There was no outcry,—­no sudden gush of tears, but nervously clasping her hands upon her heart, as if the shock had entered there, Mary sat down upon her bed, and burying her face in the pillow, sat there for a long time.  But she said nothing, and a careless observer might have thought that she cared nothing, as it became each day more and more evident that Alice was dying.  But these knew not of the long nights when with untiring love she sat by her sister’s cradle, listening to her irregular breathing, pressing her clammy hands, and praying to be forgiven if ever, in thought or deed, she had wronged the little one now leaving her.

And all this time there came no kind word or message of love from Ella, who knew that Alice was dying, for Billy had told her so.  “Oh, if she would only come and see her;” said Mary, “it wouldn’t seem half so bad.”

“Write to her,” said Sal; “peradventure that may bring her.”

Mary had not thought of this before, and now tearing a leaf from her writing-book, and taking her pen, she wrote hurriedly, “Ella, dear Ella, won’t you come and see little Alice once before she dies?  You used to love her, and you would now, if you could see how white and beautiful she looks.  Oh, do come.  Mrs. Campbell will let you, I know.”

This note, which was blurred and blotted with tears was carried by Billy, who was going to the village, and delivered to Mrs. Campbell herself.  Perhaps the proud woman remembered the time when her own darling died, or it may be that conscience upbraided her for caring so much for one orphan and utterly neglecting the other two.  Be that as it may, her tears fell upon the paper and mingled with Mary’s as she replied, “Ella shall come this afternoon.”

But before afternoon a drizzling shower came on, and Mary watched and wept in vain, for Ella did not come.  The next morning was bright and beautiful as April mornings often are, and at as early an hour as was consistent with Mrs. Campbell’s habits, her carriage was before the door, and herself and Ella seated within it.  The little lady was not in the best of humors, for she and her maid had quarrelled about her dress; Ella insisting upon a light-blue merino, and the maid proposing a plain delaine, which Ella declared she would not wear.  Mrs. Campbell, to whom the matter was referred, decided upon the delaine, consequently Ella cried and pouted, saying she wouldn’t go, wondering what Alice wanted to be sick for, or any way why they should send for her.

Meantime in and around the poor-house there was for once perfect silence.  Sal Furbush had been invisible for hours,—­the girl with crooked feet trod softly as she passed up and down the stairs,—­Uncle Peter’s fiddle was unstrung, and, securely locked in his fiddle box, was stowed away at the bottom of his old red chest,—­and twice that morning when no one saw her, Miss Grundy had stolen out to Patsy’s grave.  Mary was not called to wash the dishes, but up in her own room she sat with her head resting upon the window sill, while the sweet, fresh air of the morning swept over her face, lifting the hair from her flushed brow.  Billy Bender was standing near her, his arm thrown around her, and his lips occasionally pressing her forehead.