Strange to say, too, the hand which brought it was not repulsed, though very demurely and in seeming earnestness was the question asked, “Mrs. Grundy, haven’t you met with a change?”

The next day was the funeral.  At first there was some talk of burying the child in the same inclosure with Patsy; but Mary plead so earnestly to have her laid by her mother, that her request was granted, and that night when the young spring moon came out, it looked quietly down upon the grave of little Alice, who by her mother’s side was sweetly sleeping.

CHAPTER XII.

A NEW FRIEND.

Three weeks had passed away since Alice’s death, and affairs at the poor-house were beginning to glide on as usual.  Sal Furbush, having satisfied her own ideas of propriety by remaining secluded for two or three days, had once more appeared in society; but now that Alice was no longer there to be watched, time hung wearily upon her hands, and she was again seized with her old desire for authorship.  Accordingly, a grammar was commenced, which she said would contain Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine rules for speaking the English language correctly!

Mary, who had resumed her post as dish washer in the kitchen, was almost daily expecting Jenny; and one day when Billy came in to dinner, he gave her the joyful intelligence that Jenny had returned, and had been in the field to see him, bidding him tell Mary to meet her that afternoon in the woods by the brook.

“Oh, I do hope Miss Grundy will let me go,” said Mary, “and I guess she will, for since Allie died, she hasn’t been near so cross.”

“If she don’t, I will,” answered Mr. Parker, who chanced to be standing near, and who had learned to regard the little orphan girl with more than usual interest.

But Miss Grundy made no objections, and when the last dishcloth was wrung dry, and the last iron spoon put in its place, Mary bounded joyfully away to the woods, where she found Jenny, who embraced her in a manner which showed that she had not been forgotten.

“Oh,” said she, “I’ve got so much to tell you, and so much to hear, though I know all about dear little Allie’ death,—­didn’t you feel dreadfully?”

Mary’s tears were a sufficient answer, and Jenny, as if suddenly discovering something new, exclaimed, “Why, what have you been doing?  Who pulled your teeth?”

Mary explained the circumstance of the tooth-pulling, and Jenny continued:  “You look a great deal better, and if your cheeks were only a little fatter and your skin not quite so yellow, you’d be real handsome; but no matter about that.  I saw George Moreland in Boston, and I wanted to tell him about you, but I’d promised not to; and then at first I felt afraid of him, for you can’t think what a great big fellow he’s got to be.  Why, he’s awful tall! and handsome, too.  Rose likes him, and so do lots of the girls, but I don’t believe he cares a bit for any of them except his cousin Ida, and I guess he does like her;—­any way, he looks at her as though he did.”