r part against me. Every
body does--that makes me hate her."

"For shame! for shame!" cried the tall monitor, "to talk so of your
little sister. You're like the girl in the fairy tale, who was so
spiteful that every time she spoke, toads and vipers crawled out of her
mouth. Helen, I'll tell you that story to-night, before you go to
sleep."

Helen could have told her that she would rather not hear any thing of
vipers that night, but she feared Miss Thusa would be displeased and
think her ungrateful. Notwithstanding Mittie's unkindness and violence
of temper, she did not like to have such dreadful ideas associated with
her. When, however, she heard the whole story, at the usual witching
hour, she felt the same fascination which had so often enthralled her.
As it was summer, the blazing fire no longer illuminated the hearth, but
a little lamp, whose rays flickered in the wind that faintly murmured in
the chimney. Miss Thusa sat spinning by the open window, in the light of
the solemn stars, and as she waxed more and more eloquent, she seemed to
derive inspiration from their beams. She could see one twinkling all the
time in the little gourd of water, swinging from her distaff, and in
spite of her preference for the dark and the dreadful, she could not
help stopping her wheel, to admire the trembling beauty of that solitary
star.

CHAPTER III.

"Pale as the corse o'er which she leaned,
As cold, with stifling breath,
Her spirit sunk before the might,
The majesty of death."

"A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew--
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore for learning was in fault."

_Goldsmith._

The darkened room, the stilly tread, the muffled knocker and slowly
closing door, announced the presence of that kingly guest, who presides
over the empire of _terror_ and the grave. The long-expected hour was
arrived, and Mrs. Gleason lay supported by pillows, whose soft down
would never more sink under the pressure of her weary head. The wasting
fires of consumption had burned and burned, till nothing but the ashes
of life were left, save a few smouldering embers, from which flashed
occasionally a transient spark. Mr. Gleason sat at the bed's head, with
that grave, stern, yet bitter grief on his countenance which bids
defiance to tears. She had been a gentle and devoted wife, and her
quiet, home-born virtues, not alw