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"Old Mrs Tazewell has departed this life at last!" said Winston

Aylett, entering his own parlor one bleak Novee post-office "I met Al Branch on the road

just now For a wonder he was sober--in honor of the occasion, I

suppose He and Gus Tabb are to sit up with the corpse to-night"

"When did she die?" queried his wife, drawing her skirts aside, that

he et nearer the fire

"At twelve o'clock to-day That is, she ceased the unprofitable

business of respiration at that hour She died, virtually, five

years ago She has been little better than a mummy for that period"

"Poor old lady!" said Mabel Dorrance, regretfully, from her corner

of the hearth "Hers was a kind heart, while she could think and act

intelligently One of my earliest recollections is of the dainties

hich she used to ply ent parent and mistress, yet I suppose few even of those most

nearly related to her will mourn her loss"

"It would be very foolish if they did!" Mr Aylett picked up the

tongs to mend the fire "And very unnatural did they not rejoice at

being rid of a burden The old place has been going to destruction

all these years, and it could not be sold while she cumbered the

upper earth"

No one replied directly to this delicate and feeling observation,

and Mrs Aylett presently diverted the conversation slightly by

saying,-"And Alfred Branch has gone to tender his services to the fa romantic in his constancy to a memory From the