delphia and Newark to Montreal, where she found the worst city prison she had ever seen, and did not hesitate to tell the mayor and city council so in the frankest terms. An Indian community at Brantford, near Lake Ontario, interested her deeply. She sketched Niagara, touched at Newport, and by the last of July was on her way home. In all this American visit "she seemed more the missionary than the guest," wrote one who met her on terms of intimacy; and as she afterwards testified of herself, she was thankful to believe that her coming had been of far greater use than she had expected.

Her fourth and final visit to India followed in 1875 and 1876, when she was well on to ward the age of three-score years and ten. And now her own personal work was done. The year 1877 opened peacefully upon her. Her mind showed no trace of waning powers, and the heart was as warm as ever. "A sunny glow seemed to spread all around her. The sense of conflict was over. She could enjoy her labors; the anxieties of earlier days had all passed away; and a mellow sweetness inspired those around her with an indefinable sense of charm which they had scarcely felt before, in the midst of the reverence, and sometimes the awe, with which they had followed her. She delighted to devote herself to old friends; she set her house in order; even the shabby books must be repaired;" one of her last acts was the sending off of a box of books as a token of sympathy to an English conversation-club in Hungary.

The 3rd of April brought the completion of her seventieth year. A few weeks later came the tidings by telegraph of the death of her brother in Montreal, sundering one of the last remaining family ties that held her to this earth. On the 6th of June she gave an address in the little chapel at Kingswood on the religious aspects of India. On Thursday, the 14th of June, she wrote to her brother, Dr. W. B. Carpenter, in London, proposing a visit to him in furtherance of her Indian work. The remaining occupations of that day included the revision of the proof sheets of her work entitled "Spirit Voices," then just completed. In the even

ing she went into her quiet study, and wrote till a later hour than usual. Her last goodnight was said with the customary smile upon her face. "She lay down to rest and slept; before the dawn she had passed quietly away."

Thus died the woman who had begun life by wishing to be "ooseful" in the hayfield. Four months later a public meeting was held in Bristol, at which the mayor presided, and at which an association was formed for the establishment and support of homes for working boys and working girls, which should bear her name. Subsequently, at the invitation of the dean, a monument was placed to her memory in Bristol Cathedral. The tablet is surmounted by a medallion profile, and bears an inscription written by the Rev. Dr. Martineau epitomizing her career.

But her real memorial is the group of benevolent institutions which grew up in forty years of her direction and effort in the city of Bristol: the boys' reformatory school at Kingswood; the girls' reformatory at Red Lodge; the Certified Industrial School for boys in Park Row; the Girls' Certified Industrial School; the Day Industrial Feeding School-the outgrowth of the old ragged school; the children's agency, keeping its watch and care over the discharged inmates of all the schools; the lecture-room and library over the workmen's hall; and the Boys' Home. And then, besides these merely local institutions, the influences and impulses which she imparted in India and the United States to educational and reformatory work, the ripe fruits of which are to be gathered in the years to come.

Personally, Mary Carpenter was far from being the robust woman which might be supposed. She impressed one, indeed, as having a delicate physical organization, with that tenderness of spirit which commonly shrinks from the rough encounters of life. Her "great gray eyes" gave her countenance a slow and wise expression as they settled down on one in conversation; and a strange childlikeness came round her lips in certain smiles. In spite of the serious coloring of the scenes amidst which so much of her life was spent, she was habitually bright and

cheerful, almost to the point of gayety and fun. Her tastes were simple; her rules of daily living precise and rigorous. One of her traits was an aristocratic fondness for old lace. She was a loyal English woman, and wherever she traveled, in later years, she carried with her her photograph-album of the royal family, which she exhibited with pride. Throughout her life "she sacrificed much that she might have been, in order to accomplish a work which she felt it was given her to do." How in labors she was abundant we have already seen. By the time she had reached middle life it was playfully said of her, by those who were brought into intimate relations with her, that she had lost the power of slackening her pace; and she was compared in the same spirit to a boy running down Greenwich hill, who must keep on to the bottom. As she grew older, "one forgot her age," said Florence Nightingale, "in the eternal freshness of her youthful activity." She was "given to hospitality." Few incidents in all her experience gave her more delight than the birth in her house of a little Hindu boy, in 1871, whose parents were her guests at the time. Denominationally regarded, Mary Carpenter was a Unitarian, but the type of her religious opinions and of her faith was deeply evangelical and spiritual. The devoutness of her nature was intense,

and the ardor of a personal and vivid communion with God affected all her work. The nuns of Port Royal, she once said, are "among the holy ones that I hope to meet in heaven." Nothing is more apparent in the story of her life than the growth of her inner experience, and the passages of her prayers reproduced from her diary in her memoir, though almost too sacred to be repeated in any ear but the One to which they were originally addressed, are of the most remarkable interest. Her reverence for sacred things made her a lover of religious relics, and a stone from the banks of the Jordan and a handful of sand from the edge of the Red Sea were among her cherished treasures. She watched for the "new birth" in her scholars at Red Lodge, and as a religious teacher she was earnest, constant and faithful. The celebration of the Lord's supper on Good Friday was an occasion she made it a point to attend. Finally, throughout all her engagements, which grew more and more public as they proceeded, she never forgot that she was a woman. She gave signs it is true, of favor towards woman suffrage, but she would never herself take the chair at any meetings in behalf of the projects in which she was interested, preferring, as she said, "to keep within her womanly sphere." Edward Abbott.

HE algebra class filed decorously out of recitation-room number five, and passed down-stairs, chattering and laughing in groups of three or four.

"I don't care," said Nelly Dean, tossing one auburn braid over her shoulder, “I can't see through that problem to save my life, and I never shall. What a funny necktie Miss Burnham had on! Did you see it, Fan?"

"Seven different ones so far this term," said Kate Ferris. "Do you suppose she can keep on at that rate?"

"She's ever-so-much nicer than Miss Elk

ins, anyway. I wish Miss Elkins would get married or something so she could n't come back, and Miss Burnham would stay in her place."

"Second the motion "-from Will Morse. "Ladies and gentlemen; it is moved and seconded that somebody marry Miss Elkins and take her out West, so that

"'Sh! Professor's Greek recitation is n't through, and he'll be out here to give us checks all round for talking in the hall. 'Most ready, girls? Aren't you going, Miss Fanny?"

"Not now," said the girl addressed, leis

urely strapping up a bundle of books. She was a fair-haired damsel with a dimple in her chin. "I've got to practice an hour longer to-night and make up for yesterday. Isn't it mean?"

The other members of the class left the hall-way deserted at last, and walked down the little village street to their several boarding-places with all the accustomed chatter, nonsense and fun of sixteen years, just out of school. Fanny turned and went upstairs with her music-roll, passing by the door of Miss Burnham's room. It was a long, narrow school-room with the usual atmosphere of chalk-dust, the blackboard walls enlivened with labyrinths of x, y and z, and drawings to illustrate the parts of a steamengine. The western sunshine poured in warm and yellow over the empty settees, and lighted up the pale brown hair of Miss Burnham herself, seated at her desk, making out accounts, debtor and credit, between the algebra class and the science of mathematics. She finished that work presently, closed the little book with a snap, and drew from a drawer an unfinished letter, continuing the writing:

"You ask about the school and how I like the place; now prepare for a deluge of gossip. Winston is a little bit of a country town, nestled in between the eternal hills and the Atlantic Ocean, or rather a narrow harbor called 'the Bay.' Just across the bay is a long peninsula famous for clams and picnics. The village is very small, most of the houses on a single straggling street-and the public buildings of interest are four the railroad station, the 'meetin' house,' the store and the Academy. How a country boarding-school ever came to be established here is a mystery I have not yet solved. There are four other teachers. Professor Bailey, the principal, is tall and spare, with a grizzled beard, and gold-bowed spectacles through which he beams or scowls, as occasion may require. Miss Leighton, the preceptress, is an ancient maiden who also wears glasses, and curls her hair in straight rows of ringlets around her head. She is peculiar in her ways, and one would n't expect to like her very well; but she is really as kind and sensible as she can be, and likes

fun as well as you do, only she does n't get much of it, poor soul! Miss Jeffries teaches French and German; she is a pale little thing, and looks as if the ills of life were too much for her. Some of the scholars do tease her shamefully. Then there is Mr. Vose, the music-teacher; he makes up for Miss Jeffries' long-suffering, and scolds enough for six. He gives his lessons in the room next mine, and we can't help hearing some of his ejaculations when the girls blunder.

"I had hardly even heard of the school until Miss Elkins asked me to take her place for this term, but I am glad I came; it is all so strange to me, and you know I like to try new places and new people. I do not board at the school dormitory,―it accommodates only about half the scholars in any case,-but am domiciled with a widow Heath, whose best chamber is devoted to the interests of education. One of the older scholars boards there too-John Aldrich. He is a rather handsome fellow, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and blue eyes. I believe he is about ready to enter college, though rather late, as he is older than I am-over twenty. Of course he is not in any class of mine.

"You cannot think how queer it seems to be installed as teacher among these rural youth, many of whom have seen nearly as many birthdays as I have. I tremble lest they should find out what an infant I am, and I comb my hair severely back and am as prim and teachery' as possible. Do you think it would be advisable to paint a few wrinkles around my eyes? If you—"

Some one paused in the door-way just then, and the writer looked up. The owner of the broad shoulders and blue eyes stood there with a book in his hand.

"Come in," she said, graciously, laying down her pen. "Do you have recitations so late as this, Aldrich?"

"Only for a week or two-extra mathematics. How bright this room is late in the afternoon! "

"Yes; I should not wish to exchange it for any of the lower rooms, I find the view so pleasant, looking out over the bay."

"Do you know the Falcon Light is in sight, too?"

"No indeed; is it really?" Miss Burnham slipped her letter into the drawer again and left her desk. "Will you show me where, please?"

She went over to the window and stood beside him while he pointed out the distant speck far down the coast. Katharine Burnham was not precisely handsome, but she had a certain fine grace of form and movement that was in its way quite as attractive as positive beauty of feature.

"Yes, I see it now; it is almost like an old friend. I have seen the light so many times from Portland in the evening."

I hope that does n't indicate that you are getting homesick, Miss Burnham."

She lifted her eyes,-not far, for their lashes were on a level with his shoulder, and said, with a little gleam of mischief in their depths::

"Could one be homesick under the circumstances? It would be base ingratitude; Mrs. Heath has not yet finished telling me about her first husband's consumption. No, if I only had a hanging-basket at the window that looks out over the Mayhew's wood-pile I should be quite content."

"Is that the only lack? Then it certainly ought to be supplied. But I beg your pardon, I almost forgot these papers Professor wished me to give you."

She took the little package, and in a moment or two Aldrich left the room once more. Katharine stood leaning against the casing of the western window-the one that looked out over the wood-pile-her gray eyes fixed intently on that prosaic feature of the landscape. Presently she started from her reverie with a slight frown, and crossed the room to her desk. The letter emerged again from its retirement and was this time completed without interruption.

"... I must not write longer, for I have a call to make on one of the girls who is ill, and these March afternoons do not give us much daylight after school. If the blueeyed Apollo at Mrs. Heath's does not bring me a letter to-night, I shall put on black tomorrow morning.

Robert and myself. It is exasperating to be so disposed of by Mrs. Grundy without one's knowledge or consent. Do say you know it is not so.

With love, as ever,

KATHIE M. B."

There was no need, however, that Miss Burnham should put on mourning. When John Aldrich entered Mrs. Heath's little dining-room just in time for tea he brought three letters, all bearing the name of the new boarder, and laid them beside her plate. The sharp-eyed hostess scanned the address on the uppermost envelope.

"Looks like a gentleman's hand," she observed, in what was meant for playful badinage. "I do' know's that 'll do, Miss Burnham. You hev' to set a good example to the scholars, you know."

Katharine flushed a little at the impertinence, more annoyed at the incident than she chose to appear. Then it occurred to her that the blush would seem to be for the letter, and her color grew deeper with vexation. Aldrich changed the subject by speaking of some bit of news he had heard at the store, and good-natured, gossiping Mrs. Heath forgot the matter completely. Not so Katharine herself. She kept recalling the thoughtless words, and, though she could hardly have explained her motive to her own satisfaction, took especial pains that evening to speak to John Aldrich of her brother Tom in New York. The letter was mailed in New York.

66

I

"Tom was a Bowdoin boy," she said;

suppose you are going to Bowdoin ?” "I suppose so," he replied, in a rather hesitating fashion. "I wish I knew just what is the best thing. I am so old, you know."

"Yes, very old, that is true." The firelight flickered over her tall, slender figure before the open hearth and showed the gleam of fun in her eyes again.

"You know what I mean. It is so late to begin now with fellows three or four years younger. Still, I couldn't do it before. I've had to work instead of study."

Miss Burnham put on an air of serene interest and elderly experience.

"I would not mind that. You simply

have more capital than the others with which to start. It seems to me that these few years' experience of life and practical work may really be worth more to you, on the whole, just because you have them as a basis for the Greek and the mathematics." She had been watching a little curl of smoke from the fire as she spoke, but turning toward him, met his eyes bent on her in a very intent fashion.

"I hope so," he said, and took his lamp to go up to his own room.

"John's a real nice boy," observed Mrs. Heath, coming in and noticing his absence. 66 Don't you think So, Miss Burnham?" "He seems so," said Katharine, discreetly brief.

"He's jest like his mother-she that was Susan Bond. He never took after the Aldriches much except in looks. His father was jest as good-lookin' at his age- red cheeks 'n blue eyes-we used to go to school together and well-folks used to put our names together some when we grew up, till I married Joseph, and then he married Sue Bond. I do' know exactly how he can afford to send John to college, but he's an only son 'n I s'pose they'll do 'most any thing for him. They live on a farm over to Halsett, 'n I'd always known 'em both, so when John come to the 'cademy he come to board with me I've had scholars to board before, 'n some of 'em was plague enough, tramping up and down stairs all day 'n kicking the paint off everywhere; but John, he's real handy, 'n splits wood 'n shovels out my paths in Winter as nice as ever you see." Katharine went upstairs before long to look over a heap of examination papers, and passing by Aldrich's door, heard him tossing wood into the stove and softly humming "Annie Laurie."

The days slipped rapidly away, saved, for Miss Burnham at least, from the usual monotony of school routine by the yet lingering novelty of her surroundings. She found her fellow-teachers agreeable and helpful, and several times coaxed pale Miss Jeffries to walk down the little half-moon beach after the class-work of the day was over. Α short time after her little chat with Aldrich after school, she entered her class-room one

morning to find the western window beautified with the suggested basket, a rustic affair covered with gnarled and twisted branches and filled with ferns and trailing sprays of mitchella-a fresh little bit of the woods that brightened up the dull room wonderfully.

"Who brought it?" the scholars asked, one of another, but no one appeared to know. Nelly Dean smiled consciously.

"You know," said Kate Ferris, pouncing upon her.

May be I do and may be I don't," said Nelly, tossing her auburn mane out of her eyes. "I don't know the history lesson, that's sure. Where does the review begin?"

Aldrich came in a moment at night, as he had now a habit of doing-often with some message from the Professor, sometimes to see if she had any mail to send away, and once or twice to consult some reference book on her desk. The references seemed to require much searching out, and, after all, it was not very plain what they could have been which he could not more easily find elsewhere.

He did his best to look surprised at the sight of the basket, but with only moderate

success.

"You were very kind," said Katharine. "I remember now I have heard some suspicious hammering out in Mrs. Heath's woodshed."

He laughed a little and blushed slightly. "The credit is not entirely mine, by any means. Two of the girls filled the basket; Miss Avery and Nelly Dean. They walked over to Pulpit Rock to get some of the moss."

"How good of them," said Katharine, her eyes shining, "to walk so far! And it is all so lovely." Nevertheless she was just a little disappointed. She would rather it should have been entirely his own. True, the adoration these two girls had always manifested for her was very welcome; Miss Burnham was not the woman to undervalue the least of incense burned in her honor; but, like most women, she had her preference in the matter of incense-bearers.

The next time she wrote to her friend Miss Roth, she spoke of the basket and its donors:—