dark in the sick room, Mary sobbed out, "We have no candle, mother, and if I go for one, and he should die—"

The sound of her voice aroused Frank, and feeling for his sister's hand, he said, "Don't go, Mary:—don't leave me,—the moon is shining bright, and I guess I can find my way to God just as well."

Nine;—ten;—eleven;—and then through the dingy windows the silvery moonlight fell, as if indeed to light the way of the early lost to heaven. Mary had drawn her mother's lounge to the side of the trundlebed, and in a state of almost perfect exhaustion, Mrs. Howard lay gasping for breath while Mary, as if conscious of the dread reality about to occur, knelt by her side, occasionally caressing her pale cheek and asking if she were better. Once Mrs. Howard laid her hands on Mary's head, and prayed that she might be preserved and kept from harm by the God of the orphan, and that the sin of disobedience resting upon her own head might not be visited upon her child.

After a time a troubled sleep came upon her, and she slept, until roused by a low sob. Raising herself up, she looked anxiously towards her children. The moonbeams fell full upon the white, placid face of Frank, who seemed calmly sleeping, while over him Mary bent, pushing back from his forehead the thick, clustering curls, and striving hard to smother her sobs, so they might not disturb her mother.

"Does he sleep?" asked Mrs. Howard, and Mary, covering with her hands the face of him who slept, answered, "Turn away, mother;—don't look at him. Franky is dead. He died with his arms around my neck, and told me not to wake you."

Mrs. Howard was in the last stages of consumption, and now after weeping over her only boy until her tears seemed dried, she lay back half fainting upon her pillow. Towards daylight a violent coughing fit ensued, during which an ulcer was broken, and she knew that she was dying. Beckoning Mary to her side, she whispered, "I am leaving you alone, in the wide world. Be kind to Ella, and our dear little Allie, and go with her where she goes. May God keep and bless my precious children,—and reward you as you deserve, my darling—"

The sentence was unfinished, and in unspeakable awe the orphan girl knelt between her mother and brother, shuddering in the presence of death, and then weeping to think she was alone.

CHAPTER III.

BILLY BENDER.

Just on the corner of Chicopee Common, and under the shadow of the century-old elms which skirt the borders of the grass plat called by the villagers the "Mall," stands the small red cottage of widow Bender, who in her way was quite a curiosity. All the "ills which flesh is heir to," seemed by some strange fatality to fall upon her, and never did a new disease appear in any quarter of the globe, which widow Bender, if by any means she could ascertain the symptoms, was not sure to have it in its most aggravated form.

On the morning following the events narrated in the last chapter, Billy, whose dreams had been disturbed by thoughts of Frank, arose early, determined to call at Mrs. Howard's, and see if they were in want of any thing. But his mother, who had heard rumors of the scarlet fever, was up before him, and on descending to the kitchen, which with all her sickness Mrs. Bender kept in perfect order, Billy found her sitting before a blazing fire,—her feet in hot water, and her head thrown back in a manner plainly showing that something new had taken hold of her in good earnest. Billy was accustomed to her freaks, and not feeling at all frightened, stepped briskly forward, saying, "Well, mother, what's the matter now? Got a cramp in your foot, or what?"

"Oh, William," said she, "I've lived through a sight but my time has come at last. Such a pain in my head and stomach. I do believe I've got the scarlet fever, and you must run for the doctor quick."

"Scarlet fever!" repeated Billy, "why, you've had it once, and you can't have it again, can you?"

"Oh, I don't know,—I never was like anybody else, and can have any thing a dozen times. Now be spry and fetch the doctor but before you go, hand me my snuff-box and put the canister top heapin' full of tea into the tea-pot."

Billy obeyed, and then, knowing that the green tea would remove his mother's ailment quite as soon as the physician, he hurried away towards Mrs. Howard's. The sun was just rising, and its red rays looked in at the window, through which the moonlight had shone the night before. Beneath the window a single rose-tree was blooming, and on it a robin was pouring out its morning song. Within the cottage there was no sound or token of life, and thinking its inmates were asleep, Billy paused several minutes upon the threshold, fearing that he should disturb their slumbers. At last with a vague presentiment that all was not right, he raised the latch and entered, but instantly started back in astonishment at the scene before him. On the little trundlebed lay Frank, cold and dead, and near him in the same long dreamless sleep was his mother, while between them, with one arm thrown lovingly across her brother's neck, and her cheek pressed against his, lay Mary—her eyelids moist with the tears which, though sleeping she still shed. On the other side of Frank and nestled so closely to him that her warm breath lifted the brown curls from his brow, was Ella. But there were no tear stains on her face, for she did not yet know how bereaved she was.

For a moment Billy stood irresolute, and then as Mary moved uneasily in her slumbers, he advanced a step or two towards her. The noise aroused her, and instantly remembering and comprehending the whole, she threw herself with a bitter cry into Billy's extended arms, as if he alone were all the protector she now had in the wide, wide world. Ere long Ella too awoke, and the noisy outburst which followed the knowledge of her loss, made Mary still the agony of her own heart in order to soothe the more violent grief of her excitable sister.

There was a stir in the cradle, and with a faint cry the baby Alice awoke and stretched her hands towards Mary who, with all a mother's care took the child upon her lap and fed her from the milk which was still standing in the broken pitcher. With a baby's playfulness Alice dipped her small fingers into the milk, and shaking them in her sister's face, laughed aloud as the white drops fell upon her hair. This was too much for poor Mary, and folding the child closer to her bosom she sobbed passionately.

"Oh, Allie, dear little Allie, what will you do? What shall we all do? Mother's dead, mother's dead!"

Ella was not accustomed to see her sister thus moved, and her tears now flowed faster while she entreated Mary to stop. "Don't do so, Mary," she said. "Don't do so. You make me cry harder. Tell her to stop, Billy. Tell her to stop."

But Billy's tears were flowing too, and he could only answer the little girl by affectionately smoothing her tangled curls, which for once in her life she had forgotten to arrange At length rising up, he said to Mary, "Something must be done. The villagers must know of it, and I shall have to leave you alone while I tell them."

In half an hour from that time the cottage was nearly filled with people, some of whom came out of idle curiosity, and after seeing all that was to be seen, started for home, telling the first woman who put her head out the chamber window for particulars, that "'twas a dreadful thing, and such a pity, too, that Ella should have to go to the poor-house, with her pretty face and handsome curls."

But there were others who went there for the sake of comforting the orphans and attending to the dead, and by noon the bodies were decently arranged for burial. Mrs. Johnson's Irish girl Margaret was cleaning the room, and in the bedroom adjoining, Mrs. Johnson herself, with two or three other ladies, were busily at work upon some plain, neat shrouds, and as they worked they talked of the orphan children