the benefit of those around her, shrinking from no duty
that she should perform, but doing it cheerfully and well.

[Illustration: _Queen Marie Antoinette Led to the Tribunal_]

[Illustration]

THE OLD BROWN HOUSE

It was very old, low-roofed, and weather-beaten, standing quite a little
stretch from the road, and you might have supposed it deserted but for
the thin column of smoke that wound slowly above the roof, so desolate
did it look.

But it was inhabited, and could you have pushed aside the creaking door,
you might have seen an old woman, wrinkled and gray, sitting by the
silent hearth, stirring the dull fire, or looking absently from the
window.

It was Aunt Ruth Jones, as the neighbors called her, of whom little was
known, except that she was a queer old woman--a sort of hermit, living
all alone in the neglected old house. It had come into her possession,
with a small farm adjoining, by the death of her parents some thirty
years before.

At first the neighbors were curious to see the new occupant; they found
a tall, spare woman, then about thirty-four years of age, little given
to gossip, shy, and cold. Some affirmed that she was proud, and others
said that her life had been one of disappointment. But none had
succeeded in drawing out her story, and gradually the old brown house
and its occupant were left to themselves.

Years had wrought changes; the walls were now darkened with smoke, the
windows dingy, the floor sunken in; there was nothing cheery in the
ill-kept room, or in the face of Aunt Ruth. Some natures become
shriveled and cramped when left to themselves, and hers was such an one;
I am afraid it was also narrowed and hardened by being shut off from
humanity, with none to share her joys or grief, or to care indeed, if
she had any.

As the days came and went, they brought nothing to her but a little
round of chores, a bit of patchwork, or straw braiding, and occasionally
a walk to the village store to buy the few articles she required.

The gay dresses and pert stare of the village girls, the glimpses of
happy homes caught through the windows, and the noisy stir of life, only
made more striking the contrast of her own lonely lot. Gladly would she
hasten back to her own silent fireside, where the cats, at least, were
glad of her presence. Old Brindle knew her step, and tossed her head
impatiently for nubbins of corn, or the pail of slop with which she was
wont to be treated. The hens