l.

Madeline rendered the brief and business-like epistle with the full
effect of her peculiarly thrilling intonation, and Grandma listened with
rapt attention; but, meanwhile, Grandpa Keeler and the two little Keelers
found time surreptitiously to dispose of nearly a whole pie, with the
serious aspect of those who will not allow a mere fleeting diversion to
hinder them in the improvement of a rare opportunity.

Having declined to partake of pie, through Grandma Keeler's kind
interposition, I was not further urged.

"Thar', poor darlin'," said she; "fix her up a good cup o' your golden
seal, pa, and she shall go to bed right in the parlor to-night, seem' as
we didn't get the letter, and hain't got her room fixed upstairs. It's
all nice and warm, and thar', darlin', thar', we're r'al good for nussin'
folks up."

In the parlor, I saw only one great, delicious object--a bed. My weary
brain hardly exaggerated its dimensions, which could not have failed to
strike with astonishment even the most indifferent observer. It was long;
it was broad; it was deep; and, alas! it was high, I disrobed as best I
might, and stood before it, gazing despairingly up at its snowy summit.

Then, remembering my experience with the trunk, I approached at one
extreme, scaled the headboard, fell over into an absorbing sea of
feathers, and, at that very instant it seemed, the perplexing nature of
mortal affairs ceased to burden my mind.

CHAPTER II.

I BLOW THE HORN.

Morning dawned on my mission to Wallencamp. My wakening was not an
Enthusiastic one. Slowly my bewildered vision became fixed on an object
on the wall opposite, as the least fantastic amid a group of objects. It
was a sketch in water-colors of a woman in an expansive hoop and a skirt
of brilliant hue, flounced to the waist. She stood with a singularly
erect and dauntless front, over a grave on which was written "Consort." I
observed, with a childlike wonder, which concealed no latent vein of
criticism, the glowing carmine of her cheeks, the unmixed blue of her
pupilless eyes, from a point exactly in the centre of which a geometric
row of tears curved to the earth. A weeping willow--somewhat too green,
alas!--drooped with evident reluctance over the scene, but cast no shade
on its contrasting richness. The title of the piece was "_Bereavement_"
By some strange means, it served as the pole-star to my wandering
thoughts.

As I gazed and wondered my life took on again a