, "do you think I am ignorant of the theft
of the ring, and what difficulty you had to escape the executioner's
sword? Begone as soon as possible. There is no room in my house for
creatures like you."

"It is too late," said her husband, "to send Mary away now. Let her sup
with us, as she has worked all day in the great heat. Let her but
remain this one night."

"Not even one hour," cried his wife passionately; and her husband,
seeing that advice would only irritate her more, remained silent.

Mary made no further attempt to defend herself against the unjust
accusation. She immediately made her simple preparations for her
departure, wrapping up all that she had in a clean napkin. When she had
put the little bundle under her arm, thanked the servants of Pine Farm
for their kindness to her and protested once more her innocence, she
asked permission to take leave of her friends, the old farmer and his
wife.

"You may do that," said the young farmer's wife, with a scornful smile;
"indeed, if you wish to take with you these two old people, it will
give me great pleasure. It is evident death does not mean to rid me of
them for some time."

The good old people, who had heard the altercation, wept when Mary came
to bid them good-bye. However, they consoled her as well as they could,
and gave her a little money to assist her on her journey. "Go, good
girl," said they to her, "and may God take care of you."

It was towards the close of the day when Mary set out with her little
bundle under her arm, and began to climb up the mountain, following the
narrow road to the woods. She wished before leaving the neighbourhood
to visit her father's grave once more. When she came out of the forest
the village clock struck seven, and before she arrived at the graveyard
it was nearly dark; but she was not afraid, and went up to her father's
grave, where she sat down and gave way to a burst of grief. The full
moon was shining through the trees, illumining with a silver light the
roses on the grave and the basket of flowers. The soft evening breeze
murmured among the branches, making the rose trees planted on her
father's grave tremble.

"Oh, my father," cried Mary, "would that you were still here, that I
might pour my trouble into your ears! But yet I know that it is better
that you are gone, and I thank the Lord that you did not live to
witness this last affliction. You are now happy, and beyond the reach
of grief. Oh, that I were wit