reproduced by her disordered brain in multitudinous and aggravated forms.  Her wails of agony, her passionate prayers to God to release the beloved spirit from the tortures which her delirium painted, were painful beyond expression to those who watched her ravings; and it was with a feeling of relief that they finally saw her sink into apathy—­into a quiet mental stupor—­from which nothing seemed to rouse her.  She did not remark Mrs. Hunt’s absence, or the presence of the neighbors at her bedside.  And one morning, when she was wrapped up and placed by the fire, Mrs. Wood told her as gently as possible that her grandmother had died from a disease which was ravaging the country and supposed to be cholera.  The intelligence produced no emotion; she merely looked up an instant, glanced mournfully around the dreary room, and, shivering slightly, drooped her head again on her hand.  Week after week went slowly by, and she was removed to Mrs. Wood’s house, but no improvement was discernible, and the belief became general that the child’s mind had sunk into hopeless imbecility.  The kind-hearted miller and his wife endeavored to coax her out of her chair by the chimney-corner, but she crouched there, a wan, mute figure of woe, pitiable to contemplate; asking no questions, causing no trouble, receiving no consolation.  One bright March morning she sat, as usual, with her face bowed on her thin hand, and her vacant gaze fixed on the blazing fire, when, through the open window, came the impatient lowing of a cow.  Mrs. Wood saw a change pass swiftly over the girl’s face, and a quiver cross the lips so long frozen.  She lifted her head, rose, and followed the sound, and soon stood at the side of Brindle, who now furnished milk for the miller’s family.  As the gentle cow recognized and looked at her, with an expression almost human in the mild, liquid eyes, all the events of that last serene evening swept back to Edna’s deadened memory, and, leaning her head on Brindle’s horns, she shed the first tears that had flowed for her great loss, while sobs, thick and suffocating, shook her feeble, emaciated frame.

“Bless the poor little outcast, she will get well now.  That is just exactly what she needs.  I tell you, Peter, one good cry like that is worth a wagon-load of physic.  Don’t go near her; let her have her cry out.  Poor thing!  It ain’t often you see a child love her granddaddy as she loved Aaron Hunt.  Poor lamb!”

Mrs. Wood wiped her own eyes, and went back to her weaving; and Edna turned away from the mill and walked to her deserted home, while the tears poured ceaselessly over her white cheeks.  As she approached the old house she saw that it was shut up and neglected; but when she opened the gate, Grip, the fierce yellow terror of the whole neighborhood, sprang from the door-step, where he kept guard as tirelessly as Maida, and, with a dismal whine of welcome, leaped up and put his paws on her shoulders.  This had been the blacksmith’s pet, fed by his hand, chained when