Summer had danced by--the chill wind whistled through the trees--the nuts were dropping in showers, and the leaves rusted beneath the traveler’s foot; the golden-rod and barberry clusters alone remained to deck the hedges, and the striped snake crawled out on the rock to sun himself only at midday. Widow Ford’s cottage looked lonely and desolate, stripped of its leafy screen; but the squirrels might be seen leaping from tree to tree as merrily as if old Jacob still sat watching them in the door-way. Lucy moved about, sweeping, dusting, replenishing the fire--but the silver hair glistened on her temples, and her step was slow and weary. Now and then she would lean against the mantel, and look at Mary--and then wander restlessly into the little bedroom--then, back again to the mantel. “You still think it best to consummate this marriage?” said the clergyman to Lucy, in a low voice. “Only that I would not leave her alone,” said Lucy, tremulously. “I shall soon be in the church-yard by the side of Jacob. Mr. Shaw knows all--he loves her, and wishes to make her his wife. I believe he will be kind to her. As for Mary, poor thing, you see how it is,” and she glanced at her daughter, who sat with locked fingers--her long lashes sweeping her colorless cheek. One might have taken her for some beautiful statue, with those faultless marble features, and that motionless attitude. Mr. Parish sighed, as he looked at Mary; but he had little time to discuss matters, if that were his intention, for the sound of approaching carriage-wheels announced Mr. Shaw. “At twelve, then, to-morrow,” said he, as he took up his hat, “if you are of the same mind, I will perform the ceremony as you desire.”