l butchering, and Mrs. Pimble gave you a petticoat in the winter.
These things would amount to more than fifty cents, if I put their real
value upon them; but as you have cashed this payment, I will, as I said
before, call all square with a few days' light work from you."

Mrs. Danforth drew another note from her pocket, and, placing it in his
hand, asked him to satisfy himself of his claims upon her, as she could
not favor him with her services as he desired, having work of her own to
do. Mr. Pimble looked still more astonished when he felt the second note
between his fingers. He put it in his pocket and returned her a silver
piece. She took it, and, turning to depart, said, "I shall not want your
house any longer, Mr. Pimble. I am going to move away to-day."

"Where are you going?" he asked, opening his sleepy eyes very wide.

"I have hired a room in Deacon Allen's cottage," answered she. "It is
near the seminary, where William attends school."

Mr. Pimble continued to stare on the woman, with distended eyeballs.

"You have been a very peaceable tenant," he said at length; "I would
rent my house cheaper, if you would remain another year."

"I have made my arrangements to move, and would prefer to do so,"
returned Mrs. Danforth, bidding him good-morning.

He looked very much disconcerted after she was gone, and muttered, he
"did not see what had set Dilly Danforth up so, all at once."

CHAPTER XLVII.

"'Tis silent all!--but on my ear
The well-remembered echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I should not hear,
A voice that now might well be still.
Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake;
Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till consciousness will vainly wake,
To listen though the dream be flown."

"O, it is ever the wildest storms that lull to the sweetest calms!"
wrote Florence Howard, on a new-turned leaf of her well-treasured
journal. "My heart is singing grateful anthems to the all-wise Father,
who stretched forth his friendly arm to save me from the 'snare of the
spoiler.' As I sit here to-night, with a young May moon gleaming down
through the far depths of liquid ether, like a sweet, angel face of pity
and love, how dimly o'er my memory come the stormy scenes of sin and
passion which conspired to render terrible the winter that has passed
away