with me." And tears, partly of ill-temper, partly of real grief, rolled
down the hard, unlovely, old face.

This was only one evening. There are three hundred and sixty-five in a
year. Was not the burden too heavy for mortal man to carry?




Chapter IV.



Mercy said nothing to her mother of Mrs. White's rudeness. She merely
mentioned the fact of her having met Mr. White near the house, and having
gone with him, at his request, to speak to his mother.

"What's she like, Mercy?" asked Mrs. Carr, eagerly. "Is she goin' to be
company for me?"

"I could not tell, mother," replied Mercy, indifferently; "for it was just
their tea-hour, and I did not stay a minute,--only just to say, How d'ye
do, and Good-evening. But Mr. White says she is very lonely; people don't
go to see her much: so I should think she would be very glad of somebody
her own age in the house, to come and sit with her. She looks very ill,
poor soul. She hasn't been out of her bed, except when she was lifted, for
eight years."

"Dear me! dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Carr. "Oh, I hope I'll never be that
way. What'u'd you ever do child, if I'd get to be like that?"