“‘But,’ cried the gentleman, in tones of surprise and alarm, ’I do not call upon you for so great a sacrifice.  It was not Miss Lucinda that I meant, but another, to whom I have reason to think I am not altogether disagreeable.  Surely you cannot be ignorant of my profound affection for your self-sacrificing sister, the widow of my late respected friend, Deane Phelps!’

“‘Oh!’ tittered Mrs. Crane, starting with great violence from her seat; ’you mean Jane.  Well, I’m glad she’s got somebody to think something of her at last.  I congratulate you upon the prize you’ve won.  I shall make all haste to impart the agreeable intelligence.’

“‘You artful specimen of an underhand nobody!’ said Mrs. P. Crandall, bursting into the room where the little widow stood, looking really pretty with her soft flush of happy expectation in her face.  ‘You’ll rue this day, if I live!’

     “‘Oh, sister, don’t!’ said the low, grieved voice of the other.  ’I
     do so want your love and sympathy.’

     “‘Love and sympathy be d-d-darned!’ sputtered Mrs. Crane, working
     her long fingers convulsively.  ’Walk out of this room in a hurry,
     before I scratch your eyes out, you soft little caterpillar!’

“‘Ruined! ruined! ruined!’ she cried, sinking down and bursting into a passionate flood of tears.  ’Everything goes crossways.  This is a doomed family.  Crane can’t keep up appearances a week longer, and Lucinda will be washing dishes in Jane Phelps’ kitchen yet.’  Which prophecy will, in all probability, yet become literally true.

“I had these facts from Mrs. Jane Phelps Townsend, who told me that her brother-in-law had lost all of his ill-gotten gains, and, unless her husband assisted them, they would sink into the lowest depths of poverty.

“I’m just hateful enough to feel glad of it, too, Clemence.  I never knew, until lately, that I could be wicked enough to rejoice over other people’s calamities.  But I can’t help it.  Last week I took a roll of fine sewing to Mrs. Addison Brayton.  ’What are you crying about now, Cynthia?’ I asked of the disconsolate figure that sat crouched over a sewing machine.

     “‘Oh, Mrs. Linden, I’m so unhappy,’ she whined.  ’There is a cold
     winter coming on, and I don’t know but we shall actually starve to
     death before spring.’

“I remembered the insolent remarks of this lady, and the rest of her set, when a certain little bright-haired pet of mine was similarly situated, and tormented, like Martha, about ’many things.’

“It needed all my Christian charity and forbearance to keep from actually twitting her on the spot.  I can’t help but pity the forlorn creature, though.  She’s married that little spendthrift, who was brought up in idleness to rely on his expectations.  They don’t either of them know anything about work, now they are