ice curtains, tasteful furniture and airy structure.

When night came on, Helen retired early to her chamber, leaving Mittie
with Clinton. She left the light burning on the hearth, for the memory
of the lonely spinster, invoking by her song the horrible being, who
descended, piece-meal, down the chimney, had not died away. That was the
very chamber in which Miss Thusa used to spin, and recite her dreadful
tales, and Helen remembered them all. It had been papered, and painted,
and renewed, but the chimney was the same, and the shadows rested there
as darkly as ever.

When Mittie entered the room, Helen was already in that luxurious state
between sleeping and waking, which admits of the consciousness of
enjoyment, without its responsibility. She was reclining on the bed,
shaded by the muslin curtains, with such an expression of innocence and
peace on her countenance, it was astonishing how any one could have
marred the tranquillity of her repose.

The entrance of her sister partially roused her, and the glare of the
lamp upon her face completely awakened her.

"Oh! sister!" she cried, "I am so glad you have come. It is so long
since we have slept together. I have been thinking how happy we can be,
where so much has been done for our comfort and luxury."

"You can enjoy all the luxuries yourself," said Mittie, "and be welcome
to them all. I am going to sleep in the next room, for I prefer being
alone, as I have been before."

"Oh! Mittie, you are not going to leave me alone; you will not, surely,
be so unkind?"

"I wonder if I were not left alone, while Alice was with you, and I
wonder if I complained of unkindness!"

"But _you_ did not care. You are not dependent on others. I am sure if
you had asked me, I would have spread a pallet on the floor, rather than
have left you alone."

"Helen, you are too old now to be such a baby," said Mittie,
impatiently; "it is time you were cured of your foolish fears of being
alone. You make yourself perfectly ridiculous by such nonsense."

She busied herself gathering her night-clothes as she spoke, and took
the lamp from the table.

Helen sprang from the bed, and stood between Mittie and the door.

"No," said she, "if we must separate, I will go. You need not leave the
chamber which has so long been yours. I do dread being alone, but alas!
I must be lonely wherever I am, unless I have a heart to lean upon. Oh!
Mittie, if you knew how I _could_ love you, you would let me t