ship and generosity.

And so the weeks and months went by; and then, one day, there came a
letter in the well-known handwriting. But it was Mrs. Crawford who
opened it and read that Harold Hastings was dead: that Amy was free, and
that Arthur Tracy, who through all had loved her just as well as when he
first asked her to be his wife, now put the question again, offering to
make her the mistress of Tracy Park and surround her with every possible
comfort.

'Say yes, darling Amy,' he wrote, 'and we may yet be very happy. I will
be a good husband to you and a father to your child, who shall share my
fortune as if he were my own. Answer at once, telling me to come, and,
before you know it I shall be there to claim you for my wife.'

With a low moan, Mrs. Crawford hid her face in her hands and sobbed
aloud, for the Amy who might have been the honored wife of Arthur Tracy
lay dead in her coffin; and that day they buried her under the November
snow, which was falling in great sheets upon the frozen ground. What
Arthur felt when he heard the news no one ever knew, for he made no sign
to any one, but at once gave orders to Colvin that a costly monument
should be placed at her grave, with only this inscription upon it:

AMY

_Aged_ 23.

Of course the low-minded people talked, and Mrs. Crawford knew they did;
but her heart was too full of sorrow to care what was said. Her
beautiful daughter was dead, and she was alone with the little boy, the
child Harold, who had inherited his mother's beauty, with all her lovely
traits of character. Had Mrs. Crawford consented, Arthur would have
supported him entirely; but she was too proud for that. She would take
care of him herself as long as possible, she wrote him, but if, when
Harold was older, he chose to educate him, she would offer no objection.

And there the matter dropped, and Mrs. Crawford struggled on as best she
could, sometimes going out to do plain sewing, sometimes taking it home,
sometimes going to people's houses to superintend when they had company,
and sometimes selling fruit and flowers from the garden attached to the
cottage. But whatever she did, she was always the same quiet, lady-like
woman, who commanded the respect of all, and who, poor as she was, was
held in high esteem by the better class in Shannondale. Grace Atherton's
carriage and that of Edith St. Claire stood oftener before her door
than that at Tracy Park; and though the ladies came mostly on busin