A year passed away,—­to me with the old monotonous routine; full of work, not wanting in solace; barren, indeed, of household enjoyments and vicissitudes; solitary, sometimes desolate, yet peaceful even in monotony.  But this new spring had not come with such serene neglect to the other two of us three.  Against advice, remonstrance, and entreaty from her good friends, Letty Allis had married Henry Malden, and, in attire more tasteful, but quite as far from Quakerism as Josephine had predicted, beamed upon the inhabitants of Slepington from the bow-window, or open door, of a cottage very ornee indeed; while the odor of a tolerable cigar served as Mr. Malden’s exponent, wherever he abode.  And to Josephine had come a loss no annual resurrection should repair:  her mother was dead; she, too, was orphaned,—­for she had never known her father; her only sister was married far away; and I kept an old promise in going to her for a year’s stay at least.

Aunt Boyle’s property had consisted chiefly in large cotton mills owned by herself and her twin brother,—­who, dying before her, left her all his own share in them.  These mills were on a noisy little river in the western part of Massachusetts,—­in a valley, narrow, but picturesque, and so far above the level of the sea that the air was keen and pure as among mountains.  Mrs. Boyle had removed here from Baltimore, a few years before her own death, that she might be with her brother through his long and fatal illness; and, finding her health improved by change of air, had occupied his house ever since, until one of those typhoid fevers that infest such river-gorges at certain seasons of the year entered the village about the mills, when, in visiting the sick, she took the epidemic herself and died.  Josephine still retained the house endeared to her by sad and glad recollections; and it was there I found her, when, after renting the whole of my little tenement at Slepington, I betook myself to Valley Mills at her request.

The cottage where she lived was capacious enough for her wants, and though plain, even to an air of superciliousness, without, was most luxurious within,—­made to use and live in; for Mr. Brown, her uncle, was an Englishman, and had never arrived at that height of Transatlantic ton which consists in shrouding and darkening all the pleasant rooms in the house, and skulking through life in the basement and attic.  Sunshine, cushions, and flowers were Mr. Brown’s personal tastes; and plenty of these characterized the cottage.  A green terrace between hill and river spread out before the door for lawn and garden, and a tiny conservatory abutted upon the brink of the terrace slope, from a bay-window in the library, that opened sidewise into this winter-garden.

I found Jo more changed than I had expected:  this last year of country life had given strength and elasticity to the tall and slender figure; a steady rose of health burned on either cheek; and sorrow had subdued and calmed her quick spirits.