Sal Furbush was uncommonly wild, dancing on her toes, making faces, repeating her nine hundred and ninety-nine rules of grammar, and quoting Scripture, especially the passage, “The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away, &c.”  Uncle Peter, too, labored assiduously at “Delia’s Dirge,” which he intended playing as Mary was leaving the yard.

Saturday came at last, and long before the sun peeped over the eastern hills, Mary was up and dressed.  Just as she was ready to leave her room, she heard Sally singing in a low tone, “Oh, there’ll be mourning,—­mourning,—­mourning,—­mourning, Oh, there’ll be mourning when Mary’s gone away.”

Hastily opening her own door, she knocked at Sal’s, and was bidden to enter.  She found her friend seated in the middle of the floor, while scattered around her were the entire contents of the old barrel and box which contained her wearing apparel.

“Good morning, little deary,” said she, “I am looking over my somewhat limited wardrobe, in quest of something wherewith to make your young heart happy, but my search is vain.  I can find nothing except the original MS. of my first novel.  I do not need it now, for I shall make enough out of my grammar.  So take it, and when you are rich and influential, you’ll have no trouble in getting it published,—­none at all.”

So saying, she thrust into Mary’s hand a large package, carefully wrapped in half a dozen newspapers, and the whole enveloped in a snuff-colored silk handkerchief, which “Willie’s father used to wear.”  Here Rind came up the stairs saying breakfast was ready, and after putting her present aside, Mary descended to the kitchen, where she found the table arranged with more than usual care.  An old red waiter, which was only used on special occasions, was placed near Miss Grundy, and on it stood the phenomenon of a hissing coffee-pot:  and what was stranger, still, in the place of the tin basin from which Mary had recently been accustomed to eat her bread and milk, there was now a cup and saucer, which surely must have been intended for her.  Her wonder was at its height when Miss Grundy entered from the back room, bearing a plate filled with snowy white biscuit, which she placed upon the table with an air of “There! what do you think of that?”—­then seating herself, she skimmed all the cream from the bowl of milk, and preparing a delicious cup of coffee, passed it to Mary, before helping the rest.

“Is the Millennium about to be ushered in?” asked Sal in amazement; while Uncle Peter, reverently rising, said, Fellow-citizens, and ladies, for these extras let us thank the Lord, remembering to ask a continuation of the same!”

“Do let your victuals stop your mouth,” said Miss Grundy, “and don’t act as though we never had coffee and biscuit for breakfast before.”

“My memory has failed wonderfully, if we ever did,” was Uncle Peter’s reply.