Passing through the hall, where several other women were examining and depreciating Mrs. Lincoln’s costly carpets, pronouncing them “half cotton,” &c., Mary made her way up the stairs, where in a chamber as yet untouched, she found Jenny and with her William Bender.  Mrs. Lincoln’s cold, scrutinizing eyes were away, and Mr. Lincoln had cordially welcomed William to his house, telling him of his own accord where his daughter could be found.  Many a time in his life for Mary’s sake had William wished that he was rich, but never had he felt so intense a longing for money, as he did when Jenny sat weeping at his side, and starting at each new sound which came up from the rabble below.

“Oh, Mary, Mary!” she said, as the latter entered the room, “to-morrow every thing will be sold, and I shall have no home.  It’s dreadful to be poor.”

Mary knew that from bitter experience, and sitting down by her young friend, her tears flowed as freely as Jenny’s had often flowed for her, in the gray old woods near Chicopee poor-house.  Just then there was an unusual movement in the yard below, and looking from the window, Jenny saw that they were carrying the piano away.

“This is worse than all,” said she.  “If they only knew how dear that is to me, or how dear it will be when—­”

She could not finish, but Mary knew what she would say.  The piano belonged to Rose, whose name was engraved upon its front, and when she was dead, it would from that fact be doubly dear to the sister.  A stylish-looking carriage now drew up before the house, from which Mrs. Campbell alighted and holding up her long skirts, ascended the stairs, and knocked at Jenny’s door.

“Permeely,” called out the old lady who had been disappointed in her search for the silver candlesticks, “wasn’t that Miss Campbell?  Wall, she’s gone right into one of them rooms where t’other gal went.  I shouldn’t wonder if Mr. Lincoln’s best things was hid there, for they keep the door locked.”

Accidentally Mr. Lincoln overheard this remark, and in his heart he felt that his choicest treasure was indeed there.  His wife, from whom he naturally expected sympathy, had met him with desponding looks and bitter words, reproaching him with carelessness, and saying, as in similar circumstances ladies too often do, that “she had forseen it from the first, and that had he followed her advice, ’twould not have happened.”

Henry, too, seemed callous and indifferent, and the father alone found comfort in Jenny’s words of love and encouragement.  From the first she had stood bravely by him refusing to leave the house until all was over; and many a weary night, when the great city was hushed and still, a light had gleamed from the apartment where, with her father, she sat looking over his papers, and trying to ascertain as far as possible, to what extent he was involved.  It was she who first suggested the giving up of every thing; and when Henry, less upright than his noble sister, proposed the withholding of a part, she firmly answered, “No, father don’t do it.  You have lost your property, but do not lose your self-respect.”