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died, looking around so piteous, as much as to say, ‘I have nothing left now!' She sat as still as could be, for you know there are folks enough always busy at layings-out, and just watched what they did in a wistful kind of a way. I made a shift to get a neighbour to ride around with the meats for me, first picking out a real tender bit of mutton for some broth for Miss Lucy; and made as good a bargain as I could about the coffin. I happened in again on the afternoon of the burying, and I was scared to see her so quiet. When her name was called out to walk with Deacon Hodges as chief mourner, she just went straight forward, without putting her handkerchief to her eyes, and didn't seem to care to lean on his arm, even. She walked right on to the grave, and gave a look as if she could not look far enough, nor long enough, and then came back—but no crying, not a drop. She went into the sitting-room, where the chairs still stood thick and close, and sat down, and there wasn't one of us that know’d what to say. You know, ma'am, if she had only took on, we could have comforted her. Atlast Deacon Hodges' wife went to take off her bonnet, seeing she didn't move, and took hold of her hand. “My gracious, Lucy,’ says she, ‘your hand is like ice;’ and so it was, though it was a warm day, and her cheeks were like ice too; and says she, with a kind of shiver, ‘My heart is ice.’ They fell to rubbing her hands, and gave her some wine to drink, and in a half an hour or thereabouts, she fetched a sigh, and large tears rolled down her cheeks; and them as stood by wiped them off, for she seemed not to know that she was a crying. She has come to now pretty much, but has an ugly cough, and I don't like the look of her eyes. Mrs. Amory taught her all kinds of housework, and I’ve a notion, if she was in a reg'lar family, she would be quite pert again. A man, you see, Miss Packard,” continued Mr. Tucker, clearing his throat, “can worry through these things, and make shift for a living; but it's hard for young women to push on through thick and thin.”

I should have been glad to assist Lucy in a pecuniary way, but to a character like hers independence was the better charity; and as Cinda had fixed on the day for quitting me, Mr. Tucker promised to engage a seat in the Newton stage for her to Boston. The stage arrived about ten o'clock on the day appointed, and Lucy was the only passenger. It was a great unwieldy vehicle, without glasses, the leathern curtains flapping all around, the worn cushions as slippery as glass, and so little spring in its construction, that Lucy's slight figure was thrown from side to side as the horses, for city display, whisked up to the door. She was dressed in simple mourning. There was no affectation of better days about her; she entered the kitchen as the scene of her duties with quiet gravity, and went through her work with precision and fidelity, and only on Sunday evenings allowed herself the luxury of reading. Servants' apartments, in New-England, are

always in the house with the family; Lucy's bed-room was near mine, and every night before she retired, for three months, we heard her sweet voice in an evening hymn. Gradually, however, from five or six verses she diminished to one, until at last no music was heard; but a hoarse, deep cough broke in even on my midnight slumbers. Still she moved on in her daily duties, though I could not but regard with anxiety the colour that lit her cheek at evening, and made her intellectual face even beautiful. I gradually lightened her heavier employments, and gave her sewing in the parlour, for Polly had by this time become familiar with my arrangements, and with occasional assistance was strong enough to engage in carrying them out. But Lucy drooped daily, struggling on; I was often obliged to take her work from her forcibly, so conscientious was she. I sent for a physician. She met him with a gentle smile. After parting with her, he said to me, “There

has been some heart-sickness in this case, I suspect.—There is a fine organization in some systems, tending to early decay, and yielding alike to mental and bodily pressure; and hers is of that stamp. The case is a call on your charity, and I will cheerfully co-operate with you.” When I returned to the parlour, Lucy had laid her sewing on her lap, and sat with her hands folded, as in revery. “I see, by your countenance, Mrs. Packard,” said she, “what Dr. Webster thinks of my case, and I am not very sorry. I am only sorry because I shall be a source of care and anxiety, in such a scene of quiet happiness as your house always presents. “To me, dear madam,” continued she, after a pause, turning her large dark eyes upwards, “to me, to die is gain.” I had been educated religiously, attended church regularly, learned appropriate catechisms and hymns, and found in the example of my dear mother the best of all instruction; but I had never suffered, never seen death in

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