er, and lament, for earth has
got one woman less and Heaven one female more!"

Passing into the house, Mary followed Jenny to the same room where
once her baby sister had lain, and where now upon the same table lay
all that was mortal of Mrs. Parker. Miss Grundy, who was standing near
the body, bowed with a look of very becoming resignation, and then as
if quite overcome, left the room. Just then a neighbor, who seemed to
be superintending affairs, came in, and Mary asked what she could do
to assist them.

"Nothing until to-morrow, when if you please you can help make the
shroud," answered the woman, and Jenny catching Mary around the neck,
whispered, "You'll stay all night with me; there's no one at home but
Rose, and we'll have such a nice time."

Mary thought of the little room up stairs where Alice had died, and
felt a desire to sleep there once more, but upon inquiry she found
that it was now occupied by Sally Furbush.

"You must come and see my little parlor," said she to Mary, and taking
her hand she led her up to the room, which was greatly improved. A
strip of faded, but rich carpeting was before the bed. A low
rocking-chair stood near the window, which was shaded with a striped
muslin curtain, the end of which was fringed out nearly a quarter of a
yard, plainly showing Sally's handiwork. The contents of the old
barrel were neatly stowed away in a square box, on the top of which
lay a worn portfolio, stuffed to its utmost capacity with manuscript.

"For all this elegance," said Sally, "I am indebted to my worthy and
esteemed friend, Miss Lincoln."

But Mary did not hear, for her eyes were riveted upon another piece of
furniture. At the foot of the bed stood Alice's cradle, which Billy
Bender had brought there on that afternoon now so well remembered by
Mary.

"Oh, Sally," said she, "how came this here?"

"Why," returned Sally, hitting it a jog, "I don't sleep any now, and I
thought the nights would seem shorter, if I had this to rock and make
believe little Willie was in it. So I brought it down from the garret,
and it affords me a sight of comfort, I assure you!"

Mary afterwards learned that often during the long winter nights the
sound of that cradle could be heard, occasionally drowned by Sally's
voice, which sometimes rose almost to a shriek, and then died away in
a low, sad wail, as she sang a lullaby to the "Willie who lay sleeping
on the prairie at the West."

As there was now no reason why