“Oh, I’m glad, and I hope they’ll put you in my Sabbath school class, for Ella is in it, but if they do I’ll contrive to have Rose sit off a good ways because,—­because—­”

Here Jenny paused, but seeing that Mary was waiting for her to finish the sentence, she added, “She’s proud, and sometimes laughs at poor girls.”

“Thank you, Miss Jenny Lincoln,” said Rose, coming forward.  “I’ll tell mother of this new intimacy, and she’ll put a stop to it, I’ll assure you.  But come along, I’m going home.”

Jenny arose to obey, but whispered to Mary, “You’ll find me most any time in these woods.  I’d ask you to come to our house, only mother wouldn’t let you sit in the parlor.  I shall see you Sunday,—­Good-bye.”

Mary watched her until she disappeared among the bushes and then she too started for home, with a lighter heart than she had known before for many a day.  She had found a new friend, and though Miss Grundy scolded because she had been gone so long, and threatened to shut her up in Sal Furbush’s cage, she did not mind it and actually commenced humming a tune while Miss Grundy was storming about a bowl of sour milk which she had found in the cupboard.  A sharp box on her ears brought her song to an end and the tears into her eyes, but she thought of Jenny, and the fact that she too knew George made him seem nearer, and when Miss Grundy did not see her she hastily drew the golden locket from her bosom, and glancing at the handsome, boyish face it revealed, quickly thrust it back as she heard a quick step in the passage.

She had no opportunity of seeing Jenny again that week, for she was kept busy from morning till night, running here and there, first after eggs, then after water, next for potatoes, and then after wood.  And still Miss Grundy told her fifty times a day that “she didn’t half pay her way, to say nothing about the young one.”

“Bolt at once,” said Sal.  “Bolt, and say you didn’t come here to work:  that’s the way I did.”

Mary was willing to do whatever she could, but she often wished Mrs. Parker were able to be round, for then she was sure she would not have to work so hard.  She had several times been sent of errands to Mrs. Parker’s room, and that lady had always spoken kindly to her, asking her if she was tired, or what made her look so pale.  It was through Mrs Parker’s influence, too, that she had obtained permission to attend church the following Sabbath.  Mrs. Parker was a professor of religion, and before her illness, some of the family had attended church every Sunday.  But since she had been sick, her husband had thought it hardly worth while to harness up his horses, though he said any one might go who chose to walk.  Few, however, were able to walk; so they remained at home, and Sunday was usually the noisiest day in the week.  Sal Furbush generally took the lead, and mounting the kitchen table, sung camp meeting hymns as loud as she could scream.  Uncle Peter fiddled, Patsy nodded and laughed, the girl with crooked feet by way of increasing the bedlam would sometimes draw a file across the stove-pipe, while Miss Grundy scolded, and declared “she could not and would not have such a noise.”