WOKE suddenly out of a calm dream, and, lifting my head from the pillow to see what aroused me, I perceived the eastern window of my room uncurtained and thrown wide, and the beautiful head of my cousin Eunice leaning out of it; her tangled brown curls just veiling the exquisite profile that was cut like a cameo upon the red morning sky, and one delicâte hand raised toward her face as if she listened all over. I looked on in silence-the picture was too pretty to disturb when suddenly there smote upon my ear that most solemn, tranquil, and unearthly of all sounds, the toll of a church bell. "Two," said Eunice, in a half whisper; then there was a long pause, and the "ringing the age" beringing the age" be

gan.

Two told us a woman had died while we slept, and now the slow strokes counted her years, few and evil, but at last over. The morning was perfect; one speck of glittering cloud floated above the unrisen sun's gate, on the summit of a low hilly range; the ghostly moon hung, dreamlike, in mid-air, and utter silence pervaded all nature, while a faint scent, stealing from the profuse white clusters that drooped on every bough of the old locust without my window, came in like the languid beating of a sinking pulse, with each new vibration of the bell.

The knell went on-sixteen, seventeen, eighteen! the shadow lightened on Eunice's face; life was sweet to her; she did not like to hear another's early doom. Ten more strokes, and I, too, drew a long sigh: we may think life is hateful, but death is an untried terror; even faith grapples with it unwillingly. Still the knell went on, on, to fifty-eight, and ceased; in another moment the sun sprung from the hills, a low wind sighed through the shivering locust boughs, and Eunice, turning from the window with a relieved face, said softly:

Who could it have been, Aura?" "I can tell you," said I; "it is Betsey Clark, that old maid forlorn,' as you always used to call her."

"What! the dear, dried up old thing, with a poke bonnet, who sat in the free slip, and sung Mear with such a cracked voice?"

"The very same. Mother watched with her night before last, and I saw her yesterday morning; but I did not think she would die for some days yet.”

"I am glad it is not anybody else," said Eunice, after a moment's pause of thought; "for it must have been easier for her to leave such a stupid, humdrum life, than if she had ever had any romance. Poor thing! how could she bear such monotony ?"

"Never say that of any one, Una: no one lives such a life. Betsey Clark did have a romance as thrilling as a novelist could wish. I have always been a great favorite of hers; and knowing from mother, who had been her fast friend for years, that she had a peculiar history, I asked her one day, when she was sewing up in my room, to tell me about her life. The poor thing relaxed her prim mouth into a quivering smile, wiped her spectacles, and giving a little dry cough, said, 'She would some time.""

"Provoking! and now she's dead."

"You don't appreciate her, Eunice. Betsey Clark never made the slightest promise without religiously keeping it. Yesterday, as I was sitting by her bed fanning her, she told me that she had not forgotten what she said that day, but that it was always hard for her to talk about her life; so when she broke her left wrist, soon after this long decline, that has, at length, ended her days, set in, she remembered what I asked, and spent a great many hours writing out all she could recollect. I said I was afraid she had tired herself; but I was very glad she had been so good; and she answered:

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You needn't ha' been afraid of that, Aury. I was glad enough to have something to keep me busy them long, tedious days. I haven't got jist such paper as I'd have liked; but old Squire Williams giv me a lot of his lawyer paper a while ago, and I thought it shouldn'd be wasted, so I writ upon that. I hope you will be suited, though it's a kinder sorrowful story for a young woman to hear: but it's all over now, and I'm going to a very restful place, where I shan't know no more trouble.'

She gave a long sigh, and turned her head feebly toward the window, looked wistfully at the morning glories that clambered over it from the box within, where she had planted and tended them, and were now all open in the clear sunshine. I picked a handful of aërial blossoms, and laid them on the bed; for an instant her dull eyes brightened with pleasure; but when in a few moments the frail splendor drooped in her feverish touch, a slow tear trickled from each wrinkled lid, and I heard her whisper these two lines

"There everlasting spring abides,

And never-withering flowers.' ***Shall I sing it to you, Miss Betsey?' said I.

"Yes, do; it'll make the time seem short.'

So I sang all the hymn, and then gave my place to Mrs. Smith, and, bidding good-by, left the little house with a roll of yellow and time-stained papers in my hand, apparently worthy to contain a more antiquated legend than the closed trials of Betsey Clark. I found you at home, Una, so I did not go over again, and now she is dead. After breakfast we will read the papers together."

So by that same east window, we sat down a few hours after our conversation, and, with Eunice's soft crimson cheek against mine, read the following story. There was no title; the quaint, cramped writing began at the top of the page, and more than once I had to interpret to Una the misspelt words that defied rules of every nature.

"DEAR YOUNG FRIEND AURY,-I told you one day I would tell you all about myself some time; and when I'd said it I was sort of sorry, because I bethought myself that 'twasn't ever best to be making young folks sorrowful before their time, seeing their time will come sooner or later; and, besides, I don't ever like to talk about old times very much; for though I am, so to

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speak, advanced in years, I have got natural feelings, and they will rise and rule overmuch, when they get a chance. lay me up with a broken wrist, and However, it has leased Providence to it seems to be a sort of a leading beside, I have promised, and promisetoward this work, so I cannot object; breaking is a sin, as well as a great evil -so here is to begin.

"I do not remember my father at all, nor much about my mother, except that weakly. She was all the time drinking she was a widow-woman and very herb tea out of a brown tea-pot, and knitting; I remember when the schoolma'am sent me home to tell her that I took on a good while about it, for she was the poorest speller in school, she had always expected I should keep school for a living, and she knew I couldn't do that if I was a poor speller. the chimney, real down to think how So she said to me as I was a setting by bad she felt:- Betsey,' says she, 'mark my words! you'll have to get your bread and salt when I'm gone, by sowing, and that's a laborsome way to get one's livin'; oh deary me!'

I

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call handsome, but he had such a coaxing look out of his eyes, and white teeth, such pretty soft hair, and such a way with him, everybody liked him, and that was the same as being handsome. I don't say but that I liked him too, but it was kindly that I should, for he was the nearest to a brother to me that ever I had. I used to save him out the biggest dough-nuts when I fried a pan-full, and set by his supper to keep warm, when he staid out skating, so he shouldn't have to eat cold victuals when he was cold himself, and I knit his stockings always; but we was both children, and his folks sent him off to Indianny to his uncle, as soon as he was sixteen, and his sister Sary, Miss Kenyon, that was, she come home to live, she'd been out to Indianny. She was handsome, as fair as milk, with red cheeks, and great black eyes, and light hair, but somehow I never liked her looks either; her eyes was dreadful stary, and she was jest as proud and cold as a snow-figger the boys made in our yard. But she didn't stay to home long. Luther Kenyon took her, and I was glad to fix off for the weddin', for she wasn't what I call real clever.

"However, the spring before I was twenty, Deacon Perkins, he took a fever, and died right off, before Stephen could be sent for. I was sorry enough then, for the Deacon was like a father to me, and I most cried my eyes out; and he wasn't more'n cold, before Miss Perkins she took sick too: but she was sick a long spell, somebody had to wait on her day and night. I set up nights till I couldn't stand it, and then I took her days. Sary Kenyon was clear worn out too, and it seemed as though we should give up, for she had a catching fever the doctor said, and nobody would come to help us for love nor money, except black Cudjo and his wife, who were there for kitchen help, when Miss Perkins was took. After a while the old lady began to sink, and then she went down so fast, we was forced to think Stephen would never get to see her; and no more did he, for she had been buried two days, and Sary Kenyon was gone home to Pontoosuc, and Chloe was helpin' me to clean house, when Stephen walked straight into the shed door one day, and looking me in the face, as white as any sheet, just said, Oh Betsey and set down; I declare, I didn't know

what to say, but Providence opens our mouth sometimes, and I forgot all about being a woman grown, I only remembered Stephen was a kind boy, and all the old times, so I set down by him on the settle, and put my arms right round his neck, and began to cry, and that fixed him, for he jest put his head on to mine and cried too; we couldn't help it, and we was both better when it was done. So then I wiped my eyes, and got him to lay down right there, by the fire, while I hung on the kettle, and made him some tea, he looked so white; and when he'd had a bit to eat he felt stronger, so after the chores were done, Chloe made a fire in the keepin'-room, and he and I sat in there and talked it all over. Next day, Sary come, and they overhauled the Deacon's papers; but there wasn't nothing to find, he'd been and mortgaged the farm so deep to get the means of livin', that it had to be sold, and there wasn't more'n three hundred dollars apiece for Stephen and Sary. We had a long talk when all this was settled. Stephen said he had made up his mind to be a preacher, he had experienced religion to the West, and been to a preparin' school, and he calculated the money he'd got, and the work he could do vacations, would take him through College, and he'd trust to Providence to get through the Seminary afterwards. I was glad beyond speakin' to hear this, for I knew he was well off, and I could feel for him, because I'd been a church member going on three years, and I knew, too, how his old father had prayed for him, but I did wish he had wrote and told us about it,-people are so queer about considering their own folks, it seems as if 'twas like most anything we see all the time, we don't remember it's worth seeing. Sary said she was put out to think there wasn't more money, but she didn't care much; she should stay at Pontoosuc always, and Luther had a good business, so then she turned round square to me, and asked what I meant to do. Now it would have been kindly in her to have offered me a stopping place with her, till I could settle my plans, but she didn't think of it, I suppose. I know Stephen whispered something to her, and she turned as red as a turkey, and said out loud, ‘It isn't convenient.' So I mustered up my pride, and said my plans were not