r cheek so softly as not to disturb her rest, and then, leaving her
still in the deep, sweet sleep of wearied youth, she went down-stairs
to get a nice breakfast.

Luckily a farmer's cart was just passing the road before the cottage on
its way to market.

Marah took out her little purse from her pocket, hailed the driver and
expended half her little store in purchasing two young chickens, some
eggs and some dried peaches, saying to herself:

"Dear Clara always had a good appetite, and healthy young human nature
must live substantially in spite of all its little heart-aches."

While Marah was preparing the chicken for the gridiron the door at the
foot of the stairs opened and Clara came in, looking, after her night's
rest, as fresh as a rosebud.

"What! up with the sun, my darling?" said Marah, going to meet her.

"Yes, mamma! Oh! it is so good to be here with you in this nice, quiet
place, with no one to make me shudder! But you must let me help you,
mamma! See! I will set the table and make the toast!"

"Oh, Miss Clara----"

"Yes, I will! I have been ill used and made miserable, and now you must
pet me, mamma, and let me have my own way and help you to cook our
little meals and to make the house tidy and afterward to work those
buttonholes in the shirts you were spoiling your gentle eyes over last
night. Oh! if they will only let me stay here with you and be at peace,
we shall be very happy together, you and I!" said Clara, as she drew
out the little table and laid the cloth.

"My dear child, may the Lord make you as happy as your sweet affection
would make me!" said Marah.

"We can work for our living together," continued Clara, as she gaily
flitted about from the dresser to the table, placing the cups and
saucers and plates. "You can sew the seams and do the plain hemming,
and I can work the buttonholes and stitch the bosoms, collars and
wristbands! And 'if the worst comes to the worst,' we can hang out our
little shingle before the cottage gate, inscribed with:

"MRS. ROCKE AND DAUGHTER.
Shirt Makers.
Orders executed with neatness and dispatch.

"We'd drive a thriving business, mamma, I assure you," said Clara, as
she sat down on a low stool at the hearth and began to toast the bread.

"I trust in heaven that it will never come to that with you, my dear!"

"Why? Why, mamma? Why should I not taste of toil and care as well as
others a thousand times better than myself?