But after this, Content subsided into her peaceful routine.  Ned Parker drank himself into delirium-tremens, spent all his money, and came upon the town.  But at that juncture, the Reverend Everett Goodyear, Parson Goodyear’s son and successor, interfered in his behalf, hired a room and a nurse for him, and had him taken care of in the most generous and faithful way for the remaining year-and-a-half of his life.  Mr. Goodyear said he was acting for Parker’s friends; some said he had a rich uncle, who was moved to compassion at last; some thought it was Hannah-Ann Hall; but only one person knew, and she said nothing.

The day Ned Parker died, the young minister stepped in to see ’Tenty Scran’, and told her he was gone.  Content did not cry nor smile.

“I’m glad he’s rested,” said she; “though I haven’t no certainty about his state hereafter.”

“You must leave that with the Lord, Miss Content,” said Mr. Goodyear.  “You have done what was right; you can’t think He will do less.”

“That’s a fact; and now I expect my last trouble is over.”

“But it has taken almost all your money,” hesitatingly replied the minister.

“Well, that’s the least of my concerns, Mr. Goodyear,” smiled ’Tenty.  “I’m spared my hands yet, and I sha’n’t want for nothing while they last.  When I get helpless, I expect the Lord will take care of me.  I sha’n’t worry about it till it comes.”

“That is philosophy, certainly,” said Mr. Goodyear.

“I don’t know as it’s that; but I guess it’s six of common-sense and half-a-dozen of religion; I always thought they was near about the same thing.  Fact is, people don’t die of troubles in this world; they die of frettin’ at ’em, only they don’t seem to know it.”

“According to that rule, you won’t die this long time, Miss ’Tenty,” said the minister, unable to resist a smile.

“Well, I don’t know, Sir.  I guess I shall live as long as I want to; and I expect I shall die content.  I a’n’t troubled.”

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,” murmured Mr. Goodyear, as he walked away.

* * * * *

RECOLLECTIONS OF IRVING.

BY HIS PUBLISHER.

You are aware that one of the most interesting reunions of men connected with literary pursuits in England is at the annual dinner of the “Literary Fund,”—­the management of which has been so often dissected of late by Dickens and others.  It is a fund for disabled authors; and, like most other British charities, requires to be fed annually by a public dinner.  A notable occasion of this kind happened on the 11th of May, 1842.  It was at this that I first met Mr. Irving in Europe.  The president of the festival was no less than the Queen’s young husband, Prince Albert,—­his first appearance in that (presidential) capacity.  His three speeches were more than respectable,