“It doesn’t say what she died o’,” said Joshua meditatively, twirling the letter in his brown fingers.

“Died o’?” repeated Miss Hepsy tartly.  “Why, of pinin’ arter that husband o’ her’n.  What’s her fine scholar done for her now, I wonder?  Left her a lone widder to die off and leave penniless children to other folks to keep.  But I’ll warrant they’ll work for their meat at Thankful Rest.  I’ll have no stuck-up idle notions here.”

“How am I to get to Newhaven jes’ now, I’d like to know,” said Joshua, “and all that corn waitin’ to be stacked?  It’s clean beyond me.”

Miss Hepsy thought a moment.  “I have it.  Miss Goldthwaite was here to-day, an’ she said the parson was goin’ to Newhaven to-morrow to stay a day or two.  We’ll get him to see to things an’ bring the children down.  I’ll go to Pendlepoint whenever I’ve got my supper, an’ ask him.  Here, ask the grace quick an’ let’s be hurryin’,” she said; and before the few mumbled words had fallen from Joshua’s lips, Miss Hepsy was well through with her first cup of tea!

At that moment, in a darkened chamber in a quiet city street, two orphan children clung to each other weeping, wondering fearfully to see so white, and cold, and still, the sweet face which had been wont to smile upon them as only a mother can.

They wept, but the days were at hand when they would realize more bitterly than now what they had lost, and how utterly they were left alone.

II.

The parsonage.

In the pleasant front parlour of the parsonage at Pendlepoint, the Rev. Frank Goldthwaite and his sister were lingering over their tea-table.  He was a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, with an open kindly face, and grave thoughtful eyes, which yet at times could sparkle with merriment as bright as that which so often shone in his sister’s blue orbs.  A bright, winsome, lovable maiden was Carrie Goldthwaite, the very joy of her brother’s heart, and the apple of every eye in the township.  The brother and sister were deeply attached to each other, the fact that they were separated from their father’s happy home in New York drawing them the more closely together.  They had been talking of Mr. Goldthwaite’s projected visit on the morrow, and he had at last succeeded in repeating faithfully all the commissions his sister wished him to execute, when the swinging of the garden gate, and a firm tread on the gravel, made Miss Goldthwaite rise and peep behind the curtain.

“It’s Miss Hepsy, Frank,” she said with a very broad smile; “something very important must it be which brings her here.  I don’t think she has been to the parsonage since the day we came.”

The next moment Miss Goldthwaite’s “help” ushered in Miss Hepsy Strong, attired in a shawl of brilliant hues and a marvellous bonnet.  She dropped a courtesy to the parson, and sat down on the extreme edge of the chair Miss Goldthwaite offered her, declining, at the same time, her offer of a cup of tea.  Evidently, Miss Hepsy was not used to company manners.