Vesta. She was a pretty woman, somewhat past thirty, with rosy cheeks,
blue eyes, neat but rather poor attire, and a simple, artless manner,
and might have passed for the sister of her son.

"Is Levin coming for you to-night?" Vesta asked.

"No," blushed the widow; "James Phoebus will see me home. Levin has
gone off in his boat, and I have been worried about him all day. Some
time, I am afraid, he will go and never return. Oh, Cousin Vesta, this
waiting for a husband neither alive nor dead is very trying."

Overhearing the remark, Mrs. Custis remarked, "Norah, you ought to be
ashamed to keep that faithful fellow waiting on you, when you could give
yourself a good husband and reward him so easily."

"I think you had better look out for old age," Mrs. Tilghman also said,
"while you have youth and good looks to obtain the provision. Oden
Dennis is probably dead; if not dead, he does not mean to return, for I
can think of no circumstances in this age which would forcibly detain a
man from his wife fifteen years. Even if he was in a prison, he would be
allowed to write to you. He may not be dead, Norah, but he is not coming
back. Get a father for your son; you cannot manage Levin."

"Maybe he has been stoled by Injins," exclaimed Rhoda, with great
fervor; "thar was a Injin captive in a shew at Nu-ark, that had been
kept nineteen years. He forgot his language, and whooped dreffle. Misc
Somers say he was an imploster, an' worked on the Brekwater up to
Lewistown. She's always lookin' behind the shew to find out somethin'."
(Slight sniffle.)

"Do get that girl a pocket-handkerchief, and show her how to use it,"
exclaimed Mrs. Tilghman, breaking out. "Ah! girls, I have been a widow
thirty years. I never gave up the expectation of marrying again till I
lost my eyesight; and even after that, at sixty-five, I had an offer of
marriage; but I said to my gallant old beau, 'I will not take a man I
cannot compliment by seeing him and admiring him every day. I love you,
but my blindness would give you too much pain.' In our quiet towns, all
the life worth living is domestic joy. Do not lose it, Ellenora; do not
put it off too long!"

"I could love Mr. Phoebus, plain as he is," the widow spoke, "if I
could persuade myself that Oden is dead. But that I cannot do. A real
person--spirit or man--is watching over me closely. My very shoes I wear
to-night came from that mysterious agent. It is not my son; it is not
James Phoebus. No othe