"
"I am sorry for that. But keep a good heart about it, sister. Next
fall, you will surely be able to get a comfortable one; and you
shall have mine as often as you want it, this winter. I can't go out
much, you know; our dear little Ellen, your namesake, is too young
to leave often."
"You are very kind, Jane," said Ellen, and her voice slightly
trembled.
A silence of some moments ensued, and then the subject of
conversation was changed to one more cheerful.
That evening, just about nightfall, Henry Thorne came home, much
fatigued, bringing with him half a dozen squirrels and a single wild
pigeon.
"There, Ellen, is something to make a nice pie for us to-morrow,"
said he, tossing his game bag upon the table.
"You look tired, Henry," said his wife, tenderly; "I wouldn't go out
any more this fall, if I were you."
"I don't intend going out any more, Ellen," was replied, "I'm sick
of it."
"You don't know how glad I am to hear you say so! Somehow, I always
feel troubled and uneasy when you are out gunning or fishing, as if
you were not doing right."
"You shall not feel so any more, Ellen," said Thorne: "I've been
thinking all the afternoon about your cloak.
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