nd well, that but for the wildness of her eyes and an
occasional whispering to herself, the bride would never have suspected
her of insanity.

CHAPTER XXIII.

LIFE IN BOSTON.

"Come this way, Mary. I'll show you your chamber. It's right here next
to mine," said Ida Selden, as on the evening of her friend's arrival
she led her up to a handsomely furnished apartment, which for many
weeks had borne the title of "Mary's room."

"Oh, how pleasant!" was Mary's exclamation, as she surveyed the room
in which every thing was arranged with such perfect taste.

A cheerful coal fire was blazing in the grate, for no murderous stove
was ever suffered to invade the premises where Aunt Martha ruled. The
design of the Brussels carpet was exquisitely beautiful, and the roses
upon it looked as if freshly plucked from the parent stalk. At one end
of the room, and just opposite the grate, were two bay windows,
overlooking Mr. Selden's fine, large garden, and shaded by curtains of
richly embroidered lace. In front of the fire was a large easy chair,
covered with crimson damask; and scattered about the room were
ottomans, divans, books, pictures, and every thing which could in any
way conduce to a young lady's comfort or happiness. On the marble
mantel there stood two costly vases, filled with rare flowers, among
which Mary recognized her favorites. But ere she had time to speak of
it, Ida opened a side door, disclosing to view a cosy little bedroom,
with a large closet and bathing room adjoining.

"Here," said she, "you are to sleep; but you needn't expect to be
entirely exclusive, for every night when I feel cold or fidgety, I
shall run in here and sleep with you. Is it a bargain?"

Mary was too happy to speak, and dropping into the easy chair she
burst into tears. In a moment Ida, too, was seated in the same chair,
and with her arm around Mary's neck was wondering why she wept. Then
as her own eyes chanced to fall upon the vases, she brought one of
them to Mary, saying, "See, these are for you,--a present from one,
who bade me present them with his compliments to the little girl who
nursed him on board the Windermere, and who cried because he called
her ugly!"

Mary's heart was almost audible in its beatings, and her cheeks took
the hue of the cushions on which she reclined. Returning the vase to
the mantel-piece, Ida came back to her side, and bending closer to her
face, whispered, "Cousin George told me of you years ago