“Yes, and how in this world widder Bender, as poor as she pretends to be, can afford to do it, is more than I can tell.”

“Are you going to the other funeral this afternoon?”

“I guess I am.  I wouldn’t miss it for a good deal.  Why as true as you live, I have never set my foot in Mrs. Campbell’s house yet, and know no more what is in it than the dead.”

“Well, I do, for my girl Nancy Ray used to live there, and she’s told me sights.  She says they’ve got a big looking-glass that cost three hundred dollars.”

“So I’ve heard, and I s’pose there’ll be great doin’s this afternoon.  The coffin, they say, came from Worcester, and cost fifty dollars.”

“Now, that’s what I call wicked.  Sposin’ her money did come from England, she needn’t spend it so foolishly; but then money didn’t save Ella’s life, and they say her mother’s done nothing but screech and go on like a mad woman since she died.  You’ll go early, won’t you?”

“Yes, I mean to be there in season to get into the parlor if I can.”

And now, having reached the corner, where their path diverged, with a mutual “good day” they parted.

CHAPTER IV.

Ella Campbell.

Scarcely three hours had passed since the dark, moist earth was heaped upon the humble grave of the widow and her son, when again, over the village of Chicopee floated the notes of the tolling bell, and immediately crowds of persons with seemingly eager haste, hurried towards the Campbell mansion, which was soon nearly filled.  Among the first arrivals were our acquaintances of the last chapter, who were fortunate enough to secure a position near the drawing-room, which contained the “big looking-glass.”

On a marble table in the same room, lay the handsome coffin, and in it slept young Ella.  Gracefully her small waxen hands were folded one over the other, while white, half-opened rose buds were wreathed among the curls of her hair, which fell over her neck and shoulders, and covered the purple spots, which the disease had left upon her flesh.  “She is too beautiful to die, and the only child too,” thought more than one, as they looked first at the sleeping clay and then at the stricken mother, who, draped in deepest black, sobbed convulsively and leaned for support upon the arm of the sofa.  What now to her were wealth and station?  What did she care for the elegance which had so often excited the envy of her neighbors?  That little coffin, which had cost so many dollars and caused so much remark, contained what to her was far dearer than all.  And yet she was not one half so desolate as was the orphan Mary, who in Mrs. Bender’s kitchen sat weeping over her sister Alice, and striving to form words of prayer which should reach the God of the fatherless.