let us retire, and you'll sleep away your 
fears. Trust me to take care of myself,” 
and with more loving words and caresses 
he ledilie way to their sleeping apartment, 
where he was soon in a sound, deep slumber. 
But poor Annie, her heart was so heavy 
with its load of sorrow and anxiety that 
the “gentle restorer” failed to visit her 
until nearly morning, and then her sleep 
was not all undisturbed, vague images of 
want and care, and undefined forms of woe 
haunted her excited brain, and she awoke 
pale and unrefreshed at early dawn. And 
this was only the beginning. 
Chapter IV. 
I hope our readers have not forgotten 
our old friend Aunt Eunice. The past two 
years have left their footprints very lightly 
on her brow. There may be one more little 
furrow marked there, not by sorrow though, 
for more has been her portion; ptrchance 
tardiness, which is so characteristic of good 
Deacon Brown, may have something to do 
with it. However that may be, kind Aunt 
Eunice has gone on in the even tenor of 
her way, doing harm to none and good to 
very many, and cheerfully and patiently, 
biding her time. This cold moonlight win¬ 
ter evening she is arrayed in her very best 
gown, with bran new collar and apron put 
on in her very best style, h< r glossy black 
hair, that has scarcely a sprinkling of gray, 
done up in a knot behind, for Aunt Eunice 
ignores false braids and frizzes, and orna¬ 
mented by a high-topped, tortoise shell 
comb. Her room is as neat and tidy as 
her own good self, and she sits in her little 
rocking chair by her warm fire, her bright 
knitting needles merrily clicking to the 
motions of her nimble fingers, with now a 
smile of quiet satisfaciion on her coun¬ 
tenance, as she holds up to her view the 
warm wollen sock that is rapidly growing 
larger and longer, and then a look of nerv¬ 
ous expectation as she glances toward the 
door, and assumes a listening attitude. 
Ere long a manly tread is heard, and a hasty 
loud knock is given. The agitated lady 
hastily arises, throws her knitting on the 
table, smoothes down her apron and her 
hair, and nimbly steps to the door and 
admits Deacon Brown. “Wy, good evenin’* 
Deacon, walk in, take a seat, rather coolish 
out this evenin’ aint it? though I’m as. 
warm as wool, but I noticed as I went to* 
the winder jest now, the stars winkled and. 
twinkled like everything. Purty well,. 
Deacon?” 
“Well yes, hem, I’m well. Yes, ’tis ruther 
cool, though I seen there was considerable* 
many folks out sleigli-ridin'—hem.” 
“Well now,” replied Aunt Eunice, “it is a. 
beautiful night for sleigh-ridin’, I alius du 
enjoy sleigh-ridin’ when there’s a sleigh fulE 
of young folks; though I dunno tu but its. 
more pleasanter to ride tu by tu, they dm 
make such harnsome cutters now-a-days* 
and then I du so like the salubrious music 
of them peeper bells,” and Aunt Eunice 
looked at the deacon with one of her most 
winning glances, which was unfortunately 
lost,? for he was looking steadily into the 
fire, and only quietly remarked: “Well, yes*, 
ahem—yes,” Miss Price,—ahem; after which* 
there was a long pause, during whiph Aunt 
Eunice knit vigorously, and once or twice 
the deacon moved uneasily in his chair and 
ahemmed. At length the nervous lady- 
broke out with “Well Deacon, what’s the 
news?” “Well, I dont know, had yot& 
heard of the weddin’?” 
“Why no,” replied Aunt Eunice, looking; 
excited, “what weddin’?” 
“Why Frank Jones, and Kate Miller the^ 
landlord’s darter, a pretty even match* 
ahem. 
“Yes, I dunno but its a good match 
enough,” said Aunt Eunice, very delib¬ 
erately, for her, and laying down her knit¬ 
ting, “yes, a good match. I never expec¬ 
ted that hifalutin Kao-. Mi’ler to make out. 
much, and if she did marry Deacon Jones’s 
son, hi- drinks, and I know it,” to which 
the deacon responded: “Yes, ahem—yes*, 
its a pity, ahem.” 
“Yes, so ’tis, but I don’t pity her nor her 
folks much if he does turn out bad, for any- 
bodj r that sells death and damnation, 
(excuse me Deacon,” and her cheeks red¬ 
dened, and her little black eyes snapped, 
as she caught up her work and knit furious¬ 
ly,) “ort to hev their share,” and then calm¬ 
ing down to a milder look and tone, she 
said: “But I’ll tell you who I du pity and 
