Old Mrs. Carr belonged, in a degree, to this order of persons.  Only the coming of Mercy’s young life into the feeble current of her own had saved it from entire stagnation.  But she was already past middle age when Mercy was born; and the child with her wonderful joyousness, and the maiden with her wondrous cheer, came too late to undo what the years had done.  The most they could do was to interrupt the process, to stay it at that point.  The consequence was that Mrs. Carr at sixty-five was a placid sort of middle-aged old lady, very pleasant to talk with as you would talk with a child, very easy to take care of as you would take care of a child, but, for all purposes of practical management or efficient force, as helpless as a baby.

When Mercy told her what the doctor had said of her health, and that they must sell the house and move away before the winter set in, she literally opened her mouth too wide to speak for a minute, and then gasped out like a frightened child,—­

“O Mercy, don’t let’s do it!”

As Mercy went on explaining to her the necessity of the change, and the arrangements she proposed to make, the poor old woman’s face grew longer and longer; but, some time before Mercy had come to the end of her explanation, the childish soul had accepted the whole thing as fixed, had begun already to project itself in childish imaginations of detail; and to Mercy’s infinite relief and half-sad amusement, when she ceased speaking, her mother’s first words were, eagerly,—­

“Well, Mercy, if we go ’n the stage, ‘n’ I s’pose we shall hev to, don’t ye think my old brown merino’ll do to wear?”

Fortune favored Mercy’s desire to sell the house.  Stephen’s friend, the young minister, had said to himself many times, as he walked up to its door between the quaint, trim beds of old-fashioned pinks and ladies’ delights and sweet-williams which bordered the little path, “This is the only house in this town I want to live in.”  As soon as he heard that it was for sale, he put on his hat, and fairly ran to buy it.  Out of breath, he took Mercy’s hands in his, and exclaimed,—­

“O Mercy, do you really want to sell this house?”

Very unworldly were this young man and this young woman, in the matter of sale and purchase.  Adepts in traffic would have laughed, had they overheard the conversation.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Allen, I do.  I must sell it; and I am afraid I shall have to sell it for a great deal less than it is worth,” replied Mercy.

“No, you sha’n’t, Mercy!  I’ll buy it myself.  I’ve always wanted it.  But why in the world do you want to sell it?  Where will you live yourself?  There isn’t another house in the village you’d like half so well.  Is it too large for you?” continued Mr. Allen, hurriedly.  Then Mercy told him all her plans, and the sad necessity for her making the change.  The young minister did not speak for some moments.  He seemed lost in thought.  Then he exclaimed,—­