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.

Cold weather is coming, and we haven't a dollar laid by for anything.

How I am to get the cloak, I do not see, and yet I cannot bear the thought of your going all this winter again without one." "O, never mind that, dear," said Ellen, in a cheerful tone, her face brightening up.

"We can't afford it this fall, and so that's settled.