Without ever asking her sister to stay to dinner, she hastily left the room.  Upon finding herself so unceremoniously deserted, Mary tied on the despised gingham bonnet and started for home.  She had reached the place where Ella the year before met with Mr. Stuart, when she saw a boy, whom she knew was living at the poor-house, coming down the hill as fast as a half blind old horse could bring him.  When he got opposite to her he halted, and with eyes projecting like harvest apples, told her to “jump in, for Mrs. Parker was dying, and they had sent for her.”

“I’ve been to your house,” said he, “and your marm thought mebby I’d meet you.”

Mary immediately sprang in, and by adroitly questioning Mike, whose intellect was not the brightest in the world, managed to ascertain that Mrs. Parker had been much worse for several days, that Sal Furbush had turned nurse; faithfully attending her night and day, and occasionally sharing “her vigils” with a “sleek, fancy-looking girl, who dressed up in meetin’ clothes every day, and who had first proposed sending for Mary.”  Mary readily guessed that the “sleek, fancy-looking” girl was Jenny, and on reaching the poor house she found her suspicions correct, for Jenny came out to meet her, followed by Sally, who exclaimed, “Weep, oh daughter, and lament, for earth has got one woman less and Heaven one female more!”

Passing into the house, Mary followed Jenny to the same room where once her baby sister had lain, and where now upon the same table lay all that was mortal of Mrs. Parker.  Miss Grundy, who was standing near the body, bowed with a look of very becoming resignation, and then as if quite overcome, left the room.  Just then a neighbor, who seemed to be superintending affairs, came in, and Mary asked what she could do to assist them.

“Nothing until to-morrow, when if you please you can help make the shroud,” answered the woman, and Jenny catching Mary around the neck, whispered, “You’ll stay all night with me; there’s no one at home but Rose, and we’ll have such a nice time.”

Mary thought of the little room up stairs where Alice had died, and felt a desire to sleep there once more, but upon inquiry she found that it was now occupied by Sally Furbush.

“You must come and see my little parlor,” said she to Mary, and taking her hand she led her up to the room, which was greatly improved.  A strip of faded, but rich carpeting was before the bed.  A low rocking-chair stood near the window, which was shaded with a striped muslin curtain, the end of which was fringed out nearly a quarter of a yard, plainly showing Sally’s handiwork.  The contents of the old barrel were neatly stowed away in a square box, on the top of which lay a worn portfolio, stuffed to its utmost capacity with manuscript.

“For all this elegance,” said Sally, “I am indebted to my worthy and esteemed friend, Miss Lincoln.”

But Mary did not hear, for her eyes were riveted upon another piece of furniture.  At the foot of the bed stood Alice’s cradle, which Billy Bender had brought there on that afternoon now so well remembered by Mary.