THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

The door-bell rang one of those sharp, startling peals which makes the heart leap with a dread of painful news. This brought a large, indolent girl, whose supine indifference nothing could disturb, into the upper hall.

"Hist! Hist!"

The girl gave a glance over her shoulder, and saw a keen, anxious face looking down upon her from over the banisters—the face of a woman advanced in life, lined with care, if not something deeper than that, and sharpened with present apprehension.

"Hist! Hist! I am out, if it is for me. Have moved—gone into the country; and dead! Better that—better that! Oh! if it were but true!"

The girl did not hear the words, which died out in a faint wail; but she was evidently accustomed to these signals over the banister, and put a plump finger to her lips before she opened the door.

The woman up stairs had gone into her room with an impulse to shut herself in, and cower out of reach of the creditor she supposed to be hunting her down; but anxiety was keener than this miserable dread, and she went back to the banisters, holding her breath as she bent over them, listening.

The door was wide open now; a wagon stood before it, and its driver was bringing some heavy object up the steps.

"Tell him to bring it up—tell him to bring it up here," cried the woman, with a thrill of pleasure in her voice. "It is for me—surely it is for me!"

"Yes, marm, it is you he asked for," answered the girl. "Take hold here, you sir, and help me up with it."

The man took hold of the great arm-chair, which he had brought in from the wagon, and, laughing at the girl for her offered help, carried it up stairs; following the lady into a back chamber, to which she had slowly retreated. He sat the chair down, gave it a little push with his foot, and seemed to be waiting for something.

The lady, for she was a lady, notwithstanding some marks of hard usage received on the stage of life, hesitated a little; then, with a sudden effort, put a hand into her pocket and took out a worn porte-monnaie, which she opened, partly turning her back on the man.

"You have not been paid?" she questioned, in a faltering voice.

"Yes, I have, marm, for bringing it here; but they didn't take the stairs into account."

The lady drew a deep breath, and took something from her meagerly-filled porte-monnaie, which she handed to the man.

He looked at her, then at the money, with something like a sneer.

"I—I have no other small money about me—nothing less than a fifty-dollar bill," she said, flashing angrily, and dropping the porte-monnaie into her pocket.

The man muttered something under his breath, and went down stairs, leaving a strong scent of tobacco behind him. The lady walked to the window and watched him drive away eagerly, as if she could not quite feel alone till he was out of sight. Then she ran to the door, locked it, and turning to the chair as if it had been a living thing, fell upon her knees in front of it, and, laying her cheek against the faded cushion, began to moan piteously, like a wounded animal that had dragged itself back to some thicket which he had never expected to reach again.

It was an old faded piece of furniture, after all. Large, roomy, and cushioned luxuriously; but the rich crimson silk, which had once rendered it a resplendent affair, was now frayed and faded into utter shabbiness. One castor was off, and it leaned sideways when the woman pressed her arms upon it, as if striving to edge away from her, as many of her old friends had done.

At last the woman lifted up her head, and looked at her old possession with something like a smile.

"This—this of all that I had has come to me; I never expected it, never hoped that the poor woman would find me out! Gratitude is not often so sharp. Had it been a dun now!"

The woman laughed a little bitter laugh at the thought, for she had been so harassed and hunted down of late with hungry creditors, that the chase had its interest even for its victim, as all the cunning and energy of a fox are put forth when the hounds press it close. She arose at last and began to examine the chair.

"Poor thing! it has had hard usage. I wish they had sent the castor. It seems like a poor cripple without that."

The lady went to a closet, took out a work-basket, and, seating herself on the floor, began to darn the frayed silk, smoothing it under her palm, and pressing it down tenderly every few minutes, as fond mothers caress the heads of their children; while she worked, this wayward and harassed woman sung, in a low, gentle voice,

/P "I love it, I love it; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?" P/

While she was working and singing thus, the servant-girl had gone into the basement, where her mistress was busy darning a worn stair-carpet, which was about to be promoted from the second to the third floor, ending at last on the garret-stairs.

"Who was it, Martha?" she inquired, pausing to thread her needle.

"Only an express-man, marm, with a chair for Mrs. Holt."

"I wish some express-man would bring her money to pay her board with," said the woman, giving a vicious tug at her needle, and drawing out the coarse thread attached to it with a jerk. She's been paying me with fine words and promises long enough; and those are things the landlord don't take from me. There's somebody at the door, Martha; see who it is."