Amid a few natural sobs which awoke in the widow’s heart, she murmured, “Amen,” satisfied that her life had been one of perfect rectitude, and that in all things she had been a pattern mother, and an ornament to the church, which ought to be her consolation under any bereavement. The new minister was a very conscientious man, but practical in all his ideas; he was honest in the high opinion which he entertained of Mrs. Gray, and not sufficiently sensitive to shrink from offering his hand to Phebe, when that lady delicately gave him to understand that the step would be satisfactory to herself. The old parsonage house was still empty, and Phebe’s inheritance. He was an installed pastor, and Miss Gray’s engagement to his predecessor never entered his mind as an objection. Phebe betrayed no emotion when the proposal was made. She simply declined it, without giving a reason; and when he married another person, and would have rented the parsonage, she said with decision—“It must remain as my sister left it!” And when Mrs. Gray would have remonstrated, she answered, still with firmness— “I am of age, mother, but still will obey you in all things else. Act as you like regarding the other property—but no stranger shall ever live in the parsonage. Poor Malina furnished it for _him_, and for me. She died there, and so will I!” * * * * * It may be so, for the old house is still uninhabited. Every thing remains as Malina left it; the bridal chamber, the easy chair, and the flute upon the table; time has made little change in those silent apartments, for every week Phebe, who has become a calm and sorrowful old maid, goes up to the house alone, and remains there for many hours; sometimes seated at the study table, and gazing at a grave which may be seen through the trees. Once, a child gathering valley lilies, beneath the window, saw her standing at the open sash, with her sad eyes turned toward the grave-yard. She was talking to herself—the child dropped his flowers and listened, for there was something so mournful in her voice, that his little heart thrilled to the sound. “They tell me that he wearied himself, and died of fever,” she said; “and that thou, my sister, perished naturally, and as we all must. Alas, if I could but think so. Why not have told me how he was beloved before it was too late? I would have given him up—and while you were happy, this heart had not become so palsied and feelingless. Alas, it was well that thy heart _could_ break, my poor, poor Malina!” * * * * * NOON.[5] BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ’Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee And worshiped, while the husbandman withdrew From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount, Or rested in the shadow of the palm.