t
a new fire, for the sake of its company. She took the baby from the
cradle and sat down in the rocking-chair, determining not to go to
bed again till morning. She went to the window and looked out at the
stars, to see if she could tell by them how long it would be before
the morning would come. She felt afraid, though she knew not why, and
holding the baby in her arms, with its head upon her shoulder, she
walked back and forth across the room, in great distress and anguish,
longing for the morning to come. Such is the capriciousness of grief.

CHAPTER V.

CONSULTATIONS.

Mrs. Bell went home on the evening of the funeral, very much exhausted
and fatigued under the combined effects of watching, anxiety, and
exertion. She went to bed, and slept very soundly until nearly
midnight. The thunder awaked her.

She felt solitary and afraid. Mary Bell, who was then about nine years
old, was asleep in a crib, in a corner of the room. There was a little
night lamp, burning dimly on the table, and it shed a faint and dismal
gleam upon the objects around it. Every few minutes, however, the
lightning would flash into the windows and glare a moment upon the
walls, and then leave the room in deeper darkness than ever. The
little night lamp, whose feeble beam had been for the moment entirely
overpowered, would then gradually come out to view again, to diffuse
once more its faint illumination, until another flash of lightning
came to extinguish it as before.

Mrs. Bell rose from her bed, and went to the crib to see if Mary Bell
was safe. She found her sleeping quietly. Mrs. Bell drew the crib out
a little way from the wall, supposing that she should thus put it into
a somewhat safer position. Then she lighted a large lamp. Then
she closed all the shutters of the room, in order to shut out the
lightning. Then she went to bed again, and tried to go to sleep. But
she could not. She was thinking of Mary Erskine, and endeavoring to
form some plan for her future life. She could not, however, determine
what it was best for her to do.

In the morning, after breakfast, she sat down at the window, with her
knitting work in her hand, looking very thoughtful and sad. Presently
she laid her work down in her lap, and seemed lost in some melancholy
reverie.

Mary Bell, who had been playing about the floor for some time, came
up to her mother, and seeing her look so thoughtful and sorrowful, she
said,

"Mother, what is the matter wit