A Dwelling for a small Family.

Accommodation.-This hermitage-looking dwelling contains a porch, a; a work-room or parlor, b; a bedroom communicating with it, c; a kitchen, d; an outer kitchen or wash-house, with an oven, e, communicating with a pantry, f. The wash-house has a back door, near which, in the lean-to, is a water-closet, g; a cow-house, h; and a place for

wood, i. In the section, the floors are shown as laid over a bed of stone, and a gravelled terrace surrounds the whole building on a level six inches lower than the floors of the rooms. In the bed of stones may be a flue connected with an oven placed in the angle of the back-kitchen, e, as before described.

General Estimate.-Cubic contents, 11,700 feet: at 10 cents, $1,170; at 5 cents, $585.

VOL. XLV.-15

CHAPTER I.

Ir was the hour of twilight; cold, wintry clouds were skulking about the lower part of the horizon, rapidly shutting out the light of day, leaving the air chilly and cold. Though early in the autumn, yet there had been frequent gusts of wind, making free with the foliage which remained upon the trees, while heavy clouds had hung about the sky with an occasional gleam of sunshine, rendering the succeeding gloom only the more drear.

And now one could hardly distinguish the leafless trees, surrounding the low building which is the scene of my sketch; yet the pale mourner, sitting by the window, stirred not. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have drawn the curtain and joined the circle in an adjoining apartment, who were sitting around a cheerful fire; but now the darkness and gloom which reigned without had sunk into her heart. She was alone in the world; she felt that she was alone; while silent tears, all unheeded by her, followed each other in quick succession down her cheek. On the following day, she was to consign the mortal remains of her husband to the silent tomb. He had gone from her for

ever.

For a while, she sat dead to every feeling, save a crushing sense of desolation. She had, it is true, a brother and sister; but they were entirely engrossed in the cares which the support of their rising families were bringing upon them. Months of sickness had more than exhausted all her resources, and had left her feeble and languid, dependent upon the charity of friends. Dependent! Oh, how tightly she clasped her hands as she repeated that word! She could think no more; but, leaning her head upon her arm, she wept bitterly. Tears, even bitter tears, will bring relief. Gradually, the sobs grew less heavy and frequent, the tears ceased to flow, and memory was carrying her back far into the past, even to the time when she, with her brother and sister, used to play before the old cottage door, when the orchard resounded with their shouts of delight, and their merry peals of laughter. How distinct in her ear was the voice of her good mother calling them to supper, and the happiness she felt at the praise of her father when she had completed her allotted task!

Now she advances to her girlhood; the sickness and death of her father, and, a few years subse

quent, that of her mother, pass in solemn review before her. Insensibly, the same outstretched arm which was then her support, seems now underneath her. The Father of the fatherless, whose promise she had so oft pleaded in prayer, will not forsake her. She remembers the comfort which filled her soul, as she cast all her burden upon Him, and resolves to trust him still. He, who had been her refuge through many fierce storms of adversity, will not turn a deaf ear to the cries of her poor widowed heart.

True, the friend whom she mourned was more suited in age for her grandparent than her husband; true, that his querulousness and childishness had often been more than she could well bear; but all this she forgets, or only remembers with joy, that her strength has been equal to her day, and that she has been graciously assisted to bear patiently and uncomplainingly the trials visited upon her. She recalls with pleasure his early acts of charity, when thrown upon him for protection, and the many kindly deeds which had won the gratitude, if not the love of her young heart; and she mourns truly that she shall see his face no more.

A few weeks later, we find Mary comfortably situated in the family of a Friend; and never was appellation more deservedly bestowed upon a Quaker; for the name of Amy Low sent a warm gush of feeling through many a heart. Her frequent and unobtrusive acts of kindness to the afflicted and sorrowful gave a lustre to her eye and a glow to her cheek, such as naught else could give, and made her the well beloved even among her own sect, where all hearts are kept warm by a constant exercise of love and charity.

Mary had received a cordial invitation to make her home with Amy for the winter, which was carnestly seconded by John and all the family; and Mary Eames was comparatively happy. She felt the influence of the frank, sincere happiness around her, and, as she sat busily plying her needle-for she was never idle-she looked back upon the fiery billows over which she had passed, and said to herself, truly "blessed is he who maketh the Lord his trust."

She had already begun to make her plans for the future. It was her intention to take a small room, and support herself with her needle. This gave her an object, and her kind friends assisted her in obtaining work, that she might lay by something for

that purpose. Amy often came into her room with a cheering word.

"Thee has had a hard time, Mary; but bright days are before thee. Thee art young, and deserve a young husband next time."

At which Mary would shake her head, and say, in a low, sad voice, at the remembrance of the past"I shall never marry again."

Mrs. Eames's dutiful conduct to her parents, her devoted care of an aged husband, much more than twice her age, and her simple, unostentatious piety, had gained her many friends. She was invited to join a benevolent circle, and soon had the satisfaction of feeling that she still could do something in the way of charity. This sewing circle, unlike many others, met for a specific object; and the only strife among them was, which should do the most to promote the cause in which they were engaged. They had, with one consent, banished from among them all scandal and unkind words, and were, of course, warmly attached to each other.

After her admission to the circle, few were more constant at the meetings, or more diligent when present, than Mary Eames, who thus won the confidence and affection of all those with whom she was associated.

The sun of prosperity began now to shine upon her path, and to open the buds of hope around her. Her days were passing quietly away, cheered by the sympathy and benevolence of her friends, in whose kind care we will leave her for a season.

CHAPTER II.

ABOUT forty miles distant from the opening scene of our story lay the village of Edgeworth. Nearly a week after the events there narrated, Mr. Harrington, a middle-aged man, returned from the post-office, which was more than a mile from his house, and, after attending to the comfort of his domestic animals, and seen that all was safe for the night, drew the curtains, set out the light stand, and drawing up his arm-chair before the fire, began to put the embers together and make a blaze, preparatory to reading his weekly paper.

He commenced, as was his custom, with the first article, and read each succeeding one in order, omitting nothing. The evening was quite advanced when he came, in due course, to "Marriages” and "Deaths."

"Married, October 10th, by the Rev. T. H. Symmes, Mr. Rufus Howe to Miss Caroline Tainter, both of Bosworth.

"On the 12th inst., by Rev. J. A. Spencer, Mr. John Morrill to Mrs. Susan Averill, relict of the late Colonel Averill, of Freetown, Mass.," &c. &c.

These he read through with scrupulous exactness,

though not without a sigh at his own lonely condition.

Patience, good man! thy turn may come sooner than thou listeth.

Then, snuffing the candle, he proceeded to the deaths.

"Oct. 2d, died at his residence, in Crawford, Mr. Lewis Howarth, aged 53.

"In Melville, on the 5th inst., Mr. Samuel Eames, a Revolutionary veteran, at the advanced age of 90 years."

Here a sudden exclamation of "What!" and a quick repetition of the last announcement, proved that his mind was not so intent upon the matter as his serious manner seemed to indicate. This time his reading, however, showed his whole soul to be absorbed in the fact that, on the 5th inst., Mr. Samuel Eames, aged 90, had departed this life.

But why this emotion? Why is the paper, just now so earnestly desired, hastily thrown aside? Was he thy kinsman? Art thou expecting aught of his worldly estate? No, neither. These would hardly cause the emotion which agitated him for the next hour, as he sat leaning on the arm of his chair, looking steadily into the fire. At length, he breathed more freely, and, with the exclamation, "Then she is free, and may be mine, to bless my solitary heart!" arose and began to walk steadily across the room.

While he is walking thus, we will go back a little in his history, and endeavor to assign some reason for the intensity of feeling here excited.

Levi Harrington was born and brought up in the small village of Edgeworth. When about twentyeight years of age, he married the daughter of a neighboring farmer, with whom he lived happily for many years, when she died, and left him three children, the youngest ten years of age. Upon the marriage of his daughter, he was solicited by his friends to seek another wife; but, among all his acquaintance in the village, he knew of none whom he wished to recognize in that relation. He had never been twenty miles from home in his life; and he determined not to be in haste, but to wait until Providence should direct his course.

A lady, who had been a particular friend of his wife, called one afternoon to see him, and, after expressing her strong interest in him as the husband of her best friend, remarked that she knew of one person who, if not married, would just suit him. He inquired, with a smile

"Is there, then, no prospect of my success?" "Why, yes," said she, returning his smile, "if you choose to wait. She is about the age of Sarah" -naming his deceased wife-" but is married to a man old enough to be her grandfather. I heard, a short time since, that he was very low. He was so old that his friends thought he could not hold out much longer, and he may have died before now."

"What is the name of this lady who would just suit me ?"

"Mary Eames."

"Mary Eames! What, she that was a Conan ?" "Yes."

"Well, I've heard a right good name of her," continued Mr. Harrington, now becoming quite interested in the conversation. "And you say they think he won't live long?"

"Why, yes; neighbor Woodly saw him a week or two since, and he said the old man's mind and memory were almost gone; and he thought, most of the time, Mary was his daughter that died. He has outlived his usefulness, and I rather think poor Mary has a trying time of it."

"Well, how does she get along with him?" "Why, Mr. Woodly says she is the patientest soul that he ever saw, and that it made his heart ache to hear him talk to her, and find so much fault with what she did. Yet he would let no one else do anything for him. If she was out of his sight a moment, he'd call 'Betsy'-his deceased daughter's name-how dare you stay there, when I want you this minute!'"

After his visitor's departure, the sad tale of Mary Eames's trials constantly recurred to him; and, at the end of the following week, when on the way to see the lady who had first mentioned her, he was astonished at himself for the interest he took in a person whom he had never seen. He went purposely to ask if anything had been heard from the old gentleman; but did not propose the question until he was about to depart. Mrs. Williams had heard nothing more, but would inquire.

"Oh," he stammered, "it is of no-no-consequence; only your account of them quite interested

me."

After this, Mrs. Williams, with true womanly tact, kept him informed of the condition of Mr. Eames, without waiting for him to ask, seldom mentioning the name of Mary, except to answer the inquiries occasionally ventured by Mr. Harrington.

About two years subsequent to the marriage of his daughter, his eldest son followed her example, and left home, leaving him with his young son to take care of the farm and small dairy.

I will not attempt to describe his feelings of loneliness and sorrow, mingled with hope deferred, as year after year passed away; nor the several stages through which his mind passed, until he had fully resolved to "bide his time," and "wait for Mary's love." He resisted the oft-urged entreaties of his children, that he would provide a suitable person to keep his house and attend to the concerns of his family. He was determined to guard against everything which might possibly influence the object of his choice, and prevent her from becoming his wife. Indeed, he had so often made and settled his course whenever she should be free, had spent so many hours in thinking of her, and planning what he

would do to make her forget the long, long years of trial through which she had passed, that he felt sure she would consent to be his.

He never realized that all this time poor Mary was ignorant that there was such a person as him self in existence; that she was growing prematurely old by means of her daily and hourly toils. The thought entered not his mind that, worn out by her unceasing watch and care, she might be called away from the trials of earth. No, all his thoughts and feelings centred in this-he would make her happy.

And how did he feel all this time towards the aged veteran, who stood between him and his hopes? Strange as it may seem, he had no desire to deprive the helpless old man of one moment of his allotted life, who had long ago passed his three score years and ten, and who, he thought, in all human probability, could not live much longer. He was willing to wait; he would wait patiently, as Jacob waited for Rachel, provided he was not constrained to take some Leah.

He now seldom left home, except to visit his children, and the kind friend, Mrs. Williams, to whom alone he confided his intentions and his hopes.

She entered warmly into his feelings; encouraged him under the circumstances to live alone, and thus avoid the occasion for idle talk; and did, what it has often been said woman cannot do, keep his secret. Never, by look or tone, intimating that he was more interested than common humanity would dictate, in the trials of Mary Eames, when she and her afflictions were the subject of conversation.

Mr. Harrington often heard, apparently unmoved, high encomiums passed upon her patience and submission under the dispensations of Providence. This he treasured up as a subject of thought during his many hours of loneliness and grief.

At length came the unwelcome intelligence that, exhausted by her ceaseless watching and care, Mary lay upon a bed of sickness, and was so much reduced that her friends feared she never would reThis was what he had not anticipated, and it almost overwhelmed him. For a while, the poor man was bewildered, and could think of nothing.

cover.

For years, he had so connected her in his thoughts with everything he did, and everything he intended to do, that now he seemed thrown into the midst of a wild sea, without anchor or compass. Yes, this was true; and all his sorrow on account of one whom he had never seen. Surely, no one will doubt the romance of real life.

Mrs. Williams often called to see him, and to sympathize with him; and, though for months she could bear no favorable intelligence, she softened the tidings as much as lay in her power.

At last, she informed him that a decided improvement had taken place, and that strong hopes were entertained of Mary's recovery. From this time the accounts were very cheering. The old gentleman, who now recognized no one, had been

removed to a hospital, and his wife, free from the care which had preyed upon her mind, was fast recovering.

We now come to the time when we first introduced Mr. Harrington to the reader, and are prepared to explain the sudden outburst of feeling caused by those few lines in his weekly journal. During the time we have occupied in this sketch of his life, he has made and overturned twenty plans. He finds it harder to act, now that the opportunity is presented, than he had anticipated. He now realizes, and wonders he did not before, that all these would be new to her, and that she could not be expected to enter into them at once at that point to which his mind had arrived. This is a sad trial to his patience. How long must he wait before he can, with propriety, propose to her once more to change her condition? Alas, his confident hope of success has vanished!

After building many castles, and upsetting them -for even men of sixty build airy castles-he resolved to see Mrs. Williams and take her advice.

This he did on the following morning, and, with a sigh, acquiesced in her opinion, that he could not with propriety bring the subject before Mrs. Eames for several months.

Ir was a clear, cold day in December; Mary Eames was to pass the afternoon with a friend. "Hiram shall go for thee, Mary," said Amy. "It is not best for thee to come alone."

With many thanks for her friendly care, Mary started, expecting to be absent through the evening; but the clock had just struck three, when Hiram came with a summons for Mary to return.

"A friend has called upon thee," said he, in answer to her anxious inquiry; for she feared some accident had happened at home.

Telling him he need not wait, she returned to the parlor, took leave of her friends, and directed her steps homeward. She supposed it must be a relation or friend from a distance, otherwise she should hardly have been interrupted in her visit.

Upon her arrival, she was introduced to Mr. Holt, from Edgeworth, an entire stranger, who soon told her he had come some forty miles to see her, and, as he must go a part of the way home that night, requested an interview with her at once.

Amy, to whom his errand was already known, immediately arose, and, having assisted Mary in taking off her cloak, left the room.

Judge, then, of the surprise of the widow, when told that Mr. Harrington, a person whose name

even she had never heard, had requested him to sea her in regard to her feelings connected with a second marriage; or whether she would be willing to enter again into that relation.

After a brief pause, she told him she was so taken by surprise she knew not what to say. Whenever she had thought of the subject at all, she had thought she should never marry again. She was now pleasantly situated, and certainly could give no encouragement to one whom she had never seen. She, however, listened to all that he said in behalf of his friend. His kindness to his wife, his upright conduct, his many excellencies of character, and, above all, his strong attachment to her, formed by what he had for years heard of her through reciprocal friends, were duly commented upon; and I should fail to tell the whole truth, did I not say that, before the commissioner departed, she found to her own astonishment that there might be circumstances which would render it her duty to change her resolution. Mr. Holt stated also that his friend was in very easy circumstances as regarded his pecuniary matters, and was both able and desirous of making her comfortable and happy.

She replied that money would make no difference to her in the choice of a companion, provided she should ever change her condition, compared with having a man of principle, and one who would be kind to her. This would be all-important in her

case.

He then told her Mr. Harrington would probably visit her during the ensuing week.

Though the subject, so unexpectedly brought be fore her, was seldom absent from her thoughts by day or her dreams by night, yet she mentioned it to no one. She was not aware that Mr. Holt had imparted his errand to Amy, who, delighted with the favorable prospect before her friend, had recommended her in the highest terms. She was so modest in her opinion of herself that she could hardly realize that she had excited such interest in a stranger.

When two or three weeks passed, and she heard nothing more from Edgeworth, she determined to dismiss the matter at once from her thoughts.

But this was not so easy as she imagined. Mr. Harrington, sympathizing in her trials, interested in her on account of them, would have a place, and a prominent place, in her mind. She became restless and unsettled, and at last really sick.

Amy recommended a little change of air, and that she should visit her brother and sister for a few days.

"It is fine sleighing," she said; "and Hiram will take thee there in an hour, where I can easily send for thee, in case anything happens," she added, with rather a significant look.

With a reluctance to which she determined not to yield, she prepared to go; and, the next day being pleasant, she accepted Hiram's offer, and went with