From her window Adelaide looked out upon the scene, shedding bitter tears of envy and of rage, then, wishing she had never seen the light of day she sought her solitary pillow and cried herself to sleep, while the song and the dance moved joyously on, and the gentle bride, in her robes of white, looked lovingly up to him who was her all in all. Nor were the inmates of the brown house in the hollow forgotten by Alice in her prosperity. From Mr. Huntington she had received a beautiful bouquet; it was all, save his blessing, that he had to give, he said, and Alice prized it the more when she knew how carefully he had watched each opening bud, shielding it alike from storm and noonday heat. “I will remember him for this,” she thought, and many a timely gift found its way to the brown cottage where it was sorely needed, for as the fall advanced Mr. Huntington grew worse, and to the other labors of his family was added the task of ministering to him and providing for his wants. As yet, no rent for the cottage had been paid, and Miss Elinor, when she remembered the ugly name which Adelaide had called her, secretly wished she might be turned into the street. But her brother was more forgiving, and when Alice’s birthday came, he gave her the brown house in the hollow, telling her playfully that she must collect the rent of her own property! “And I _would_ do it too,” spoke up Miss Elinor, who, nevertheless, was just as sure then of what Alice intended to do as she was next morning when she saw upon her sister’s writing-desk a receipt in full for the rent, and heard Alice bid a servant take it, with sundry other things, to the brown house in the hollow as a Christmas gift from her. Surely it is more blessed to give than to receive, and the prayer which the sick man breathed for Alice Howland was worth far more to her than the paltry sum which she had lost by doing what she did. Adelaide, too, was softened, for the pangs of poverty were beginning to be keenly felt, and when the servant turned to go, she said to him, with quivering lip: “Tell Mrs. Howland that _I_ thank her.” Another year has nearly gone, and from the windows of the cottage there shines a glimmering light, while gathered round the hearth three lonely women sit. They are now indeed alone—the bed in the corner is empty—the husband and father is gone. When the last May flowers were blooming, and the voice of spring was on the hills, strong men carried him out into the open air, and in the village churchyard, not far from Hugo Warren’s grave, they laid the weary one to rest. William Huntington had saved the life of Richard Howland’s wife, and for this reason his family were not neglected, though Miss Elinor took good care that not enough assistance should be given to them “to keep the trollop, Adelaide, from working.”