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But we return to poor dying Harnden. The prayers and exhortations of the aged widow, good, old, pious, heaven-minded saint, seemed to have a very happy effect on his mind, and he said that whether he "dropped off" or "came up," he hoped it would be well with him; and in this most heartily joined aunt Dorothy, whose goodness was of that uncertain, impulsive nature, that neither she nor any one else knew in what direction her mind and heart would drive her. She went with the circumstances around her, now religiously inclined, and anon moving on with the world. Her's was not the best model of piety, but as her pretentions were not very high, her influence was correspondingly trifling. Joe Harnden, notwithstanding his mind was weak, gave what he had apparently with a full heart to the Lord, and rejoiced in the promise of the gospel.

"There is one thing I want to know, Joe Harnden," said aunt Dorothy, "and that is, if old Cap'n Bunce did'nt hit you a hard kick in the back that made you lame?"

"Cap'n Bunce did not kick me -- "

"He did, you lie, Joe Harnden! You know he did." This was uttered so quickly that the widow could not prevent it. Joe groaned on his bed, and tears trickled down his cheek. The old woman began her

"Drum, drum, drum,
Behold the aged sinner goes --
Drum, drum, drum, dro, dri, dro, dri,
Laden with guilt and --
Drum, drum, drum."

"No," said Joe, partly turning in his bed, and fastening his eyes on her, "Cap'n Bunce gave me a punch with his hand, but I told a falsehood when I said he kicked me. If it were the last word I ever uttered, I would say Cap'n Bunce did not kick me."

With his eyes still fastened on her, the old pauper sank back on his couch, a ghastly expression came over his face, he trembled slightly, gave a dying groan, and as the widow hurried to his relief, drew his last breath.

"Joe!" cried a voice from below: no answer. "Joe, I say!" still no answer. "Joe Harnden, have you got no ears, I say!"

But no answer was returned; only widow Prescott, moving on tip-toe to the head of the stairs, beckoned Captain Bunce to come up. Suddenly the Captain felt a shudder creeping all over him, as though something awfully serious had occurred. Stepping softly up three or four stairs towards her, he saw beyond, old aunt Dorothy, standing like a statue, with both hands stretched above her head, and her eyes riveted on the bed. But as the blood began to run cold in his veins, the widow stooped down and whispered through her fingers, "JOE'S GONE!"

"Good heavens! Mrs. Prescott----"

"Just breathed his last!"

The Captain reeled and grew dizzy on the stairs. But directly a voice from the door opening out below, called him to himself."

"Captin Bunce! Captin Bunce! he's come -- the doctor's here!"

"Hurry him up, then, for God's sake, JIMS! Why in the world haven't you hurried along, hey? Here's old Joe dying, and nobody to bleed him."

"I guess there arn't much blood in him," cried Jim. "More likely his blood's frized up into icicles. I reckon you'd do better to sweat him."

Under ordinary circumstances. Captain Bunce would have knocked the boy down for his impudence; but now he paid no attention to him. He hurried the doctor upstairs, who approached the bed.

Putting his ear to the mouth of the dead man, and feeling his pulse carefully for a moment, he turned to the Captain, who stood on the stairs within three or four steps of the top. -- "He's gone," said he.

"Dead!" exclaimed the Captain.

"As lead," replied the Doctor, "He's done!"

"JIMS!" said the Captain, going down with a very white face, and trembling in spite of himself, "tell the people that Joe Harnden's dead, and will be buried tomorrow."

Harnden's last visitor was death.

CHAPTER VI.
"We've fifteen poor folks, lacking the last death -- Joe Harnden." -- Squire Ben Stoufs Remark. It is well to keep the Population intact, to know exactly what to say when the Government gets in readiness for the National Census. A correct Census is the glory of an Administration.

ONE important personage in Crampton was Benjamin Stout, Esquire -- or Squire Ben Stout; otherwise, and more universally, called Squire Ben. He was always head man in town affairs, and a capital manager of the public interests. Squire Ben was fat and easy. He could smoke, drink ale, and brandy as a slight change. He was a good joker, and a generous, hospitable, gentlemanly liver. First selectman of the town, he wielded a large influence, and enjoyed in that office, as his colleagues and coadjutors, Mr. Jonas Savage and Mr. George Haddock.

Now Stout and Savage went in on the same ticket; Haddock, on the opposition ticket, Haddock's party was not a large one, though respectable men belonged to it. Policy led the democratic majority, who could make a clean sweep of every thing in Crampton, to put in Haddock. There were some agitating matters always coming up in town affairs, and the minority felt easier and behaved better if they had a voice; even though it were but as one to three or five, in the town business.