THE OLD STONE MANBION.
howl, as if he was nearly killed, and ran off
homeward.
The lad, who had thus interfered in my behalf, gated after him contemptuously, for an instant, and then crossed over to where I stood. He was dressed neatly, even elegantly, and had an easy, eelf-possessed manner, very different from that of the boys of the poor suburb where we lived. fwo great, dark eyes, eloquent with sympatby, jooked down on me as he took my hand, and asked if I was hurt. I stammered something about my wrist being broken. He said, ‘Oh! I guess not,” cheerfully. There was such manli- sess and courage in his carriage and looks, that I felt reassured immediately.
All at once, however, I remembered the broken pitcher, and began to cry again. He seemed passied for a moment, but then brightened up.
“Ah! I see,” was oll he said. ‘Wait a minute,” and before I knew what he meant, he darted into a shop near by, reappeared imme- diately with a new pitcher, filled it with two or three quick strokes at the pump, took my hand, end bade me cheerily show him the way home. i was all done in less time than I have taken to aarrate it. Before I recovered from my bewil- derment, he had touched his cap and disap- peared; and I was standing alone, in the cold, serrow, dark hall.
It was only for a moment. Remembering my mother, I hurried up stairs, reaching our room door out of breath.
I had expected to hear my mother ask me the tause of my delay. But she did not. I crossed le the foot of the bed, and poured out a giass of Water: yet still she was silent. She did not even look toward me. Though it was now quite dark ia the chamber, I could see her white face. It seemed ao ghastly, a sudden terror seized me. I dared not speak, nor advance, but stood, with the tumbler shaking in my hand and the water spilling out. Still that same fixed, strange look! My terror, at last, became too great for silence.
“Mother!” I said; but below my breath.
No answer. The white face, still turned up- ward, remained immovable as ever.
‘‘Mother!”’ I shrieked, rushing to her side.
Still not an eyelid moved. She would never hear me again in this world. I realized that she was dead, though I now bebeld death for the frst time. I threw myself on the body, wildly ealling on her to wake up, kissing her, imploring her not to die, frantically uttering shriek on shriek, till I lost all consciousness.
The next few days are almost a blank in my recollection. Looking back at this distance of time, they seem enveloped in a sort of haze. An unutterable sorrow is almost ali that I can re- call. Yet I remember, in a dreamy way, waking up to find our fellow lodgers gathered arcund me; I remember being torn from my mother, and sleeping with a stranger, who nevertheless wae very kind to me; I remember, afterward, the next day, I suppose, a big, red-faced, im- portant personage, with huge gold seals that impressed me with a high idea of his import- ance, chucking me under the chin, saying he had come to take me away, bow that my mother was dead, and telling me, when I began to cry at this, that I ‘‘mustn’t mind it, it was better for her, poor thing, and for me.” I recollect, aleo, the darkened room where the coffin lay; the whispered conversations; the awe on every countenance; and the being lifted to take a last look on that dear face, which now I could hardly recognize, it was so cold and white. I have a faint memory, too, that I shrieked, clung to the coffin, and said I would not leave my mamma; and that afterward, I sobbed myself to sleep, orying, ‘‘Mamma, mamma, do come back to me, dear mamma.”
Then follows the recollection of a long jour- ney, in which the pompous gentleman acocom- panied me. At last, one day, we alighted at the door of a splendid mansion, in a greet eity, « city even larger than the one where I had live before. A biaze of lights almost blinded me, a we entered the hall. When I reeovered from my bewilderment, a richly dressed lady, holding a little girl by the hand, stood before me; and she and my traveling companion were looking at me and talking of me.
‘‘That is your aunt, Margaret,” I heard the gentleman say, ‘‘and this is your cousin, Geor- giana. She’s a poor, sickly-looking thing, isn’t she?’’ he added, turning to his wife.
Neither the lady, nor the little girl, offered to kisa me. The latter held by her mother’s gown, and when I would have approached, drew back as if either frightened or disgusted. My pride, for even then J had pride, was up in a moment. The coldness of my aunt, the aversion of my cousin, and the contempt of my uncle sunk into my heart, and embittered my life, not only for that evening, but for years afterward. God help your little ones, mother, if ever they become orphans!
That night I was put to bed in a lonely, cheer- less room, hastily made ready for me, away up at the top of the house. In my ascent to it, I passed the large, luxurious chamber, which my ‘aunt and uncle occupied, and where my cotsin slept in a pretty little crib by their bed-side. An errand called the maid, who had me in charge,
