first two or three days, not a sound or a whisper escaped him, until the frail bark was slowly wafted back to life. For days he lay as if in a trance. He heard the lowest whisper in the room; and when the doctor came and spoke in subdued tones, he listened eagerly to what he said. "He is a very sick man," said the doctor, "but the climax has passed, and with no drawback he will continue to mend." Two or three days after the above conversation, Endura was sitting by his bedside. Her soft hand was on his forehead. She heard him whisper her name, and placing her head nearer his, she heard her own name from lips called back from death's portal. "Endura, must I live?" "Yes, Donald. You are getting better, but you must not talk." And her soft hand soothed and satisfied him. Slowly, day by day, he gained strength until he was able to sit up in bed. His recovery was assured, and he felt calm and happy. Endura was almost constantly with him, and read to him. One day he said to her: "Endura, I would rather have died, and when I heard the doctor say I was to get well, I felt sorry. Now I am so happy-so glad to come back to life; to be with you for a little while longer. You were with me upon the very brink of the dark river, and had I crossed over you would have accompanied me. Your better part was with me even in the valley and shadow of death. And now I have come back to you for a brief season. In life and death you have been mine. Who could ask for more?" He was From that time forward, Donald improved rapidly. His appetite increased faster than his system could absorb what he ate. obliged to be careful and eat moderately of what was set before him, and especially careful and self-denying as to the very things he most craved. Those good old New England boiled dinners made his mouth water, but he was not allowed scarcely a taste of them. In time he attempted to walk around, but it seemed as if his limbs would not bear him. The bright summer mornings would find him upon the porch or in the garden until breakfast, when he indulged in that great luxury, a New England farmer's breakfast. The summer was far advanced into July, and the sharp scythe was brought out that was to lay low the emerald grass. And then the meadow was the center of interest. The perfume of the new mown hay went up like an incense from every field throughout the land. The voices of hay-makers were heard in the valley and upon the hillside. Great loads moved hither and thither to the places of storage. Donald could not help going into the field and mingling with the men, as if to live over again the days that were past. He would take a scythe and mow a few sweeps, when his strength would give out and he would be obliged to sit down and rest. At last nature would give way and he would return to the house exhausted. But he remembered the seductive shade that had been so near his death and passed it by. One day as he returned from one of his rambles Endura met him at the door. Joy was depicted in her countenance as she held up a letter, the second she had received from Rodney since he left for his home in the South. "Oh! Donald, he speaks of you so kindly and says he hopes you are quite recovered," said she as they sat upon the porch together. "If you loved me as you do Rodney, I could speak well of all the world. As it is, I have naught against a living soul. And Rodney Haywood above all others I wish to consider my friend, for well assured am I that while we are friendly you will love me just a little." "Donald, you can never know how much I have loved you. Sometimes I fear it is wrong. I think that perhaps some great punishment will befall me for-" "For what, Endura ?" "For loving you too well,-better far than I have loved my own brother ! " "To love is Godlike--God is love--and the most sacred attribute of God or man is love; and the more we love the greater our reward." "Yes, Donald, but there are so many degrees of love--a parent's, a husband's or a wife's love; a sister's or a brother's love; the love of nature; an inward gratitude for life and its blessings; a love for children; a love for our friends; love of flowers and things beautiful; love for dumb animals whose gratitude repays us tenfold; a love for all the minor objects of life which make us happier and better for their existence." "To which class do I belong, Endura? To the first or the last?" "Not to the last, certainly. But now I must read you Rodney's letter." "All of it, Endura?” "Well, if I omit a part you must think you should not hear it." "My Endura-" "Excuse me, but you must have omitted something." "Oh, yes. "Well, I'll begin again." "MY DARLING ENDURA: Here I am in the midst of cotton and creoles. It is excessively hot, and it is feared there will be a great deal of sickness during the summer. I long for a sniff of the New England air. For a ramble through the beautiful woods, for a drive on her flower-bordered highways, for a bath in the beautiful streams, for a rest beneath the grand old oaks and for one embrace'-there, I did not intend to read that, so please consider it not read." 66 "No, go on. 'One embrace '-let me finish the sentence—' of the loveliest creature among all things lovely--" " "No, that is not it. I will continue:" "I was pained to learn of the severe illness of Mr. Kent, but I should consider myself but too happy to be sick with such a nurse as I am sure you would be. I sincerely hope he is recovered ere this, for too much sympathy may ripen into love. But I must not think of what might be; I only know what is.'" And it is well he does "Poor fellow! He does not know what is. not, or he would not be so happy and full of hope, Still, may curses descend upon me, if I knowingly blot out one ray of hope from his fair sky. We know each other, and so knowing, it shall be mine to guard both our honors. When you write him, Endura, ask him to drop me a line in Boston, where I expect to be within a week, and tell him that my greatest happiness shall be in knowing that he is worthy my adopted sister. But read on; surely you are not through." "Well, no; but all the rest is about business and the weather and the negroes, you know, and I guess you don't care for that. Now you tell me you are going away, and I shall be alone and so lonely." "It is best that I go. I feel as Adam must have felt when he was driven out of paradise, when I think of leaving you; but I know I must go, and I feel I am punished for much the same as was Adam." In three days Donald was back in his old quarters, in the metropolis of New England, where he was most cordially welcomed by his patrons and friends. Let us leave him for a time and turn to other characters who have found a place in this story. IN CHAPTER XVIII. PROVIDING FOR PAUPERS. In faith and hope the world will disagree, -Pope's Moral Essay. N some of the New England towns it has been a custom from time immemorial to farm out the poor. There have scarcely been paupers enough to warrant the building of a poor-house, so that the disposing of such unfortunates in some way became a matter of necessity. Usually, at the June town meeting, several of these dependent creatures were struck off to the lowest bidder; as, for instance, some poor old man or woman who could not support themselves were put up at auction. If it was supposed to be worth two dollars a week to support them, and any one who was responsible would agree to take them for one dollar, believing that the person could earn enough to half pay for keeping them, he or she was awarded to such person, provided no one would agree to take them for less. About the time that Donald Kent left for the city, the town meeting took place, at which quite a number of the poor of the town were to be auctioned off. General Ivers, being the "overseer of the poor," was the one whose duty it was to provide such with temporary homes. Among those who were to be let out upon that particular occasion was the Widow Cramp, who was quite aged, but by no means an imbecile. She could knit and sew some, and as mending was an item where there were several boys in a family, she could make herself quite useful. A neighboring farmer, who had a large family, finally agreed to take care of her for one dollar a week. The next to be bid for was Miss Cutting, a "maiden lady," as General Ivers rather facetiously remarked as he named the person to be bid for. He said she was not so old as the Widow Cramp, and would be an agreeable companion for a woman whose husband was away from home a great deal. He said she was a good talker and |