hrough the hall, where several other women were examining and
depreciating Mrs. Lincoln's costly carpets, pronouncing them "half
cotton," &c., Mary made her way up the stairs, where in a chamber as
yet untouched, she found Jenny and with her William Bender. Mrs.
Lincoln's cold, scrutinizing eyes were away, and Mr. Lincoln had
cordially welcomed William to his house, telling him of his own accord
where his daughter could be found. Many a time in his life for Mary's
sake had William wished that he was rich, but never had he felt so
intense a longing for money, as he did when Jenny sat weeping at his
side, and starting at each new sound which came up from the rabble
below.

"Oh, Mary, Mary!" she said, as the latter entered the room, "to-morrow
every thing will be sold, and I shall have no home. It's dreadful to
be poor."

Mary knew that from bitter experience, and sitting down by her young
friend, her tears flowed as freely as Jenny's had often flowed for
her, in the gray old woods near Chicopee poor-house. Just then there
was an unusual movement in the yard below, and looking from the
window, Jenny saw that they were carrying the piano away.

"This is worse than all," said she. "If they only knew how dear that
is to me, or how dear it will be when--"

She could not finish, but Mary knew what she would say. The piano
belonged to Rose, whose name was engraved upon its front, and when she
was dead, it would from that fact be doubly dear to the sister. A
stylish-looking carriage now drew up before the house, from which Mrs.
Campbell alighted and holding up her long skirts, ascended the stairs,
and knocked at Jenny's door.

"Permeely," called out the old lady who had been disappointed in her
search for the silver candlesticks, "wasn't that Miss Campbell? Wall,
she's gone right into one of them rooms where t'other gal went. I
shouldn't wonder if Mr. Lincoln's best things was hid there, for they
keep the door locked."

Accidentally Mr. Lincoln overheard this remark, and in his heart he
felt that his choicest treasure was indeed there. His wife, from whom
he naturally expected sympathy, had met him with desponding looks and
bitter words, reproaching him with carelessness, and saying, as in
similar circumstances ladies too often do, that "she had forseen it
from the first, and that had he followed her advice, 'twould not have
happened."

Henry, too, seemed callous and indifferent, and the father alone found
comfort in Je