Greatly to the surprise and joy of all, Mrs. Rodney had rallied from her illness and was slowly convalescing. She was strong enough now to be brought down into the pretty parlor every evening and rest upon a reclining-chair while the ebb of talk flowed on around her, to which she listened with languid interest. The town folks were very sympathetic and social, deeming it a sort of duty to visit and comfort the afflicted family. Some one or other dropped in every evening, so that the Rodneys, whatever other sorrow they labored under, could not complain of loneliness. But with the cool, short autumn evenings, and as the loss of Aline Rodney grew an old, old story, other interests began to usurp the place of the great sensation. Visitors grew less frequent at the cottage. They preferred to linger at their own firesides. It was only Dr. Anthony now who came every evening, if he only had time to look in for ten minutes. Every face brightened at his coming, every heart felt lighter for his words of cheer. But once he had quite a whole evening at his disposal. He had been visiting a patient near Chester, and as soon as he could he went to the cottage, and putting his horse into the stable announced that he had several hours to spend with his friends. All were pleased at the prospect, for a dull drizzling rain had set in, and the evening had promised to be lonely. More than once, as the wind sighed in the trees and the rain pattered down upon the roof, had been recalled Bryant’s appropriate lines: “The melancholy days are come, The saddest of the year.” Dr. Anthony’s coming put quite a new face upon the evening. They indulged in some little cheerfulness. They did not forget Aline, but they tried to take some little comfort in their lives. It is impossible to grieve always. “We bear the blows that sever, We cannot weep forever.” Papa sat by the shaded reading lamp with a new book. Mamma was resting in her low, reclining-chair, looking pale but pretty in her soft garnet cashmere and the little lace cap on her wavy brown hair that began to show some lines of gray since Aline had gone. Her idle white hands were folded in her lap. They were mostly idle now. She had no heart to work, but a gentle, pensive smile illumined her fair face this evening. Effie had opened the long-disused piano and was singing softly, while Dr. Anthony turned the leaves of her music. She wore a blue dress and a late September rose in her soft braids of hair. Max had fallen asleep on the sofa. The quiet repose of each figure, the pretty, simple parlor, the autumn flowers in the vases, the low fire that burned upon the hearth to dispel the chill of the rain, all made up a pretty picture of home-comfort that had a very alluring appearance to the passers-by, who chanced to glance through the unshuttered windows at the scene. Effie’s song, too, as floated out upon the night air, was very sweet and sad: