One by one, as misfortune came upon her, did her fashionable friends desert her, until she was left alone, with none to lean upon except the God of the widow and fatherless, and in Him she found a strong help for her dark hour of need.

Bravely she withstood the storm, and when it was over, retired with the small remnant of her once large fortune to the obscure neighborhood of Rice Corner, where with careful economy she managed to live comfortably, besides saving a portion for the poor and destitute.

She had taken a particular fancy to Mary, and in giving her a home, she had thought more of the good she could do the child, than of any benefit she would receive from her services as waiting maid.

She had fully intended to go for Mary herself; but as we already know, was prevented by a severe headache, and it was not until three o'clock in the afternoon, that she was even able to see her at all.

Then, calling Judith, she bade her bring the little girl to her room, and leave them alone.
Judith obeyed, charging Mary to "tread on tiptoe, and keep as still as a mouse, for Miss Mason's head ached fit to split." This caution was unnecessary, for Mary had been so much accustomed to sick persons that she knew intuitively just what to do and when to do it and her step was so light, her voice so low, and the hand which bathed the aching head so soft and gentle in its touch, that Mrs.
Mason involuntarily drew her to her bosom, and kissing her lips, called her her child, and said she should never leave her then laying back in her easy chair, she remained perfectly still, while Mary alternately fixed her hair, and smoothed her forehead until she fell into a quiet slumber, from which she did not awake until Judith rang the bell for supper, which was neatly laid out in a little dining parlor, opening into the flower garden.