did Mary's last week at the poor-house pass away, and for some reason
or other, every thing went on, as Rind said, "wrong end up." Miss
Grundy was crosser than usual, though all observed that her voice grew
milder in its tone whenever she addressed Mary, and once she went so
far as to say, by way of a general remark, that she "never yet treated
any body, particularly a child, badly, without feeling sorry for it."

Sal Furbush was uncommonly wild, dancing on her toes, making faces,
repeating her nine hundred and ninety-nine rules of grammar, and
quoting Scripture, especially the passage, "The Lord gave, and the
Lord taketh away, &c." Uncle Peter, too, labored assiduously at
"Delia's Dirge," which he intended playing as Mary was leaving the
yard.

Saturday came at last, and long before the sun peeped over the eastern
hills, Mary was up and dressed. Just as she was ready to leave her
room, she heard Sally singing in a low tone, "Oh, there'll be
mourning,--mourning,--mourning,--mourning, Oh, there'll be mourning
when Mary's gone away."

Hastily opening her own door, she knocked at Sal's, and was bidden to
enter. She found her friend seated in the middle of the floor, while
scattered around her were the entire contents of the old barrel and
box which contained her wearing apparel.

"Good morning, little deary," said she, "I am looking over my somewhat
limited wardrobe, in quest of something wherewith to make your young
heart happy, but my search is vain. I can find nothing except the
original MS. of my first novel. I do not need it now, for I shall make
enough out of my grammar. So take it, and when you are rich and