* * * * * It was soon after an early breakfast on the morning which succeeded poor Ashburn’s disappointment, that Mr. Keene, attended by his lovely orphan niece, Clarissa Bensley, was engaged in his little court-yard, tending with paternal care the brilliant array of autumnal flowers which graced its narrow limits. Beds in size and shape nearly resembling patty-pans, were filled to overflowing with dahlias, china-asters and marigolds, while the walks which surrounded them, daily “swept with a woman’s neatness,” set off to the best advantage these resplendent children of Flora. A vine-hung porch that opened upon the miniature Paradise was lined with bird-cages of all sizes, and on a yard-square grass-plot stood the tin cage of a squirrel, almost too fat to be lively. After all was “perform’d to point,”--when no dahlia remained unsupported,--no cluster of many-hued asters without its neat hoop,--when no intrusive weed could be discerned, even through Mr. Keene’s spectacles,--Clarissa took the opportunity to ask if she might take the pony for a ride. “To see those poor Ashburns, uncle.” “They’re a lazy, impudent set, Clary.” “But they are all sick, uncle; almost every one of the family down with ague. Do let me go and carry them something. I hear they are completely destitute of comforts.” “And so they ought to be, my dear,” said Mr. Keene, who could not forget what he considered Ashburn’s impertinence. But his habitual kindness prevailed, and he concluded his remonstrance by saddling the pony himself, arranging Clarissa’s riding-dress with all the assiduity of a gallant cavalier, and giving into her hand, with her neat silver-mounted whip, a little basket, well-crammed by his wife’s kind care with delicacies for the invalids. No wonder that he looked after her with pride as she rode off! There are few prettier girls than the bright-eyed Clarissa. * * * * * “How are you this morning, Mrs. Ashburn?” asked the young visitant as she entered the wretched den, her little basket on her arm, her sweet face all flushed, and her eyes more than half suffused with tears. “Law sakes alive!” was the reply. “I ain’t no how. I’m clear tuckered out with these young ’uns. They’ve had the agur already this morning, and they’re as cross as bear-cubs.” “Ma!” screamed one, as if in confirmation of the maternal remark, “I want some tea!” “Tea! I ha’n’t got no tea, and you know that well enough!” “Well, give me a piece o’ sweetcake then, and a pickle.” “The sweetcake was gone long ago, and I ha’n’t nothing to make more--so shut your head!” And as Clarissa whispered to the poor pallid child that she would bring him some if he would be a good boy, and not tease his mother, Mrs. Ashburn produced, from a barrel of similar delicacies, a yellow cucumber, something less than a foot long, “pickled” in whiskey and water--and this the child began devouring eagerly.