he bell, that never sounded
half so remorselessly before, and away they went, over the
road--across the bridge--past the burial-ground--and on--on--on!

To my bosom I pressed a package Florence had given to me that morning
of her departure, which she bade me not open till she was fairly gone.
I need not tell you how I hastened home when I had seen her
depart--how, with just one look at their old garden, which ran back of
my father's house, through whose paths we had wandered so often
together--how with one thought of how lonely I was and always should
be, now that _she_ was gone, I hied away to my room, that I might be
alone with my sorrow. But every thing seemed determined to speak out
to me of _her_; there, by the window, was _her_ "old arm-chair;" she
had given it to me as a keepsake; and many, many a time had the broad,
leather-covered seat supported us both--so, of course, the very sight
of that gave me such a blue-fit that I threw myself into its open
"arms," and indulged in the most luxurious fit of weeping, the length
whereof might be counted by hours, not by minutes. But when I had
fairly "cried it out," (you know all things must have an end,) I went
to bed with the most dreadful headache conceivable, and opened with
more of regret than curiosity, the last "testament" of dear Flory.

It was in the shape of a long, long letter, filling many pages of
paper; but I shall not indulge you, reader, with a glance even, at all
the contents--satisfy yourself with these few extracts, and oblige
yours, &c.

"Writing is not my _forte_, Carry, you know that very well," the
epistle began, "but I had for a long time determined to explain myself
to you; and when father finally succeeded in convincing mother that
the West is _such_ a wonderful country, and that it is the best and
only place for them to safely settle _our_ troop of boys, then I made
up my mind to _write_ you what I had intended to speak. Don't think me
vain, but I'm going to be my own heroine in these pages; I'm going to
give you the key wherewith to unfold parts of my life, which you, with
others, may now think quite unexplainable.

"When I am gone, and the partial regret some will feel at first, is
worn away, and they begin with all earnestness to give me what _they_
think _my_ 'due,' and honor me once more with the flattering titles
they have given me before this, then do you, my friend, take up the
gauntlet in my defence. If I should happen to die of thos