landest
tones she declined the services of the neighbors, refusing even to
admit them into the presence of Margaret and Carrie, who, she said
were so much exhausted as to be unable to bear the fresh burst of
grief which the sight of an old friend would surely produce. So the
neighbors went home, and as the world will ever do, descanted upon the
probable result of Mrs. Carter's labors at the homestead. Thus, ere
Ernest Hamilton had been three days a widower, many in fancy had
wedded him to Mrs. Carter, saying that nowhere could he find so good a
mother for his children.

And truly she did seem to be indispensable in that house of mourning.
'Twas she who saw that everything was done, quietly and in order;
'twas she who so neatly arranged the muslin shroud; 'twas her arms
that supported the half-fainting Carrie when first her eye rested on
her mother, coffined for the grave; 'twas she who whispered words of
comfort to the desolate husband; and she, too, it was, who, on the
night when Walter was expected home, _kindly_ sat up until past
midnight to receive him!

She had read Mag's letter, and by being first to welcome the young man
home, she hoped to remove from his mind any prejudice which he might
feel for her, and by her bland smiles and gentle words to lure him
into the belief that she was perfect, and Margaret uncharitable.
Partially she succeeded, too, for when next morning Mag expressed a
desire that Mrs. Carter would go home, he replied, "I think you judge
her wrongfully; she seems to be a most amiable, kind-hearted woman."

"_Et tu, Brute!_" Mag could have said, but 'twas neither the time nor
the place, and linking her arm within her brother's she led him into
the adjoining room, where stood their mother's coffin.

CHAPTER IV.

AFTER THE BURIAL.

Across the bright waters of the silvery lake which lay not far from
Glenwood village, over the grassy hillside, and down the long, green
valley, had floated the notes of the tolling bell. In the Hamilton
mansion sympathizing friends had gathered, and through the crowded
parlors a solemn hush had reigned, broken only by the voice of the
white-haired man of God, who in trembling tones prayed for the
bereaved ones. Over the costly coffin tear-wet faces had bent, and on
the marble features of her who slept within it had been pressed the
passionate kisses of a long, a last farewell.

Through the shady garden and across the running brook, whose waters
this day