as not changed in any respect since the day upon which we
first of all found her there. There was the same bright, little wood
fire; the same clean hearth and the identical faded carpet on the
floor. There was the dresser with its glistening crockery ware on the
right, and the shelves with Traverse's old school books on the left of
the fireplace.

The widow herself had changed in nothing except that her clean black
dress was threadbare and rusty, and her patient face whiter and thinner
than before.

And now there was no eager restlessness: no frequent listening and
looking toward the door. Alas! she could not now expect to hear her
boy's light and springing step and cheerful voice as he hurried home at
eventide from his daily work. Traverse was far away at St. Louis
undergoing the cares and trials of a friendless young physician trying
to get into practice. Six months had passed since he took leave of her,
and there was as yet no hope of his returning even, to pay a visit.

So Marah sat very still and sad, bending over her needlework without
ever turning her head in the direction of the door. True, he wrote to
her every week. No Wednesday ever passed without bringing her a letter
written in a strong, buoyant and encouraging strain. Still she missed
Traverse very sadly. It was dreary to rise up in the empty house every
morning; dreary to sit down to her solitary meals, and drearier still
to go to bed in her lonely room without having received her boy's kiss
and heard his cheerful good-night. And it was her custom every night to
read over Traverse's last letter before retiring to bed.

It was getting on toward ten o'clock when she folded up her work and
put it away and drew her boy's latest epistle from her bosom to read.
It ran as follows:

St. Louis, Dec. 1st, 184--.

My dearest Mother--I am very glad to hear that you continue in good
health, and that you do not work too hard, or miss me too sadly. It is
the greatest comfort of my life to hear good news of you, sweet mother.
I count the days from one letter to another, and read every last letter
over daily until I get a new one. You insist upon my telling you how I
am getting on, and whether I am out of money. I am doing quite well,
ma'am, and have some funds left! I have quite a considerable practice.
It is true that my professional services are in request only among the
very poor, who pay me with their thanks and good wishes. But