Verry hugged her, and Temperance shed the honestest tears of the day then, she was so gratified at Verry’s fondness.  Before Abram had been buried a week, she was back again—­a fixture, although she declared that she had only come for a spell, as we might know by the size of the bundle she had, showing us one, tied in a blue cotton handkerchief.  What should she stay from her own house for, when as good a man as ever lived left it to her?  We knew that she merely comforted a tender conscience by praising the departed, for whom she had small respect when living.  We felt her brightening influence, but Fanny sulked, feeling dethroned.

Ben Pickersgill Somers and Veronica Morgeson were “published.”  Contrary to the usual custom, Verry went to hear her own banns read at the church.  She must do all she could, she told me, to realize that she was to be married; had I any thoughts about it, with which I might aid her?  She thought it strange that people should marry, and could not decide whether it was the sublimest or the most inglorious act of one’s life.  I begged her to think about what she should wear—­the time was passing.  Father gave me so small a sum for the occasion, I had little opportunity for the splendid; but I purchased what Veronica wanted for a dress, and superintended the making of it—­black lace over lavender-colored silk.  She said no more about it; but I observed that she put in order all her possessions, as if she were going to undertake a long and uncertain journey.  Every box and drawer was arranged.  All her clothes were repaired, refolded, and laid away; every article was refreshed by a turn or shake-up.  She made her room a miracle of cleanliness.  What she called rubbish she destroyed—­her old papers, things with chipped edges, or those that were defaced by wear.  She went once to Milford in the time, and bought a purple Angola rug, which she put before her arm-chair, and two small silver cups, with covers; in one was a perfume which Ben liked, the other was empty.  Her favorite blank-books were laid on a shelf, and the table, with its inkstand and portfolio, was pushed against the wall.  The last ornament which she added to her room was a beautifully woven mat of evergreens, with which she concealed the picture of the avenue and the nameless man.  After it was done, she inhabited my room, appearing to feel at home, and glad to have me with her.  As the time drew near, she grew silent, and did not play at all.  Temperance watched her with anxiety.  “If ever she can have one of those nervous spells again she will have one now,” she said.  “Don’t let her dream.  I am turning myself inside out to keep up her appetite.”

“Do you ever feel worried about me, Tempy?”

“Lord ’a marcy! you great, strong thing, why should I?  May be you do want a little praise.  I never saw anybody get along as well as you do, nowadays; you have altered very much; I never would have believed it.”

“What was the trouble with me?”