CHAPTER III.

Mary Ellen was gone six weeks.  We were all glad when she came back, the house had seemed so like a tomb.  I’m not sure about Miss Joey.  No doubt she looked upon her with an evil eye, as being the upsetter of all her plans.  But then there was nothing Miss Joey dreaded more than a lonely house.  She wanted company.

And what better company, pray, can there be than a fair young face?  Who would ask for better entertainment than to watch the lighting-up of bright eyes, and the parting of rosy lips, or the thousand other bewitchments of youth and beauty?

And she looked more beautiful than ever,—­I suppose, because she came in a dull time:  just as flowers seem lovelier and more precious in the winter.  I fancied she was very sad, very thoughtful.  Perhaps ’twas David’s going away that caused this.  Perhaps she was sorry she had cast from her such a precious thing as love.

When Emily became much worse, which was shortly after her return, she installed herself as chief nurse, sitting for hours in the darkened room, amusing her with children’s songs and stories,—­for the sick girl, in her weakest state, craved childish things.

That was a quiet, a truly pleasant winter.  After getting letters from David, telling of his safe arrival out, everybody became more cheerful.

But in the spring, as warm weather came on, Emily grew every day weaker.  The apple-blossoms came and went unheeded.

One morning she awoke, unusually free from pain, and said to Mary Ellen,—­

“I saw David last night.  He said to me, ’I shall come sooner than I expected.  But, before I come, I shall send the ruby necklace.’” Then she described the miner’s hut in which she had seen him.

This was in the first part of June.

On the day after the fourth of July we got news of his death.  He had been lost overboard, in a storm, between San Francisco and the Sandwich Islands.

It is very sad to recall that time of deep affliction.  He was the last of five sons, all of whom had left home in full health and strength, none of whom returned.

“Five as likely young men,” said poor Miss Joey, “as ever grew up beneath one roof.”

“All five gone!” groaned the old man, as he leaned his face against the wall.

“Five brothers waiting for me,” whispered Emily, as Mary Ellen bent over her, weeping.

“Five boys,” moaned the poor broken-hearted mother,—­“nobody to take care of them, nobody to do for them, no comforts, no mother, and now no grave!”

’Twas touching to see her husband trying to console her.  Her favorite seat was in one corner of the hard, old-fashioned settee.  There she would sit, swaying herself to and fro, whispering sometimes to herself, “Deep waters! deep waters!”

The old man would sit close up to her, and say, softly,—­

“Now, mother, don’t!  I wouldn’t take on.  You know he isn’t there.  Look up.  Don’t forget God!”