going to die, do say so right out, and tell me what causes you to think it. You haven't got a pain, have you? Or a sore throat? Or a languishment, like the poor lady in our cemetery who died of a languishment, though I never knew exactly what it meant."

"I haven't got a languishment," said Mrs. Pettingrew, removing her handker chief. "If anybody had died of a languishment 'twould have been you, and not me, for it means a broken heart, and everybody said- But there! I don't want to begin on that yet, though it's partly what I've come about. Neither have I got a sore throat, nor a pain. So far as I know, I haven't got an ache, nor is any thing the matter with me, which only makes it all the more aggravating, for I'm going to die on Monday."

And again Mrs. Pettingrew's comely face was hidden behind her handkerchief.

"I don't know what you mean about a broken heart," said Miss Todd, with dignity. "There isn't a crack in mine, nor ever has been. If you came down

here this rainy day to talk about past grievances and spiteful doings, all I can say is, I've got something better to be at."

"I didn't! I didn't!" moaned Mrs. Pettingrew, rocking with renewed vigor. "Susan, don't be hard on me. If you knew what I was going through!"

"Well, I can't possibly know till you tell me," said Susan, sitting down for the first time since her visitor came. She placed herself near the window, and in the fading light of the rainy afternoon one could not see the silver hairs that streaked her smooth brown head, nor the lines which time and care and a gradually narrowing life had etched upon her delicate face. In the soft gray twilight she looked almost young and pretty, as Mrs. Pettingrew did not fail to notice whenever she removed her moist handkerchief.

Susan was slender too, which had always been a trial to her neighbor.

"I will tell you," said Mrs. Pettingrew, in a broken voice. "As I said, I'm doomed. I've had my summons. This morn

ing I was a well woman, planning about the boys, thinking how I'd do over my winter cloak, and intending to get one of those cheap silks you see advertised so much to make a waist of, for best this winter. I sha'n't need one of 'em; and as for the boys, somebody else will plan for them hereafter, I suppose. Oh, Susan,

say you'll be good to 'em! I know you will to Ira; I haven't any fear for him. He'll be looked after; but the boys!"

Ellen Pettingrew, either you're crazy or I am. What have I got to do with your boys? I shouldn't wonder if you have a fit coming on. My mother's second cousin used to have 'em, and she always talked queer for an hour or two before they seized her. Are your hands and feet cold?"

"Not a bit. Tisn't a fit, Susan; it's a summons. All I've got to do now is to prepare for death. My time is very short. Here it is Friday afternoon, going on half past four. On Monday at this time I'll be lying stiff and cold upon my bed. On Tuesday, or at the latest Wednesday, I'll be in my coffin. On Thursday I'll be in my grave. One week from to day it 'll all be over. Oh, Susan!"

Miss Todd felt very uncomfortable. She was quite sure that her visitor was about to have an attack of some kind, if it had not already begun. It might be approaching insanity. She glanced out of the window, not a creature was in sight, and the rain was falling more relentlessly than ever. Susan lived alone, and did her own work, with the occasional help of a laboring-man, a scrubbing-woman, or a neighbor. There was no one within reach at present, so she rose to the occasion, as she had done once or twice before in her life. "I'll make you a cup of tea, Ellen," said she, "and then maybe you'll feel better. A cup of tea always seems to set me right. I guess you're tired with all your planning and this wet weather. It's enough to make any one sort of miserable. It'll have a bad effect on the autumn leaves, I'm afraid; though it's a good thing it's come in the fall instead of the spring, on account of the crops,-It's best to divert her mind," she added to herself, as she placed two cups and saucers upon the table, and unlocked the lacquered-ware box that contained her grandmother's silver teaspoons.

"You think I'm crazy," said Mrs. Pettingrew; "and you've a right to. Maybe

VOL. XCVII-No. 577.-15

you'll change your mind, though, when you hear what I've got to say. A cup of tea will be very nice, though, and I thank you, Susan, for thinking of it. It won't be many more cups of tea I'll have in this world, and as for the world to come

well, it's all uncertain how it'll be there, and there's no mention of tea in the Bible, but I'm sorry enough to think I'm not going to have much more."

"Ellen!" exclaimed Miss Todd, greatly shocked. Then she remembered the course of conduct which she had decided upon as proper under the circumstances. Ellen's mind must be diverted.

"I've some nice crab-apple jelly I put up not long ago," said she. "We'll open a tumbler of it, and have some bread-andbutter. A rainy day like this makes you hungry. I'll light the lamp too, and it 'll be more cheerful. And how are you going to have your silk waist made?"

Mrs. Pettingrew glanced reproachfully at her hostess, but made no reply. For some minutes she devoted herself to the tea and the jelly. Though death might be near, the pleasures of this life had not yet lost their charm. When her cup had been filled for the second time, she spoke.

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"Susan," she said, you know I'm not one of the superstitious kind. If I had been I'd have been more upset when my mirror was broken shortly after Ira and I were married, or at the many times I've seen the new moon over the wrong shoulder. None of those happenings has ever caused me a single tremor. But this is different. To-day, after dinner, when the dishes were washed and Ira had gone back to the store and the boys were at school and my hired girl was in her room and the house was quiet, I felt so sleepy, what with the rain and everything, I thought I'd lie down a minute. "Tisn't often I do it; but all this rainy weather does make you feel different from usual. Well, I lay down, and must have fallen asleep pretty quickly, for the first thing I knew there was Hannah Hawkes-"

"Hannah Hawkes!" interrupted Miss Todd.

"Yes, Hannah Hawkes, who died last week! There she was, sitting talking to me. 'How do you feel, Mrs. Pettingrew?' s' she. I told her I was nicely, thank you. 'That's strange,' s' she, 'for next week you'll be where I am,' s' she. 'On Monday you're going to die. The new hearse is at the door. Come with

me and try it,' s' she. So she took me by the hand-oh, Susan, 'twas an awful feeling hand!--and led me out to the front gate, and there, sure enough, was the new hearse. You know Mr. Simmons only bought it two weeks ago, and Hannah Hawkes is the only one it's been used for. And just as I was stepping in behind her I woke up with an awful scream, and I knew my summons had come."

"La, Ellen!" said Miss Todd. "Twas only a dream." But here her words failed her. Mrs. Pettingrew's manner was impressive, and the dream was a strange one. Miss Todd had heard before of dreams that came true.

"So it was, Susan; but I know what it means. I'm going to die on Monday. To-morrow I'll lay in a stock of meat for the funeral, when Mr. Bates comes round. It's lucky it's Saturday. A ham will be a good thing, and I'll bake my bread and cake so all will be ready, and Ira won't have that to bother him. I dare say it'll be a large funeral, for folks will hear about the dream. It seems a pity I can't be there to superintend it all. I don't see how Ira's ever going to manage it. He's an awful poor hand at attending to things," she added, again glancing at Susan with peculiar meaning.

But Susan was absorbed in examining the contents of the teapot.

I

"And now I want to say something," continued Mrs. Pettingrew. "I've been thinking over my past life, and that's the reason I came to see you. If I'm going to die, I want my conscience to be clear. can't say I'm sorry for what I did, for I liked Ira, and I wanted him to marry me, and not to marry you. At one time it looked as though our chances were pretty even. I'm not acknowledging he cared as much for you as he did for me. I never thought so; but you had this little property, and I had nothing but my face, and then I always was smarter than you in some ways, Susan. But I was fearful of losing him, so one night when he was walking home with me from choir-practicing, and it was pretty dark, we saw two people in front. 'Twas Jennie Parker and William Sands, and she was leaning on his arm. You know Ira never did see very well, particularly at night, and he asked me if 'twas you. I said it looked like you; and so it did, Susan. I didn't say a word that wasn't true, all through it. Then he said, who was the man?

I

said, William Sands, which was also true. Then he asked me, 'Are they going to be married?' and I said yes, for that was true. The girl was Jennie Parker, and they were going to be married. Ira was pretty quiet after that till we got to the front gate, and then he asked me to marry him. Most likely he'd have asked me anyhow, but I've always felt a little uneasy when I've thought of that night, for though I didn't say anything that wasn't true, I let him think that Jennie Parker was you. La, Susan, you needn't take it so hard!"

For Miss Todd had risen; and with the teapot in her trembling hands she stood and looked at her visitor. Her face had grown pale, and her mouth twitched nervously.

"I always thought there was some underhand doings," said she, as soon as she could speak. "I knew that Ira liked me. Well, Ellen Pettingrew, I hope you've been satisfied; and I'm glad something has made you confess the truth! It's a satisfaction to me, anyhow. For my part I shouldn't think you'd have had a comfortable nor a happy moment all these years, getting a man by stealthy means, so to speak, and feeling that he liked another woman."

"I've been very happy," said Mrs. Pettingrew," and I don't say as 'twas stealthy. Neither am I at all sure he would have married you instead of me. Fact is, I don't believe Ira himself knew which one of us 'twas he wanted. He's an awful uncertain kind of man, and he needed a little helping along, which you would have been too proud to give him, Susan Todd, even if you'd been smart enough. But now I've told you, and I want to settle something else. I'm going to die, and-"

You've

"Die!" cried Susan. "Die! You're no more likely to die than I am. just come down here to irritate me with this story. Why couldn't you have left me alone? I've never bothered you. You never knew whether I cared or not. I went to your wedding, and I belong to the same club with you, and nobody knows anything about my feelings. I've kep' 'em to myself, and I've lived my life the best way I could, and am not under any obligations to anybody, least of all to you, Ellen Pettingrew. Now I'll thank you to let me alone."

The agitation of a person who is usually

self-controlled is always alarming, and Mrs. Pettingrew was in her turn startled. She would have liked to leave the house at once, but her purpose in coming was as yet unfulfilled; and at the risk of still further exciting her neighbor she summoned courage to put her question. "Susan," she said, "I am going to die on Monday, and before I go I must know something. I feel quite sure that when a decent time has gone by Ira will ask you to marry him. Now I'm sure you won't refuse to answer the question of a dying woman. Are you going to have him?"

"A dying woman!" repeated Susan, scornfully. "I tell you you're not a dying woman. Any one who can drink three cups of tea and swallow more than a good half-tumbler of crab-apple ain't a dying woman. And what's more, I'll never tell you. No, not if you was to lie in your last expiring gasp at my very feet, with the angels awaiting on either side to bear you up to heaven, I'd never tell you!" And then, shocked at her own irreverence and spent with her emotions, Susan Todd burst into tears and left the

room.

"She did care," thought Mrs. Pettingrew; "and what's more, she's cared all these years. It'll only be her pride. that'll keep her from marrying him when I'm gone. Oh, if I only knew!"

She waited for fully fifteen minutes, but Susan did not return. Then, putting on her water-proof once more, and getting her rubbers and umbrella from the shed where they had been left, Mrs. Pettingrew went out into the rain and the dark

ness.

The next day there was much commotion in the Pettingrew household. The mistress was early astir, and the broom, the dust-pan, and the scrubbing-brush were largely in evidence.

"I'm not going to have folks from all around the mountains coming to the funeral and criticising my housekeeping," said Mrs. Pettingrew to herself. "It's a good thing Ira chose to-day to go to Portland. A man's no use when you're house-cleaning, and he wouldn't under stand its being done the same day with so much cooking." For Ira had not yet been told.

Extra help had been procured, and while the broom was active abovestairs, bread and cake were being baked below,

hams were boiling merrily, and apples were waiting to be prepared for pies. The hired girl thought that there was to be a party, and her mistress did not undeceive her.

In the midst of her preparations, however, Mrs. Pettingrew found time to run down the road to the house of her neighbor. It was no longer raining, and the wind had changed. Weather prophets thought that "the spell of weather" was over, and there might be some chance of clearing, but rolls of mist still hung about the mountains, and scarcely more of the surrounding country was visible than had been for the past two weeks.

Miss Todd sat in her kitchen. There was nothing to prove that she had stood for a long time at the window which commanded a view of the Pettingrew house, that she had counted the wagons of the trades-people who had stopped at the gate, nor that the furniture set out in the yard and the curtains which streamed from the clothes-line had been seen and inwardly commented upon. At present she was knitting, and her face was calm.

She bowed to Mrs. Pettingrew when she entered, but she did not offer her a chair nor even rise.

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'Susan," said the visitor, "I'm very busy getting ready, but I'm 'most crazy with the uncertainty. I can't get it out of my mind that maybe you'll have all my things. When I looked into my preserve-closet I said to myself, 'Next year may be Susan Todd will be putting her preserves here, and maybe again she won't.' If you'd only tell me one way or the other, I should feel better. Susan, are you going to have him?"

But Susan was silent, and the only sound was the click of her steel knittingneedles.

"You always were an aggravating sort of person," said Mrs. Pettingrew, presently, "but I should think you'd act differently with a dying woman.

"You don't look particularly dying," remarked Miss Todd, as she picked up the ball of yarn that had rolled from her lap.

"I may not look it, but I'm going to, all the same. You'll be sorry, Susan Todd, when you see me in my coffin! You'll wish then you'd answered me. I declare I feel now as if I'd rise to a sitting posi tion and ask you then and there before all the folks, whether or not you're going to marry Ira, if you don't tell me before

But Susan made no answer, and once more Mrs. Pettingrew, with her curiosity unappeased, left the house and returned to the preparations for her own funeral. When Ira came home that night from Portland, all was ready.

The next day was Sunday, and at the usual hour, when the bell was ringing for morning service, the Pettingrew family walked past the Todd farm on their way to church. Susan from her bedroom window watched them as she had watch ed them every Sunday for the past twenty years. It was Susan's custom to dress early and then wait for them to pass. When the bell ceased ringing and began to toll, she herself would leave the house, which gave her time to reach the church at just the proper moment.

To-day she looked at them more critically than usual. Ellen had a worn look, she noticed. She was pale, and her step had lost its usual spring. She was actually allowing her best silk skirt to trail in the mud, and her bonnet strings were tied carelessly. All this Susan's critical glance covered in a moment.

The boys, whom she had seen grow from small toddlers to stalwart young fellows in their teens, walked behind their parents. The eldest was nineteen now, while the youngest was almost ten. They were nice-looking boys. No wonder Ellen was proud of them! And then there was Ira.

As his name came into Susan's mind a hot flush spread over her thin face. Middle-aged woman though she was, and hidden behind a wooden blind, she blushed crimson as she looked at him. He was middle-aged also, now. Almost fifty, and he stooped slightly. His hair had grown thin and gray, though not much was to be seen under his large felt hat. He always wore a long frock-coat on Sunday, buttoned tightly about his tall, spare figure, and his trousers were somewhat short for him.

Ellen glanced furtively toward the house as she passed, but Ira was talking, and did not once look that way. He pointed out the blue sky in the west, and remarked that he thought it was going to clear up for good now, most likely. You could see the top of Fox Hill, which was always a sure sign.

"I wish she hadn't come and stirred me up," said Susan to herself as they passed out of sight. "She's brought it all back, and all because of a dream. She's not going to die to-morrow any more than I am. P'r'aps we'll all be dead by to-morrow night; who knows? For my part it does seem real wicked to me that any one should think they knew when they were going to die. I don't believe the Lord ever intended we should. It's real sacrilegious. And as for asking you whether you're going to marry a man that already has a wife and four sons, and trying to make you commit yourself to yes or no, it's a shame, and I'll never tell her."

And then she realized that the bell was tolling, and Miss Todd, in her second-best gown, because it was still so damp and muddy, hurried to the old meeting-house on the hill. She was late, and she walked up the aisle to her usual seat while the Doxology was being sung. She did not remember ever having been late before.

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It shows such thoughts are wicked," she said to herself. "They've led me into sin already."

That afternoon, shortly before dusk, Mrs. Pettingrew came again to the house. Susan did not have her knitting this time, but she was reading a missionary leaflet. Her caller asked her the same question, but with the same result. Susan would not speak.

"This time to-morrow you'll be sorry," said Mrs. Pettingrew as she left her. Mark my words, you'll be sorry, Susan Todd!"

The next day, shortly after twelve o'clock, Miss Todd, watching as usual from her window, saw one of the Pettingrew boys come running down the road. He was hatless, and as he ran his feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground.

"Can he be going for the doctor?" Susan asked herself. "Nonsense! He's only running back to school."

But presently the doctor's buckboard was driven rapidly past. It drew up at the Pettingrews' door.

"She's been taken sick!" said Susan, aloud. "It's fright that's done it, but