hat and her gloves matched.

Her dress was picked out to suit me. Ury wanted her to be married in a yellow tarleton, trimmed with red. And she was jest that obleegin', clever creeter, that she would have done it if it hadn't been for me.

I says to her and to him,—

“What use would a yeller tarleton trimmed with red be to her after she is married, besides lookin' like fury now?” Says I, “Get a good, sensible dress, that will do some good after marriage, besides lookin' good now.” Says I, “Marriage hain't exactly in real life like what it is depictered in novels. Life don't end there: folks have to live afterwards, and dress, and work.” Says I, “If marriage was really what it is painted in that literature—if you didn't really have nothin' to do in the future, only to set on a rainbow, and eat honey, why, then, a yaller tarleton dress with red trimmin's would be jest the thing to wear. But,” says I, “you will find yourself in the same old world, with the same old dishcloths and wipin'-towels and mops a waitin' for you to grasp, with the same pair of hands. You will have to konfront brooms and wash-tubs and darnin'-needles and socks, and etcetery, etcetery. And you must prepare yourself for the enkounter.”

She heerd to me; and that very day, after we had the talk, I took her to Jonesville, drivin' the old mare myself, and stood by her while she picked it out.

And thinkin' she was young and pretty, and would want somethin' gay and bright, I bought some flannel for a mornin'-dress for her, and give it to her for a present. It was a pretty, soft gray and pink, in stripes about half a inch wide, and would be pretty for her for years, to wear in the house, and when she didn't feel well.

I knew it would wash.

She was awful tickled with it. And I bought a present for Ury on that same occasion,—two fine shirts, and two pair of socks, with gray toes and heels, to match the mornin'-dress. I do love to see things kompared, especially in such a time as this.

My weddin' present for 'em was a nice cane-seat rocker, black walnut, good and stout, and very nice lookin'. And, knowin' she hadn't no mother to do for her, I gave her a pair of feather pillows and a bed-quilt,—one that a aunt of mine had pieced up for me. It was a blazin' star, a bright red and yeller, and it had always sort o' dazzled me.

Ury worshiped it. I had kept it on his bed ever sense I knew what feelin's he had for it. He had said “that he didn't see how any thing so beautiful could be made out of earthly cloth.” And I thought now was my time to part with it.

Wall, they had lots of good presents. I had advised the children, and the Sunday-school children, that, if they was goin' to give 'em any thing, they would give 'em somethin' that would do 'em some good.

Says I, “Perforated paper lambrequins, and feather flowers, and cotton-yarn tidies, look well; but, after all, they are not what you may call so nourishin' as some other things. And there will probable rise in their future life contingencies where a painted match-box, and a hair-pin receiver, and a card-case, will have no power to charm. Even china vases and toilet-sets, although estimable, will not bring up a large family, and educate them, especially for the ministry.”

I s'pose I convinced 'em; for, as I heerd afterwards, the class had raised fifty cents apiece to get perforated paper, woosted yarn, and crystal beads. But they took it, and got her a set of solid silver teaspoons: the store-keeper threw off a dollar or two for the occasion. They was good teaspoons.

And our children got two good linen table-cloths, and a set of table-napkins; and the minister's wife brought her four towels, and the sister-in-law a patch-work bed-quilt. And Reuben Henzy's wife sent 'em the money to buy 'em a set of chairs and a extension table; and a rich uncle of hisen sent him the money for a ingrain carpet; and a rich uncle of hern in the Ohio sent her the money for a bedroom set,—thirty-two dollars, with the request that it should be light oak, with black-walnut trimmin's.

And I had all the things got, and took 'em up in one of our chambers, so folks could see 'em. And I beset Josiah Allen to give 'em for his present, a nice bedroom carpet. But no: he had got his mind made up to give Ury a yearlin' calf, and calf it must be. But he said “he would give in to me so fur, that, seein' I wanted to make such a show, if I said so, he would take the calf upstairs, and hitch it to the bed-post.”

But I wouldn't parlay with him.

Wall, the weddin' went off first-rate: things went to suit me, all but one thing. I didn't love to see Ury chew gum all the time they was bein' married. But he took it out and held it in his hand when he said “Yes, sir,” when the minister asked him, would he have this woman. And when she was asked if she would have Ury, she curchied, and said, “Yes, if you please,” jest as if Ury was roast veal or mutton, and the minister was a passin' him to her. She is a good-natured little thing, and always was, and willin'.

Wall, they was married about four o'clock in the afternoon; and Josiah sot out with 'em, to take 'em to the six o'clock train, for their tower.

The company staid a half-hour or so afterwards: and the children stayed a little longer, to help me do up the work; and finally they went. And I went up into the spare chamber, and sort o' fixed Philury's things to the best advantage; for I knew the neighbors would be in to look at 'em. And I was a standin' there as calm and happy as the buro or table,—and they looked very light and cheerful,—when all of a sudden the door opened, and in walked Ury Henzy, and asked me,—

“If I knew where his overhauls was?”

You could have knocked me down with a pin-feather, as it were, I was so smut and dumb-foundered.

Says I, “Ury Henzy, is it your ghost?” says I, “or be you Ury?”

“Yes, I am Ury,” says he, lookin', I thought, kinder disappointed and curious.

“Where is Philury?” says I faintly.

“She has gone on her tower,” says he.

Says I, “Then, you be a ghost: you hain't Ury, and you needn't say you be.”

But jest at that minute in come Josiah Allen a snickerin'; and says he,—

“I have done it now, Samantha. I have done somethin' now, that is new and uneek.”

And as he see my strange and awful looks, he continued, “You know, you always say that you want a change now and then, and somethin' new, to pass away time.”

“And I shall most probable get it,” says I, groanin', “as long as I live with you. Now tell me at once, what you have done, Josiah Allen! I know it is your doin's.”

“Yes,” says he proudly, “yes, mom. Ury never would have thought of it, or Philury. I got it up myself, out of my own head. It is original, and I want the credit of it all myself.”

Says I faintly, “I guess you won't be troubled about gettin' a patent for it.” Says I, “What ever put it into your head to do such a thing as this?”

“Why,” says he, “I got to thinkin' of it on the way to the cars. Philury said she would love to go and see her sister in Buffalo; and Ury, of course, wanted to go and see his sister in Rochester. And I proposed to 'em that she should go first to Buffalo, and see her folks, and when she got back, he should go to Rochester, and see his folks. I told her that I needed Ury's help, and she could jest as well go alone as not, after we got her ticket. And then in a week or so, when she had got her visit made out, she could come back, and help do the chores, and tend to things, and Ury could go. Ury hung back at first. But she smiled, and said she would do it.”

I groaned aloud, “That clever little creeter! You have imposed upon her, and she has stood it.”

“Imposed upon her? I have made her a heroine.

“Folks will make as much agin of her. I don't believe any female ever done any thing like it before,—not in any novel, or any thing.”

“No,” I groaned. “I don't believe they ever did.”

“It will make her sought after. I told her it would. Folks will jest run after her, they will admire her so; and so I told her.”

Says I, “Josiah Allen, you did it because you didn't want to milk. Don't try to make out that you had a good motive for this awful deed. Oh, dear! how the neighbors will talk about it!”

“Wall, dang it all, when they are a talkin' about this, they won't be lyin' about something else.”

“O Josiah Allen!” says I. “Don't ever try to do any thing, or say any thing, or lay on any plans agin, without lettin' me know beforehand.”

“I'd like to know why it hain't jest as well for 'em to go one at a time? They are both a goin You needn't worry about that. I hain't a goin' to break that up.”

I groaned awful; and he snapped out,—

“I want sunthin' to eat.”

“To eat?” says I. “Can you eat with such a conscience? Think of that poor little freckled thing way off there alone!”

“That poor little freckled thing is with her folks by this time, as happy as a king.” But though he said this sort o' defient like, he begun to feel bad about what he had done, I could see it by his looks; but he tried to keep up, and says he, “My conscience is clear, clear as a crystal goblet; and my stomack is as empty as one. I didn't eat a mouthful of supper. Cake, cake, and ice-cream, and jell! a dog couldn't eat it. I want some potatoes and meat!”

And then he started out; and I went down, and got a good supper, but I sithed and groaned powerful and frequent.

Philury got home safely from her bridal tower, lookin' clever, but considerable lonesome.

Truly, men are handy on many occasions, and in no place do they seem more useful and necessary than on a weddin' tower.

Ury seemed considerable tickled to have her back agin. And Josiah would whisper to me every chance he got,—

“That now she had got back to help him, it was Ury's turn to go, and there wuzn't nothin' fair in his not havin' a tower.” Josiah always stands up for his sect.

And I would answer him every time,—

“That if I lived, Philury and Ury should go off on a tower together, like human bein's.”

And Josiah would look cross and dissatisfied, and mutter somethin' about the milkin'. There was where the shoe pinched.

Wall, right when he was a mutterin' one day, Cicely got back from Washington. And he stopped lookin' cross, and looked placid, and sunshiny. That man thinks his eyes of Cicely, both of 'em; and so do I.

But I see that she looked fagged out.

And she told me how hard she had worked ever sence she had been gone. She had been to some of the biggest temperance meetin's, and had done every thing she could with her influence and her money. She was willin' to spend her money like rain-water, if it would help any.

But she said it seemed as if the powers against it was greater than ever, and she was heart-sick and weary.

She had had another letter from the executor, too, that worried her.

She told me that, after she went up to her room at night, and the boy was asleep.

She had took off her heavy mournin'-dress, covered with crape, and put on a pretty white loose dress; and she laid her head down in my lap, and I smoothed her shinin' hair, and says to her,—

“You are all tired out to-night, Cicely: you'll feel better in the mornin'.”

But she didn't: she was sick in bed the next day, and for two or three days.

And it was arranged, that, jest as quick as she got well enough to go, I was to go with her to see the executor, to see if we couldn't make him change his mind. It was only half a day's ride on the cars, and I'd go further to please her.

But she was sick for most a week. And the boy meant to be good. He wanted to be, and I know it.

But though he was such a sweet disposition, and easy to mind, he was dretful easy led away by temptation, and other boys.

Now, Cicely had told him that he must not go a fishin' in the creek back of the house, there was such deep places in it; and he must not go there till he got older.

And he would mean to mind, I would know it by his looks. He would look good and promise. But mebby in a hour's time little Let Peedick would stroll over here, and beset the boy to go; and the next thing she'd know, he would be down to the creek, fishin' with a bent pin.

And Cicely had told him he mustn't go in a swimmin'. But he went; and because it made his mother feel bad, he would deceive her jest as good-natured as you ever see.

Why, once he come in with his pretty brown curls all wet, and his little shirt on wrong side out.

He was kinder whistlin', and tryin' to act indifferent and innocent. And when his mother questioned him about it, he said,—

“He had drinked so much water, that it had soaked through somehow to his hair. And he turned his shirt gettin' over the fence. And we might ask Let Peedick if it wuzn't so.”

We could hear Letty a whistlin' out to the barn, and we knew he stood ready to say “he see the shirt turn.”

But we didn't ask.

But when the boy see that his actin' and behavin' made his mother feel real bad, he would ask her forgiveness jest as sweet; and I knew he meant to do jest right, and mebby he would for as much as an hour, or till some temptation come along—or boy.

But the good-tempered easiness to be led astray made Cicely feel like death: she had seen it in another; she see it was a inherited trait. And she could see jest how hard it was goin' to make his future: she would try her best to break him of it. But how, how was she goin' to do it, with them weak, good-natured lips, and that chin?

But she tried, and she prayed.

And, oh, how we all loved the boy! We loved him as we did the apples in our eyes.

But as I said, he was a child that had his spells. Sometimes he would be very truthful and honest,—most too much so. That was when he had his sort o' dreamy spells.

I know one day, she that wus Kezier Lum come here a visitin'. She is middlin' old, and dretful humbly.

Paul sot and looked at her face for a long time, with that sort of a dreamy look of hisen; and finally he says,—

“Was you ever a young child?”

And she says,—

“Why, law me! yes, I s'pose so.”

And he says,—

“I think I would rather have died young, than to grow up, and be so homely.”

I riz up, and led him out of the room quick, and told him “never to talk so agin.”

And he says,—

“Why, I told the truth, aunt Samantha.”

“Wall, truth hain't to be spoken at all times.”

“Mother punished me last night for not telling the truth, and told me to tell it always.”

And then I tried to explain things to him; and he looked sweet, and said “he would try and remember not to hurt folks'es feelin's.”

He never thought of doin' it in the first place, and I knew it. And I declare, I thought to myself, as I went back into the room,—

“We whip children for tellin' lies, and shake 'em for tellin' the truth. Poor little creeters! they have a hard time of it, anyway.”

But when I went back into the room, I see Kezier was mad. And she said in the course of our conversation, that “she thought Cicely was too much took up on the subject of intemperance, and some folks said she was crazy on the subject.”

Kezier was always a high-headed sort of a woman, without a nerve in her body. I don't believe her teeth has got nerves; though I wouldn't want to swear to it, never havin' filled any for her.

And I says back to her, for it made me mad to see Cicely run,—

Says I, “She hain't the first one that has been called crazy, when they wus workin' for truth and right. And if the old possles stood it, to be called crazy, and drunken with new wine—why, I s'pose Cicely can.”

“Wall,” says she, “don't you believe she is almost crazy on that subject?”

Says I, deep and earnest, “It is a good crazy, if it is. And,” says I, “to s'posen the case,—s'posen the one we loved best in the world, your Ebineezer, or my Josiah, should have been ruined, and led into murder, by drinkin' milk, don't you believe we should have been sort o' crazy ever afterwards on the milk question?”

“Why,” says she, “milk won't make anybody crazy.”

There it wuz—she hadn't no imagination.

Says I, “I am s'posen milk, I don't mean it.” Says I, “Cicely means well.”

And so she did, sweet little soul.

But day by day I could see that her eagerness to accomplish what she had sot out to, her awful anxiety about the boy's future, wus a wearin' on her: the active, keen mind, the throbbin', achin' heart, was a wearin' out the tender body.

Her eyes got bigger and bigger every day; and her face got the solemnest, curiusest look to it, that I ever see.

And her cheeks looked more and more like the pure white blow of the Sweet Cicely, only at times there would be a red upon 'em, as if a leaf out of a scarlet rose had dropped dowrn upon their pure whiteness.

That would be in the afternoon; and there would be such a dazzlin' brightness in her eyes, that I used to wonder if it was the fire of immortality a bein' kindled there, in them big, sad eyes.

And right about this time the executor (and I wish he could have been executed with a horse-whip: he knew how she felt about it)—he wuz sot, a good man, but sot. Why, his own sir name wuz never more sot in the ground than he wuz sot on top of it. And he didn't like a woman's interference. He wrote to her that one of her stores, that he had always rented for the sale of factory-cloth and sheep's clothin', lamb's-wool blankets, and etcetery, he had had such a good offer for it, to open a new saloon and billiard-room, that he had rented it for that purpose; and he told how much more he got for it. That made 4 drinkin' saloons, that wuz in the boy's property. Every one of 'em, so Cicely felt, a drawin' some other mother's boys down to ruin.

Cicely thought of it nights a sight, so she said,—said she was afraid the curses of these mothers would fall on the boy.

And her eyes kep' a growin' bigger and solemner like, and her face grew thinner and thinner, and that red flush would burn onto her cheeks regular every afternoon, and she begun to cough bad.

But one day she felt better, and was anxious to go. So she and I went to see the executor, Condelick Post.

We left the boy with Philury. Josiah took us to the cars, and we arrove there at 1 P.M. We went to the tarven, and got dinner, and then sot out for Mr. Post'ses office.

He greeted Cicely with so much politeness and courtesy, and smiled so at her, that I knew in my own mind that all she would have to do would be to tell her errent. I knew he would do every thing jest as she wanted him to. His smile was truly bland—I don't think I ever see a blander one, or amiabler.

I guess she was kinder encouraged, too, for she begun real sort o' cheerful a tellin' what she come for,—that she wanted him to rent these buildin's for some other purpose than drinkin' and billiard saloons.

And he went on in jest as cheerful a way, almost jokeuler, to tell her “that he couldn't do any thing of the kind, and he was doing the business to the best of his ability, and he couldn't change it at all.”

And then Cicely, in a courteus, reasonable voice, begun to argue with him; told him jest how bad she felt about it, and urged him to grant her request.

But no, the pyramids couldn't be no more sot than he wuz, nor not half so polite.

And then she dropped her own sufferings in the matter, and argued the right of the thing.

She said when she was married, her husband took the whole of her property, and invested it for her in these very buildings. And in reality, it was her own property. The most of her husband's wealth was in the mills and government bonds. But she wanted her money invested here, because she wanted a larger interest. And she was intending to let the interest accumulate, and found a free library, and build a chapel, for the workmen at the mills.

And says she, “Is it right that my own property should be used for what I consider such wicked purposes?”

“Wicked? why, my dear madam! it brings in a larger interest than any other investment that I have been able to make. And you know your husband's will provides handsomely for you—the yearly allowance is very handsome indeed.”

“It is all I wish, and more than I care for. I am not speaking of that.”

“Yes, it is very handsome indeed. And by the time Paul is of age, in the way I am managing the property now, he will be the richest young man in this section of the State. The revenue of which you make complaints, will be of itself a handsome property, a large patrimony.”

“It will seem to be loaded with curses, weighed down with the weight of heavy hearts, broken hearts, ruined lives.”

“All imagination, my dear madam! You have a vivid imagination. But there will be nothing of the kind, I assure you,” says he, with a patronizing smile. “It will all be invested in government bonds,—good, honest dollars, with nothing more haunting than the American eagle on them.”

“Yes, and these words, 'In God we trust.' But do you know,” says she, with the red spot growin' brighter on her cheek, and her eyes brighter,—“do you know, if one did not possess great faith, they would be apt to doubt the existence of a God, who can allow such injustice?”

“What injustice, my dear madam?” says he, smilin' blandly.

“You know, Mr. Post, just how my husband died: you know he was killed by intemperance. A drinking-saloon was just as surely the cause of his death, as the sword is, that pierces through a man's heart. Intemperance was the cause of his crime. He, the one I loved better than my own self, infinitely better, was made a murderer by it. I have lost him,” says she, a throwin' out her arms with a wild gesture that skairt me. “I have lost him by it.”

And her eyes looked as big and wild and wretched, as if she was lookin' down the endless ages of eternity, a tryin' to find her love, and knew she couldn't. All this was in her eyes, in her voice. But she seemed to conquer her emotion by a mighty effort, tried to smother it down, and speak calmly for the sake of her boy.

“And now, after I have suffered by it as I have, is it right, is it just, that I should be compelled to allow my property to be used to make other women's hearts, other mothers' hearts, ache as mine must ache forever?”

“But, my dear madam, the law, as it is now, gives me the right to do as I am doing.”

“I am pleading for justice, right: you have it in your power to grant my prayer. Women have no other weapon they can use, only just to plead, to beg for mercy.”

“O my dear madam! you are quite wrong: you are entirely wrong. Women are the real rulers of the world. They, in reality, rule us men, with a rod of iron. Their dainty white hands, their rosy smiles, are the real autocrats of—of the breakfast-table, and of life.”

You see, he went on, as men used to went on, to females years ago. He forgot that that Alonzo and Melissa style of talkin' to wimmen had almost entirely gone out of fashion. And it was a good deal more stylish now to talk to wimmen as if they wuz human bein's, and men wuz too.

But Cicely looked at him calm and earnest, and says,—

“Will you do as I wish you to in this matter?”

“Well, really, my dear madam, I don't quite get at your meaning.”

“Will you let this store remain as it is, and rent those other saloons to honest business men for some other purpose than drinking-saloons?”

“O my dear, dear madam! What can you be thinking of? The rent that I get from those four buildings is equal in amount to any eight of the other buildings of the same size. I cannot, I cannot, consent to make any changes whatever.”

“You will not, then, do as I wish?”

“I cannot, my dear madam: I prefer to put it in that way,—I cannot. I do not see as you do in the matter. And as the law empowers me to use my own discretion in renting the buildings, investing money, etc., I shall be obliged to do so.”

Cicely got up: she was white as snow now, but as quiet as snow ever wus.

Mr. Post got up, too, about the politest actin' man I ever see, a movin' chairs out of the way, and a smilin', and a waitin' on us out. He was ready to give plenty of politeness to Cicely, but no justice.

And I guess he was kinder sorry to see how white and sad she looked, for he spoke out in a sort of a comfortin' voice,—

“You have had great sorrows, Mrs. Slide, but you have also a great deal to comfort you. Just think of how many other widows have been left in poverty, or, as you may say, penury, and you are rich.”

Cicely turned then, and made the longest speech I ever heard her make.

“Yes, many a drunkard's wife is clothed in rags, and goes hungry to bed at night, with her hungry children crying for bread about her. She can lie on her cold pile of rags, with the snow sifting down on her, and think that her husband, a sober, honest man once, was made a low, brutal wretch by intemperance; that he drank up all his property, killed himself by strong drink, was buried in a pauper's grave, and left a starving wife and children, to live if they could. The cold of winter freezes her, the want of food makes her faint, and to see her little ones starving about her makes her heart ache, no doubt. I have plenty of money, fine clothes, dainty food, diamonds on my fingers.”

Says she, stretching out her little white hands, and smilin' the bitterest smile I ever see on Cicely's face,—

“But do you not think, that, as I lie on my warm, soft couch at night, my heart is wrung by a keener pang than that drunkard's wife can ever know? I can lie and think that by my means, my wealth, I am making just such homes as that, making just such broken hearts, just such starving children, filling just such paupers' graves,—laying up a long store of curses and judgments, for my boy's inheritance. And I am powerless to do any thing but suffer.”

And she opened the door, and walked right out. And Mr. Post stood and smiled till we got to the bottom of the stairs.

“Good-afternoon, good-afternoon, my clear madam, call again; happy to see you—Good-afternoon.”

Wall, Cicely went right to bed the minute we got home; and she never eat a mite of supper, only drinked a cup of tea, and thanked me so pretty for bringin' it to her.

And there was such a sad and helpless, and sort of a outraged, look in her pretty brown eyes, some as a noble animal might have, who wus at bay with the cruel hunters all round it. And so I told Josiah after I went down-stairs.

And the boy overheard me, and asked me 87 questions about “a animal at bay,” and what kind of a bay it was—was it the bay to a barn? or on the water? or—

Oh my land! my land! How I did suffer!

But Cicely grew worse fast, from that very day. She seemed to run right down.