adopted a sudden resolution to return
home "across lots," and climbed the nearest stone-wall with considerable
_empressement_. Exactly half-way over she was surprised to find herself
gasping among the low-hanging boughs of a butternut-tree, where she hung
like Absalom of old, between heaven and earth. She would like to state,
in this connection, that she always had too much vanity to wear a
waterfall; so she still retains a portion of her original hair.

However, she returned victorious over the silent dew-laden fields and
down into the garden paths, where she paced for two hours back and forth
among the aromatic perfumes of the great yellow June lilies. There might
have been a bit of poetry in it under other circumstances, but Keturah
was not poetically inclined on that occasion. The events of the night
had so roused her soul within her, that exercise unto exhaustion was her
sole remaining hope of sleep.

At about two o'clock she crawled faintly upstairs again, and had just
fallen asleep with her head on the window-sill, when a wandering dog had
to come directly under the window, and sit there and bark for half an
hour at a rake-handle.

Keturah made no other effort to fight her destiny. Determined to meet
it heroically, she put a chair precisely into the middle of the room,
and sat up straight in it, till she heard the birds sing. Somewhere
about that epoch she fell into a doze with one eye open, when a terrific
peal of thunder started her to her feet. It was Patsy knocking at the
door to announce that her breakfast was cold.

In the ghastly condition of the following day the story was finished and
sent off. It was on this occasion that the patient and long-enduring
editor ventured mildly to suggest, that when, by a thrilling and
horrible mischance, Seraphina's lovely hand came between a log of wood
and the full force of Theodore's hatchet, the result _might_ have been
more disastrous than the loss of a finger-nail. Alas! even his editorial
omniscience did not know--how could it?--the story of that night.
Keturah forgave him.

It is perhaps worthy of mention that Miss Humdrum appeared promptly at
eight o'clock the next morning, with her handkerchief at her eyes.

"My Star-spangled Banner has met with her decease, Ketury."

"Indeed! How very sad!"

"Yes. She has met with her decease. Under _very_ peculiar circumstances,
Ketury."

"Oh!" said Ketury, hunting for her own handkerchief; finding three in
her pock