hectic disorder, that had threatened Mrs. Edgeworth's
life while yet a child, now returned upon her with increased virulence;
and the kind and beautiful mistress of Edgeworthstown was compelled to
forego this and every other earthly avocation. Mr. Day expanded his
little tale into the delightful story of "Sandford and Merton," a book
that long stood second only to "Robinson Crusoe" in the youthful
judgment of the great boy-world; and in later years, Maria Edgeworth
included "Harry and Lucy" in her "Early Lessons." It is thus a point to
be noticed, that nothing but the _res angusta domi_, the lack of wealth,
on the part of young Andre, was the cause of that series of little
volumes being produced by Miss Edgeworth, which so long held the first
place among the literary treasures of the nurseries of England and
America. Lazy Lawrence, Simple Susan, and a score more of excellently
conceived characters, might never have been called from chaos to
influence thousands of tender minds, but for Andre's narrow purse.

The ravages of the insidious disease with which she was afflicted soon
came to an end; and after a term of wedlock as brief as it was
prosperous, Mrs. Edgeworth's dying couch was spread.--"I have every
blessing," she wrote, "and I am happy. The conversation of my beloved
husband, when my breath will let me have it, is my greatest delight: he
procures me every comfort, and, as he always said he thought he should,
contrives for me everything that can ease and assist my weakness,--

"'Like a kind angel, whispers peace,
And smooths the bed of death.'"

Rightly viewed, the closing scenes in the life of this estimable woman
are not less solemn, not less impressive, than those of that memorable
day, when, with all the awful ceremonials of offended justice and the
stern pageantries of war, her lover died in the full glare of noonday
before the eyes of assembled thousands. He had played for a mighty
stake, and he had lost. He had perilled his life for the destruction of
our American empire, and he was there to pay the penalty: and surely
never, in all the annals of our race, has a man more gallantly yielded
up his forfeited breath, or under circumstances more impressive. He
perished regretted alike by friend and foe; and perhaps not one of the
throng that witnessed his execution but would have rejoicingly hailed a
means of reconciling his pardon with the higher and inevitable duties
which they owed to the safety o