Barton, drying her eyes, "this house, and all in it, is yours; and here comes Mr. Norton, to make over to you one-fifth of the money you helped us to make. What, did you think we could bear to see you toil, and toil again, as you have done; and Archy Campbell, too—so in with you." And in they went, with hearts too full to thank their friends.
There was, indeed, plenty of room at Mr. Daly's for Martin Barton and his wife, and little Betty and all; and, as to Hosea Bringle, he was a fixture there. Mrs. Armstrong, as I said, did not live alone long, in her handsome house.
And now, gentle reader, I must leave off. But would you not like to hear more of our dear Jenny—how she managed her house and her gardens, and the poor people in the neighbourhood—and how her husband idolized her; and how all the old customers, rich and poor, came to see her, and partake of her hospitalities. Only let me know, and I will tell you more of her, and how Hosea Bringle read to the four innocent people every evening, either some good book or other; or in the Arabian Nights; and how they blended the genii that wanted to kill the merchant, with the giant in Pilgrim's Progress. And how the old man sat whittling with a penknife, making weathercocks for the stables; and, finally, little go-carts, and little wheelbarrows, and little rakes, for the young family that was fast rising up around him. They could not come too fast for old Hosea Bringle. And then, how easy it came to Martin Barton to take care of a garden; working as hard at it as he did in his thread and needle store. Only encourage me, and I will write on; or drop a line in the Evening Star, and the American, of New York, and my pen will soon be set going again.
THE END.
