made the receiver of sundry cracked teacups, noseless pitchers, and
iron spoons, which could not be disposed of elsewhere.

And now every box and trunk was ready. Farmer Truesdale's red wagon
stood at the door, waiting to convey them to the depot, and nothing
remained for Grandma Nichols, but to bid adieu to the old spot,
endeared to her by so many associations. Again and again she went
from room to room, weeping always, and lingering longest in the one
where her children were born, and where her husband and daughter had
died. In the corner stood the old low-post bedstead, the first she
had ever owned, and now how vividly she recalled the time long years
before, when she, a happy maiden, ordered that bedstead, blushing
deeply at the sly allusion which the cabinet maker made to her
approaching marriage. _He_, too, was with her, strong and healthy.
Now, he was gone from her side forever. _His_ couch was a narrow
coffin, and the old bedstead stood there, naked--empty. Seating
herself upon it, the poor old lady rocked to and fro, moaning in her
grief, and wishing that she were not going to Kentucky, or that it
were possible now to remain at her mountain home. Summoning all her
courage, she gave one glance at the familiar objects around her, at
the flowers she had planted, and then taking 'Lena's hand, went down
to the gate, where her son waited.

He saw she had been weeping, and though he could not appreciate the
cause of her tears, in his heart he pitied her, and his voice and
manner were unusually kind as he helped her to the best seat in the
wagon, and asked if she were comfortable. Then his eye fell upon her
dress, and his pity changed to anger as he wondered if she was wholly
devoid of taste. At the time of his father's death, he purchased
decent mourning for both his mother and 'Lena; but these Mrs. Nichols