a week's time all was ready for my departure. I gave away part of the
furniture to some poor relations of my father's. My mother's clothing
and the silver spoons, which were marked with her maiden name, I locked
up in a trunk, and asked Mrs. Wood to take care of it. She inquired
where I was going, and I said I didn't know. I didn't, for I was not to
decide until I reached Boston. I think she thought my mind was impaired
by grief, and it was. I spent the last evening there. They knew I was to
start the next forenoon in the stage, and they really seemed very sober.
No reading was thought of. Jane had her knitting-work, and Mrs. Wood
busied herself about her mending. The witchy little Ellen was quite
serious. She sat in a low chair by the fire, sometimes stirring up the
coals and sometimes the conversation. Jane appeared restless. I feared
she was overwearied with watching and her long attendance on my mother,
for her face was pale and she had a headache. She left the room several
times. I felt uneasy while she was out; but no less so when she came
back,--for there was a strange look about her eyes.

At last I summoned all my courage and rose to depart.

"I will not say good-bye," I said, in a strange, hollow voice; "I will
only shake hands, and bid you good-night."

I shook hands with them all,--Jane last. Her hand was as cold as clay. I
dared not try to speak, but rushed abruptly from the house. Another long
night of misery!

When I judged, from the sounds below stairs, that my little servant had
breakfast ready, I went down and forced myself to eat; for I was feeling
deathly faint, and knew I needed food. I gave directions for the
disposition of some remaining articles, and for closing the house, then
walked rapidly towards the public-house in the village, where my trunks
had already been carried. I was very glad that I should not have to pass
the Woods'. I saw the girls out in their garden just before I left, and
took a last long look, but was sorry I did; it did me no good.

I was to go to Boston in the stage, and then take a vessel to New York,
whence I might sail for any part of the world. When I arrived at the
tavern, the Boston stage was just in, and the driver handed me a letter.
It was from the mate of the vessel, saying that his sailing would be
delayed two days, and requesting me to take a message from him to his
family, who lived in a small village six miles back from what was called
the stage-road. I we