crown of her own widow's cap, it must have
produced a very remarkable effect on those who
had the good fortune to behold it.

"Ah, Boonie, dear," said Aunt Bella to me,
with a quiet sigh, when the fly-cap was taken
off, and she had turned to her netting again;
"ah, Boonie, my child! Selfish old soul as I am,
talking of that wedding sets me thinking of my
own, that was so unlike it. How could it be
otherwise, with me for the bride? People are
fond of preaching, especially to you little ones,
about good looks being of small account. I do
not believe such a saying was ever heartily
uttered by any woman who was without
them."

It was a weakness in dear Aunt Bella, this
yearning after the unattainable gift of beauty;
it was a weakness, I know it was, and I knew it
even then, but the symptoms of vain regret
which would peep out now and then from a
heart so honest and unselfish as hers, only
proved how painfully and persistently the fact
of her unloveliness must have been ever before
her, like a false mirror, to scare her with a
distorted exaggeration of her own image. And
even from this small feminine weakness her
sweet nature conjured out an unmerited offering
to her life's idol, for, after sitting awhile silent,
she broke out with trembling lips:

"Perhaps, child, it was best so. For if I
had been worthier of my beloved's choice, I
might have taken it to be my due, and so
not have been half thankful enough for it. But
to think that that dear angel chose out me, with
my handsome clever sisters to choose from!"
and here the struggling voice fainted off into
a sob, and we talked no more about weddings,
for that day.

No one said or thought that Aunt Bella died
of grief for godpapa's loss, when about twelve
months later his grave was opened to make
room for her. She had not seemed to pine away
nor sicken, nor had she foreboded the end as near.
She was only a little duller, quieter, less fond of
the sunshine, in those last months. That was
all. But she never used to come trotting down
the hill to our house in the early freshness, leaning
on her slender ivory-topped cane, with
Tackett jerking along beside her, bearing a little
basket, roofed over with green leaves and brimful
of extra fine white currants or glistening
black mulberries for "the children's" breakfast.
Nor did I ever see her in that bright
autumn weather, busied as usual with old Sam
the gardener, in the little flower-plot across
the road before her house.

When the great winds came with the falling
leaves, and the heavy wet fir-branches began
dashing against our walls at night, and the fierce
blasts came scurrying in at door and window,
and rocking the chimneys on the roof, dear
Aunt Bella grew chilly and dozy, and would
creep into the chimney-corner, and sit there
silent, for hours, with a large soft grey shawl
drawn over her head, and wrapping her whole
body in its folds. We saw then how thin she
had grown, and how feeble; and when, a few
weeks after that, she took to lingering late in
bed, and then stayed there altogether, still
uncomplaining, day after day, we felt that she was
surely leaving us and pushing quietly out from
shore into the sunlight of that "blessed hope"
of which she had so often told us.

So she went away, very peacefully and gradually,
but never pausing to look back or recover
any of the ground she had lost. The closing
days of her existence were painless, and passed
chiefly in sleep; there seemed no reason why
she should die, except that her light of life
had dwindled down and nothing seemed to re-
kindle it. The last words I ever heard her
speak were uttered in the dusk of the evening
before her death, when, tearfully kneeling at her
bedside, I folded my hands over hers, lying
listlessly outside the quilt, and heard her whisper
to herself, "Boonie's little hand; God bless
her!"

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS,
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," "Copperfield," &c.
Now publishing, PART VIII., price 1s., of
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.

Stitched in a cover, price Fourpence, the
NEW CHRISTMAS NUMBER,
MRS. LIRRIPER'S LEGACY.
     I. MRS. LIRRIPER RELATES
                  HOW SHE WENT ON, AND WENT OVER.
     II. A PAST LODGER RELATES
                  A WILD LEGEND OF A DOCTOR.
    III. ANOTHER PAST LODGER RELATES
                  HIS EXPERIENCE AS A POOR RELATION.
    IV. ANOTHER PAST LODGER RELATES
                 WHAT LOT HE DREW AT GLUMFER HOUSE.
     V. ANOTHER PAST LODGER RELATES
                 HIS OWN GHOST STORY.
     VI. ANOTHER PAST LODGER RELATES
                 CERTAIN PASSAGES TO HER HUSBAND.
    VII. MRS. LIRRIPER RELATES
                 HOW JEMMY TOPPED UP.