As we were absent when she died, my mother had informed Mrs. Buxton where she preferred to have us live, but she died so suddenly, there was no time for further arrangements, or for the anguish of taking final leave. The scene that followed her death I cannot find heart to describe. I bore myself with unexpected calmness at first, but when the first stunning effect was over, it seemed that my heart was broken to pieces. And brother Jesse's frantic grief, and the heart-rending sobs and cries for "mother, poor, poor mother!" which little Walter kept up for hours, and repeated for days, increased my anguish, and made life itself a bitter woe.

Experience has shown me that death is always an unwelcome messenger. Come when he may to our dear human homes, we shudder and weep as he enters. Take whom he will, the young man or maiden, parent or child, the tears will gush, and the heart will throb with anguish, while the tongue most eloquently pleads that he may not lay them in his lonely bed. We may not fear that it will go ill with them hereafter; but such is our human love, we cannot bear to have them leave, though it be on a heavenly journey. The separation, the interruption of dear communings is what we dread and what embitters our bereavement. For those cheeks to grow wan, for those eyes to be dimmed, for those hands to become cold, that have given us the warm grasp of affection; for those voices to be hushed, that have been eloquent with accents of love; for our house to echo the wailings of sad funeral hours,-this gives an anguish that wrings the tender heart, and with tearful eyes and quiv

ering breath we name him the King of Terrors. But there are scenes of death, in comparison with which many others called mournful, appear happy and peaceful. And O, my friend! what scene is shaded more deeply with melancholy; what event of providence is harder to reconcile with the infinite love of God, than that of a mother closing her tender eyes in the sleep of death, while fatherless children are left to wander amid the sorrows and temptations of this world?

VII.

My mother was buried, and our friends came together to learn her last request, and separate the children. Jesse was to go with the grocer, whose errands he had done; but my poor brother had a slender frame, and tardy foot, and the grocer refused to keep him, so he went with our uncle in Wenham. I went with Mrs. Buxton to do housework for wages, and Walter went with an aunt in Danvers.

Our separation was another draught of the cup of anguish, whose bitterness was next to death. I happened to maintain more firmness at first than I expected, but when Jesse clasped my neck, and pleaded with me to keep the chamber, and be a mother to him and Walter, and Walter threw himself into my arms, crying to have me go and sleep with him in Danvers, and feed him till mother came back from the sky, I lost my resolution, and was more of a child than they. My brothers were taken to their new homes, and after I had spent a fortnight with Walter, I returned and went to Mrs. Buxton's.

For an inexperienced orphan girl, few places on earth could have been found more desirable than mine.

With

all their affluence, the Buxtons managed their affairs with economy as scrupulous and simple, as was their costume

and address. They resided in South Salem. Their house was more ancient in style than years, for it lifted a suit of gray old gables so common in that town, and had the large square form and stinted stories we so often see there. It was the very symbol of quiet Quaker comfort. It commanded a charming view of the harbor, and a glimpse of the sea, and the ships and islands. There were firs and larches in the door-yard, and it was surrounded with groups of handsome fruit-trees, which were sheltered by elms and maples. And while within it was plain and neat in all apartments, it was filled with good furniture, and arranged with a convenience which enabled the women to dismiss their cares in the shortest time, and enjoy extra hours in conversation and with books. There was one large parlor below, and it was hung with a plain white satin paper, and decorated with pictures full of the Quaker spirit of innocence, charity, and peace. One picture was a grand mountain scene, on which a shepherd appeared. His flock was grazing on the opening and in the little nooks around; his wife sat with her work in her lap, and her eyes gazing off as if to descry some object in the valley below; one of his children was following a stately old corset with his father's crook; another was fondling a meek little lamb in the group, and another—a blue-eyed cherub with apple cheeks-clasped its father's neck, and bestowed a kiss, which one could see administered.

Another picture they called the Millennium, and it represented not only the lion and lamb in company, but all the nations of the earth, of every class and color, enjoy

ing equality and fellowship. Another gave us Oberlin and his sweet rural parish in the Ban de La Roche, and we saw Catholics and Protestants, in one gentle band around the Lord's Table, taking the bread of life from the Christian pastor's hands.

Another showed us an Asylum for the Blind, and others, an Orphan's Home and Sailor's Snug Harbor. Another was a picture of Charity, (suggested, as I was told, by an old poet) beaming with angelic grace and beauty, crowned with a tire of gold, seated on an ivory chair, with a pair of turtle doves at her side, and a multitude of babes, receiving her blessings, and sporting like lambs around her.

The other rooms, on the ground-floor, (the kitchen, especially,) were all as pleasant as the parlor, and were not without the large old fire-places, which I have seen blaze in so many blissful Yankee homes. The chambers were numerous, and cheerful. I liked my own exceedingly. It was situated in one of the gables, and was hung with three or four pictures, which were designed as lessons to the occupant. On the north wall was a picture of Penn and the Indians; on the south was one representing Wilberforce in the act of unlocking the fetters of a kneeling slave; on the east was one representing Elizabeth Fry, on a visit to Newgate; and on the west, a simple landscape, in which a river flowed, and a herd of deer were standing, and stooping down to drink-a piece wrought in German worsted by their eldest daughter. From my window I had the finest prospect. It was a west window, it is true, and I could not see the harbor