restless mortals, clambering to a
higher point, only to fall back, on some adverse day, into the slough of
ill-luck and despondency.

Mrs. Salsify sits in her parlor making caps for her thumb, at least we
should judge so, from their surprisingly small dimensions; and Mary
Madeline is nowhere to be seen. But Dilly Danforth is in the kitchen
bending over a great wash-tub, pale and sunken-eyed as ever. Now that we
look at this woman attentively, it strikes us she is wonderfully like
that lank-visaged man, who dwells in the lonely forest hut, the "Hermit
of the Cedars," as he is called. But then it may be only the resemblance
which all the sons and daughters of affliction have in common. 'Tis not
likely 'tis more than that. And gazing on Willie, who stands over the
great arches, replenishing the fires, and at intervals poking the white
heaps of linen beneath the fierce bubbling suds with a long wooden
shovel, we fancy for a moment there's something about him like Edgar
Lindenwood. Of course, he is not so large or so well-dressed;
nevertheless, he is greatly improved since we last saw him; and there is
something in the turn of the head, which is certainly finely shaped,
though placed on the shoulders of a beggar boy; and something in the set
of the rusty cloth cap over the bright, sunny curls, that reminds us of
the tall, graceful lad we used to see winding his way over the hills to
the large, white seminary. But then, a great many boys have
pretty-formed heads, and bright, curly hair; and, should we attempt, no
doubt we could find a large number with more points of resemblance than
we have been able to make out between Edgar Lindenwood and Willie
Danforth. We are full of conceits. Sometimes Edith Malcome is like
Florence Howard, and Rufus' glistening, coal-black hair reminds us of
Hannah Doliver, while the handsome colonel has a look we cannot fathom,
and from which we turn with a creeping shudder.

'Tis quite astonishing what strange fancies possess people at times.

While we have been indulging in ours, Mrs. Mumbles has put away those
impossible caps, and come into the kitchen to see how matters and things
are progressing, and just as she begins to tell Aunt Dilly, that she
"wants her to get through washing in time to scour down the pantry
shelves and scrub the oil-cloth on the dining-room floor," in runs Miss
Susan Pimble, and says, "Mamma wants Mrs. Danforth to come and do a
little light work for her, to-morrow; for s