e_ 292.)

CHAPTER III.

THE RETURN--THE LOSS.

How vexatious is delay of any kind when one's mind is prepared for a
journey, "made up to go," as a good aunt used to say. Mary grew
anxious and almost impatient as April passed and found her still an
inhabitant of the city of looms and spindles. The more so, that spring
was the favorite season, and she longed to watch its coming in the
haunts of her childhood; and in the busy, bustling atmosphere by which
she was surrounded, none gave heed to the steps of "the light-footed
maiden," save that our heroine's companions availed themselves of the
balmier air to dress more gayly. In our larger cities the ladies are
the only spring blossoms. It is they who tell us by bright tints and
fabrics, that the time has come when nature puts on her gay
appareling; yet it is in vain that they imitate the lilies of the
field, there is a grace, a delicacy in those frail blossoms, that art
never can rival.

Mary had so longed for the winter to pass, she had even counted the
days that must intervene before she could hope to see her mother, and
all the dear ones at home. The little gifts she had prepared for them
were looked over again and again; and each time some trifle had been
added until she almost began to fear she was growing extravagant. But
she worked cheerfully, and most industriously, through the pleasant
days, and when evening came, she would dream, in the solitude of her
little room, of the meeting so soon to arrive.

"A letter for you, Mary--from home, I imagine," said her gay friend,
Lizzie Ellis, bursting into her room one bright May morning. "I called
at the post-office for myself and found this, only. It's too bad the
people at home don't think enough of their sister to write once a
month; but I'm not sorry that your friends are more punctual. There's
good news for you, I hope, or you'll be more mopish than ever."

"Mary's lip quivered as she looked up. The instant the sheet was
unfolded in her hand, she saw that it bore no common message. There
was but a few lines written in a hurried, nervous manner; and as her
eye glanced hastily over the page, she found that she was not
mistaken.

"Poor little Sue is very ill," said she, in reply to her friend's
anxious queries; "mother has written for me to come directly, or I may
never see her again"--her tone grew indistinct as she ceased to
speak; and leaning her face upon Lizzie's shoulder, a burst of tears
and choking so