she had lost,--to go to his mother. The first impulse of bereavement is
to stretch out the hands towards what was nearest and dearest to the
departed.

Her dove came fluttering down out of the tree, and settled on her hand,
and began asking in his dumb way to be noticed. Mary stroked his white
feathers, and bent her head down over them till they were wet with
tears. "Oh, birdie, you live, but he is gone!" she said. Then suddenly
putting it gently from her, and going near and throwing her arms around
her mother's neck,--"Mother," she said, "I want to go up to Cousin
Ellen's." (This was the familiar name by which she always called Mrs.
Marvyn.) "Can't you go with me, mother?"

"My daughter, I have thought of it. I hurried about my baking this
morning, and sent word to Mr. Jenkyns that he needn't come to see about
the chimney, because I expected to go as soon as breakfast should be out
of the way. So, hurry, now, boil some eggs, and get on the cold beef and
potatoes; for I see Solomon and Amaziah coming in with the milk. They'll
want their breakfast immediately."

The breakfast for the hired men was soon arranged on the table, and Mary
sat down to preside while her mother was going on with her
baking,--introducing various loaves of white and brown bread into the
capacious oven by means of a long iron shovel, and discoursing at
intervals with Solomon, with regard to the different farming operations
which he had in hand for the day.

Solomon was a tall, large-boned man, brawny and angular; with a face
tanned by the sun, and graven with those considerate lines which New
England so early writes on the faces of her sons. He was reputed an