The sound of her voice aroused Frank, and feeling for his sister’s hand, he said, “Don’t go, Mary:—­don’t leave me,—­the moon is shining bright, and I guess I can find my way to God just as well.”

Nine;—­ten;—­eleven;—­and then through the dingy windows the silvery moonlight fell, as if indeed to light the way of the early lost to heaven.  Mary had drawn her mother’s lounge to the side of the trundlebed, and in a state of almost perfect exhaustion, Mrs. Howard lay gasping for breath while Mary, as if conscious of the dread reality about to occur, knelt by her side, occasionally caressing her pale cheek and asking if she were better.  Once Mrs. Howard laid her hands on Mary’s head, and prayed that she might be preserved and kept from harm by the God of the orphan, and that the sin of disobedience resting upon her own head might not be visited upon her child.

After a time a troubled sleep came upon her, and she slept, until roused by a low sob.  Raising herself up, she looked anxiously towards her children.  The moonbeams fell full upon the white, placid face of Frank, who seemed calmly sleeping, while over him Mary bent, pushing back from his forehead the thick, clustering curls, and striving hard to smother her sobs, so they might not disturb her mother.

“Does he sleep?” asked Mrs. Howard, and Mary, covering with her hands the face of him who slept, answered, “Turn away, mother;—­don’t look at him.  Franky is dead.  He died with his arms around my neck, and told me not to wake you.”

Mrs. Howard was in the last stages of consumption, and now after weeping over her only boy until her tears seemed dried, she lay back half fainting upon her pillow.  Towards daylight a violent coughing fit ensued, during which an ulcer was broken, and she knew that she was dying.  Beckoning Mary to her side, she whispered, “I am leaving you alone, in the wide world.  Be kind to Ella, and our dear little Allie, and go with her where she goes.  May God keep and bless my precious children,—­and reward you as you deserve, my darling—­”

The sentence was unfinished, and in unspeakable awe the orphan girl knelt between her mother and brother, shuddering in the presence of death, and then weeping to think she was alone.

CHAPTER III.

Billy Bender.

Just on the corner of Chicopee Common, and under the shadow of the century-old elms which skirt the borders of the grass plat called by the villagers the “Mall,” stands the small red cottage of widow Bender, who in her way was quite a curiosity.  All the “ills which flesh is heir to,” seemed by some strange fatality to fall upon her, and never did a new disease appear in any quarter of the globe, which widow Bender, if by any means she could ascertain the symptoms, was not sure to have it in its most aggravated form.