Suddenly there was the sound of carriage wheels, and he whispered in her ear, “Ella is coming.”

Hastily running down the stairs, Mary met her sister in the doorway, and throwing her arms around her neck, burst into tears.  Ella would gladly have shaken her off, for she felt that her curls were in danger of being mussed, and she had besides hardly recovered from her pet.  But Mary firmly held her hand, and led her on through the long hall, into a room which they usually denominated “the best room.”

There, upon the table, lay a little stiffened form.  The blue eyes were closed, and the long eyelashes rested upon the marble cheek, and in the waxen hands, folded so carefully over the other, there was a single snow-drop.  No one knew who placed it there, or whence it came.  Gently Mary laid back the thin muslin covering, saying as she did so, “Allie is dead.  I’ve got no sister left but you!” and again her arms closed convulsively about Ella’s neck.

“You kind of choke me!” said Ella, trying to get free, and it was not until Mrs. Campbell, thoroughly ashamed of her want of feeling, took her hand and placed it on Alice’s cold cheek, asking her if she were not sorry her little sister was dead, that she manifested any emotion whatever.  Then, as if something of her better nature were roused, her lip trembled for a moment, and she burst into a violent fit of weeping.

“It is hardly natural that she should feel it as deeply as Mary,” said Mrs. Campbell to Billy Bender, who was present.

He made no reply, but he never forgot that scene; and when years after he met with Ella on terms of perfect equality,—­when he saw her petted, flattered, and admired, he turned away from the fawning multitude, remembering only the April morning when she stood by the dead body of her sister.

During all this time no trace of Sal Furbush had been seen, and at last a strict search was instituted but to no effect, until Billy, who chanced to be passing the dark closet under the garret stairs, heard her whispering to herself, “Yes, little Willie’s dead, and Sally’s got three in Heaven now.”

Entering the place, he found her crouched in one corner, her hair hanging down her back, and her eyes flashing with unusual brightness.

“Why, Sally,” said he, “what are you here for?”

“To save the credit of the house,” was her ready reply.  “When the other Willie died, they chained me in this dungeon, and thinking they might do so again, I concluded to come here quietly wishing to save all trouble and confusion, for the utmost decorum should be preserved in the house of death.”

“Poor woman,” said Billy kindly, “no one wishes you to stay here.  Come with me,”—­and he took her hand to lead her forth.

But she resisted him, saying, that “fasting and solitude were nature’s great restoratives.”

“She has showed her good sense for once,” said Miss Grundy, on hearing of Sally’s whereabouts, “but’ ain’t the critter hungry?” and owing to some newly touched chord of kindness, a slice of toast and a cup of hot tea erelong found entrance into the darksome cell.