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��THE WIDOW'S MISTAKE.
��there alone, with the exception of his housekeeper and her husband, and al- though he bore his years lightly, the sil- ver was beginning to creep into the brown hair and long silken beard. " Time he had a wife," the little widow had said many times to herself, and if he was not disposed to help himself to one, why, she would try and select one for him, only it must be brought about very quietly.
In the city of L . lived her only
brother. He had once been quite wealthy, but the hard times and sudden failures had swept away his property, and now, with a sick wife and family of seven children, he found life to be a round of toil and trouble. His eldest child, a daughter, was very beautiful — so at least thought the widow when she received a letter containing an account of her brother's misfortunes, together with a photograph of her niece, Ida Hartwell, and there at once sprang up in her wise little head a scheme whereby she could secure a home for Ida — and a wife for Lester Pierce. Not for worlds would she have had either party think she was matchmaking, however, so she decided to write and invite Ida to pass the winter with her. The letter had been written, dispatched and answered, the invitation accepted, and she was now awaiting the arrival of the train upon which she expected her neice to come.
u It is time I was on my way to the de- pot," soliloquized Mrs. Montgomery at length, turning away from the window, and placing upon her head a brown vel- vet hat, and throwing over her shoulders a warm shawl. " I hope I shall like Ida, and I hope Lester Pierce will like her, too. It will be so nice to have a relative live so near me. Oh, how cold it is ! " she exclaimed, as she left the house, lock- ing the front door securely behind her.
A brisk walk of a quarter of a mile brought her to the depot just as the cars steamed slowly up to the platform. Hur- rying forward, she eagerly scanned eve- ry face as the passengers alighted one by one. At length she saw the sweet face of her niece, and in a moment more she had taken the small handsin her own aud welcomed her in the most cordial manner.
��"Are you my Aunt Hattie?" ques- tioned the softest, sweetest voice Mrs. Montgomery had ever heard.
" Yes, Ida, and I am so glad to see you. Come this way and we will find your trunk. Have you a check ? "
" Yes, here it is, Auntie," replied the girl, as she hastened to assist her aunt in securing her baggage.
Fifteen minutes later and Mrs. Mont- gomery, Ida and the baggage were snug- ly ensconced in the little cottage, having been transferred there by the "hotel team," and the widow silently contem- plated her niece as she helped to remove the girl's wrappings. She was very lovely, with an innocent, doll-like ex- pression in the pure young face. Rings of sunny hair rippled away from the somewhat low forehead, and hung down over her slender shoulders. Her eyes were dark blue, with a merry, roguish light in their depths. Her face was quite pale — too colorless for perfect health, thought the widow, as she bus- tled about to prepare refreshments for her guest.
" I am so glad you sent for me, Aunt Hattie. I mean to be as happy as the day is long here with you. You must let me assist you, so that I shall not feel myself a burden to you, and then I can stay as long as I like, can I not? "
" Indeed, what can you do to assist me, my dear? Your company will more than repay me if I like you as well as I think I will," returned her aunt, as she led the way to the cosy dining room, where a delicious supper awaited them. " Oh, Aunt Hattie, how nice and pleas- ant it is here ! " said Ida, when the win- dow shades were at length drawn, the lamp lighted, and they had seated them- selves beside the round table which stood in the center of the room. "Do you know I fancied you were old and gray, and lived in a horrid, old-fashioned village with rickety, tumble-down houses, your own the most of all? I must write to papa to-morrow and tell him how sur- prised and happy I am."
"Your ideas of country life were un- doubtedly as unpleasant as the picture your imagination drew of me and my
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