rest was free to me.  I took the map of the world.  I was a little past thirty, healthy, and should probably, accidents excepted, live out the time allotted to man.  I divided the land mapped out before me into fifteen portions.  I would live two years in each; then, being an old man, I would gradually draw nearer to this forbidden “little spot,” inquire what had become of the Woods, and settle down in the same little house, patiently to await my summons.  My future life being thus all mapped out, I arose with calmness to perform various little duties which yet remained to be done before the funeral could take place.

Beautiful flowers were in the room; a few white ones were at my mother’s breast.  Jane brought them.  She had done everything, and I had not even thanked her.  How could I, in that stiff way I had adopted towards her?

My father was buried beneath an elm-tree, at the farthest corner of the garden.  I had my mother laid by his side.  When the funeral was over, Mrs. Wood and her daughters remained at the house to arrange matters somewhat, and to give directions to the young servant, who was now my only housekeeper.  At one time I was left alone with Jane; the others were up stairs.  Feeling that any emotion on my part might reasonably be attributed to my affliction, I resolved to thank her for her kindness.  I rushed suddenly up to her, and, seizing her hand, pressed it between my own.

“I want to thank you, Jane,” I began, “but—­I cannot.”

And I could not, for I trembled all over, and something choked me so that I could not speak more.

“Oh, don’t, Mr. Allen!” she said; and the tone in which she uttered the words startled me.

It seemed as if they came from the very depths of her being.  Feeling that I could not control myself, I rushed out and gained my own chamber.  What passed there between myself and my great affliction can never be told.

In a week’s time all was ready for my departure.  I gave away part of the furniture to some poor relations of my father’s.  My mother’s clothing and the silver spoons, which were marked with her maiden name, I locked up in a trunk, and asked Mrs. Wood to take care of it.  She inquired where I was going, and I said I didn’t know.  I didn’t, for I was not to decide until I reached Boston.  I think she thought my mind was impaired by grief, and it was.  I spent the last evening there.  They knew I was to start the next forenoon in the stage, and they really seemed very sober.  No reading was thought of.  Jane had her knitting-work, and Mrs. Wood busied herself about her mending.  The witchy little Ellen was quite serious.  She sat in a low chair by the fire, sometimes stirring up the coals and sometimes the conversation.  Jane appeared restless.  I feared she was overwearied with watching and her long attendance on my mother, for her face was pale and she had a headache.  She left the room several times.  I felt uneasy while she was out; but no less so when she came back,—­for there was a strange look about her eyes.