THE QUEEN'S TWIN

AND OTHER STORIES

BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

The Riverside Press, Cambridge

M DCCC XCIX

COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

To

SUSAN BURLEY CABOT

CONTENTS

 THE QUEEN'S TWIN A DUNNET SHEPHERDESS WHERE'S NORA BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE MARTHA'S LADY THE COON DOG AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING

THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 

I. 

The coast of Maine was in former years brought so near to foreignshores by its busy fleet of ships that among the older men and womenone still finds a surprising proportion of travelers. Eachseaward-stretching headland with its high-set houses, each island of asingle farm, has sent its spies to view many a Land of Eshcol; one maysee plain, contented old faces at the windows, whose eyes have lookedat far-away ports and known the splendors of the Eastern world. Theyshame the easy voyager of the North Atlantic and the Mediterranean;they have rounded the Cape of Good Hope and braved the angry seas ofCape Horn in small wooden ships; they have brought up their hardy boysand girls on narrow decks; they were among the last of the Northmen'schildren to go adventuring to unknown shores. More than this onecannot give to a young State for its enlightenment; the sea captainsand the captains' wives of Maine knew something of the wide world, andnever mistook their native parishes for the whole instead of a partthereof; they knew not only Thomaston and Castine and Portland, butLondon and Bristol and Bordeaux, and the strange-mannered harbors ofthe China Sea. 

One September day, when I was nearly at the end of a summer spent in avillage called Dunnet Landing, on the Maine coast, my friend Mrs. Todd, in whose house I lived, came home from a long, solitary stroll in thewild pastures, with an eager look as if she were just starting on ahopeful quest instead of returning. She brought a little basket withblackberries enough for supper, and held it towards me so that I couldsee that there were also some late and surprising raspberries sprinkledon top, but she made no comment upon her wayfaring. I could tellplainly that she had something very important to say. 

"You have n't brought home a leaf of anything, " I ventured to thispracticed herb-gatherer. "You were saying yesterday that the witchhazel might be in bloom. "

"I dare say, dear, " she answered in a lofty manner; "I ain't goin' tosay it was n't; I ain't much concerned either way 'bout the facts o'witch hazel. Truth is, I 've been off visitin'; there's an old Indianfootpath leadin' over towards the Back Shore through the great heronswamp that anybody can't travel over all summer. You have to seizeyour time some day just now, while the low ground 's summer-dried as itis to-day, and before the fall rains set in. I never thought of ittill I was out o' sight o' home, and I says to myself, 'To-day 's theday, certain!' and stepped along smart as I could. Yes, I 've beenvisitin'. I did get into one spot that was wet underfoot before Inoticed; you wait till I get me a pair o' dry woolen stockings, in caseof cold, and I 'll come an' tell ye. "

Mrs. Todd disappeared. I could see that something had deeplyinterested her. She might have fallen in with either the sea-serpentor the lost tribes of Israel, such was her air of mystery andsatisfaction. She had been away since just before mid-morning, and asI sat waiting by my window I saw the last red glow of autumn sunshineflare along the gray rocks of the shore and leave them cold again, andtouch the far sails of some coast-wise schooners so that they stoodlike golden houses on the sea. 

I was left to wonder longer than I liked. Mrs. Todd was making anevening fire and putting things in train for supper; presently shereturned, still looking warm and cheerful after her long walk. 

"There 's a beautiful view from a hill over where I 've been, " she toldme; "yes, there 's a beautiful prospect of land and sea. You would n'tdiscern the hill from any distance, but 't is the pretty situation ofit that counts. I sat there a long spell, and I did wish for you. No, I did n't know a word about goin' when I set out this morning" (as if Ihad openly reproached her!); "I only felt one o' them travelin' fitscomin' on, an' I ketched up my little basket; I didn't know but I mightturn and come back time for dinner. I thought it wise to set out yourluncheon for you in case I did n't. Hope you had all you wanted; yes, I hope you had enough. "

"Oh, yes, indeed, " said I. My landlady was always peculiarly bountifulin her supplies when she left me to fare for myself, as if she made asort of peace-offering or affectionate apology. 

"You know that hill with the old house right on top, over beyond theheron swamp? You 'll excuse me for explainin', " Mrs. Todd began, "butyou ain't so apt to strike inland as you be to go right along shore. You know that hill; there 's a path leadin' right over to it that youhave to look sharp to find nowadays; it belonged to the up-countryIndians when they had to make a carry to the landing here to get to theout' islands. I 've heard the old folks say that there used to be aplace across a ledge where they 'd worn a deep track with theirmoccasin feet, but I never could find it. 'T is so overgrown in someplaces that you keep losin' the path in the bushes and findin' it asyou can; but it runs pretty straight considerin' the lay o' the land, and I keep my eye on the sun and the moss that grows one side o' thetree trunks. Some brook's been choked up and the swamp's bigger thanit used to be. Yes; I did get in deep enough, one place!"

I showed the solicitude that I felt. Mrs. Todd was no longer young, and in spite of her strong, great frame and spirited behavior, I knewthat certain ills were apt to seize upon her, and would end some day byleaving her lame and ailing. 

"Don't you go to worryin' about me, " she insisted, "settin' still's theonly way the Evil One 'll ever get the upper hand o' me. Keep memovin' enough, an' I 'm twenty year old summer an' winter both. Idon't know why 't is, but I 've never happened to mention the one I 'vebeen to see. I don't know why I never happened to speak the name ofAbby Martin, for I often give her a thought, but 't is a dreadfulout-o'-the-way place where she lives, and I haven't seen her myself forthree or four years. She's a real good interesting woman, and we 'rewell acquainted; she 's nigher mother's age than mine, but she 's veryyoung feeling. She made me a nice cup o' tea, and I don't know but Ishould have stopped all night if I could have got word to you not toworry. "

Then there was a serious silence before Mrs. Todd spoke again to make aformal announcement. 

"She is the Queen's Twin, " and Mrs. Todd looked steadily to see how Imight bear the great surprise. 

"The Queen's Twin?" I repeated. 

"Yes, she 's come to feel a real interest in the Queen, and anybody cansee how natural 't is. They were born the very same day, and you wouldbe astonished to see what a number o' other things have corresponded. She was speaking o' some o' the facts to me to-day, an' you 'd thinkshe 'd never done nothing but read history. I see how earnest she wasabout it as I never did before. I 've often and often heard her alludeto the facts, but now she's got to be old and the hurry's over with herwork, she 's come to live a good deal in her thoughts, as folks oftendo, and I tell you 't is a sight o' company for her. If you want tohear about Queen Victoria, why Mis' Abby Martin 'll tell youeverything. And the prospect from that hill I spoke of is as beautifulas anything in this world; 't is worth while your goin' over to see herjust for that. "

"When can you go again?" I demanded eagerly. 

"I should say to-morrow, " answered Mrs. Todd; "yes, I should sayto-morrow; but I expect 't would be better to take one day to rest, inbetween. I considered that question as I was comin' home, but Ihurried so that there wa'n't much time to think. It's a dreadful longway to go with a horse; you have to go 'most as far as the old Bowdenplace an' turn off to the left, a master long, rough road, and then youhave to turn right round as soon as you get there if you mean to gethome before nine o'clock at night. But to strike across country fromhere, there 's plenty o' time in the shortest day, and you can have agood hour or two's visit beside; 't ain't but a very few miles, andit's pretty all the way along. There used to be a few good familiesover there, but they 've died and scattered, so now she 's far fromneighbors. There, she really cried, she was so glad to see anybodycomin'. You 'll be amused to hear her talk about the Queen, but Ithought twice or three times as I set there 't was about all thecompany she 'd got. "

"Could we go day after to-morrow?" I asked eagerly. 

"'T would suit me exactly, " said Mrs. Todd. 

II. 

One can never be so certain of good New England weather as in the dayswhen a long easterly storm has blown away the warm late-summer mists, and cooled the air so that however bright the sunshine is by day, thenights come nearer and nearer to frostiness. There was a coldfreshness in the morning air when Mrs. Todd and I locked the house-doorbehind us; we took the key of the fields into our own hands that day, and put out across country as one puts out to sea. When we reached thetop of the ridge behind the town it seemed as if we had anxiouslypassed the harbor bar and were comfortably in open sea at last. 

"There, now!" proclaimed Mrs. Todd, taking a long breath, "now I dofeel safe. It's just the weather that's liable to bring somebody tospend the day; I 've had a feeling of Mis' Elder Caplin from NorthPoint bein' close upon me ever since I waked up this mornin', an' Ididn't want to be hampered with our present plans. She's a great handto visit; she 'll be spendin' the day somewhere from now tillThanksgivin', but there 's plenty o' places at the Landin' where shegoes, an' if I ain't there she 'll just select another. I thoughtmother might be in, too, 'tis so pleasant; but I run up the road tolook off this mornin' before you was awake, and there was no sign o'the boat. If they had n't started by that time they wouldn't start, just as the tide is now; besides, I see a lot o' mackerel-men headin'Green Island way, and they 'll detain William. No, we 're safe now, an' if mother should be comin' in tomorrow we 'll have all this to tellher. She an' Mis' Abby Martin's very old friends. "

We were walking down the long pasture slopes towards the dark woods andthickets of the low ground. They stretched away northward like anunbroken wilderness; the early mists still dulled much of the color andmade the uplands beyond look like a very far-off country. 

"It ain't so far as it looks from here, " said my companionreassuringly, "but we 've got no time to spare either, " and she hurriedon, leading the way with a fine sort of spirit in her step; andpresently we struck into the old Indian footpath, which could beplainly seen across the long-unploughed turf of the pastures, andfollowed it among the thick, low-growing spruces. There the ground wassmooth and brown under foot, and the thin-stemmed trees held a dark andshadowy roof overhead. We walked a long way without speaking;sometimes we had to push aside the branches, and sometimes we walked ina broad aisle where the trees were larger. It was a solitary wood, birdless and beastless; there was not even a rabbit to be seen, or acrow high in air to break the silence. 

"I don't believe the Queen ever saw such a lonesome trail as this, "said Mrs. Todd, as if she followed the thoughts that were in my mind. Our visit to Mrs. Abby Martin seemed in some strange way to concern thehigh affairs of royalty. I had just been thinking of Englishlandscapes, and of the solemn hills of Scotland with their lonelycottages and stone-walled sheepfolds, and the wandering flocks on highcloudy pastures. I had often been struck by the quick interest andfamiliar allusion to certain members of the royal house which one foundin distant neighborhoods of New England; whether some old instincts ofpersonal loyalty have survived all changes of time and nationalvicissitudes, or whether it is only that the Queen's own character anddisposition have won friends for her so far away, it is impossible totell. But to hear of a twin sister was the most surprising proof ofintimacy of all, and I must confess that there was something remarkablyexciting to the imagination in my morning walk. To think of beingpresented at Court in the usual way was for the moment quitecommonplace. 

III. 

Mrs. Todd was swinging her basket to and fro like a schoolgirl as shewalked, and at this moment it slipped from her hand and rolled lightlyalong the ground as if there were nothing in it. I picked it up andgave it to her, whereupon she lifted the cover and looked in withanxiety. 

"'T is only a few little things, but I don't want to lose 'em, " sheexplained humbly. "'T was lucky you took the other basket if I wasgoin' to roll it round. Mis' Abby Martin complained o' lacking somepretty pink silk to finish one o' her little frames, an' I thought I 'dcarry her some, and I had a bunch o' gold thread that had been in a boxo' mine this twenty year. I never was one to do much fancy work, butwe 're all liable to be swept away by fashion. And then there's asmall packet o' very choice herbs that I gave a good deal of attentionto; they 'll smarten her up and give her the best of appetites, comespring. She was tellin' me that spring weather is very wiltin' an'tryin' to her, and she was beginnin' to dread it already. Mother 'sjust the same way; if I could prevail on mother to take some o' theseremedies in good season 'twould make a world o' difference, but shegets all down hill before I have a chance to hear of it, and thenWilliam comes in to tell me, sighin' and bewailin', how feeble motheris. 'Why can't you remember 'bout them good herbs that I never let herbe without?' I say to him--he does provoke me so; and then off he goes, sulky enough, down to his boat. Next thing I know, she comes in to goto meetin', wantin' to speak to everybody and feelin' like a girl. Mis' Martin's case is very much the same; but she 's nobody to watchher. William's kind o' slow-moulded; but there, any William's betterthan none when you get to be Mis' Martin's age. "

"Hadn't she any children?" I asked. 

"Quite a number, " replied Mrs. Todd grandly, "but some are gone and therest are married and settled. She never was a great hand to go aboutvisitin'. I don't know but Mis' Martin might be called a littlepeculiar. Even her own folks has to make company of her; she neverslips in and lives right along with the rest as if 'twas at home, evenin her own children's houses. I heard one o' her sons' wives say onceshe 'd much rather have the Queen to spend the day if she could choosebetween the two, but I never thought Abby was so difficult as that. Iused to love to have her come; she may have been sort o' ceremonious, but very pleasant and sprightly if you had sense enough to treat herher own way. I always think she 'd know just how to live with greatfolks, and feel easier 'long of them an' their ways. Her son's wife 'sa great driver with farm-work, boards a great tableful o' men in hayin'time, an' feels right in her element. I don't say but she 's a goodwoman an' smart, but sort o' rough. Anybody that's gentle-mannered an'precise like Mis' Martin would be a sort o' restraint. 

"There's all sorts o' folks in the country, same 's there is in thecity, " concluded Mrs. Todd gravely, and I as gravely agreed. The thickwoods were behind us now, and the sun was shining clear overhead, themorning mists were gone, and a faint blue haze softened the distance;as we climbed the hill where we were to see the view, it seemed like asummer day. There was an old house on the height, facing southward, --amere forsaken shell of an old house, with empty windows that lookedlike blind eyes. The frost-bitten grass grew close about it like brownfur, and there was a single crooked bough of lilac holding its greenleaves close by the door. 

"We 'll just have a good piece of bread-an'-butter now, " said thecommander of the expedition, "and then we 'll hang up the basket onsome peg inside the house out o' the way o' the sheep, and have ahan'some entertainment as we 're comin' back. She 'll be all throughher little dinner when we get there, Mis' Martin will; but she 'll wantto make us some tea, an' we must have our visit an' be startin' backpretty soon after two. I don't want to cross all that low ground againafter it's begun to grow chilly. An' it looks to me as if the cloudsmight begin to gather late in the afternoon. "

Before us lay a splendid world of sea and shore. The autumn colorsalready brightened the landscape; and here and there at the edge of adark tract of pointed firs stood a row of bright swamp-maples likescarlet flowers. The blue sea and the great tide inlets wereuntroubled by the lightest winds. 

"Poor land, this is!" sighed Mrs. Todd as we sat down to rest on theworn doorstep. "I 've known three good hard-workin' families that comehere full o' hope an' pride and tried to make something o' this farm, but it beat 'em all. There 's one small field that's excellent forpotatoes if you let half of it rest every year; but the land 's alwayshungry. Now, you see them little peaked-topped spruces an' fir balsamscomin' up over the hill all green an' hearty; they 've got it all theirown way! Seems sometimes as if wild Natur' got jealous over a certainspot, and wanted to do just as she 'd a mind to. You 'll see here; she'll do her own ploughin' an' harrowin' with frost an' wet, an' plantjust what she wants and wait for her own crops. Man can't do nothin'with it, try as he may. I tell you those little trees means business!"

I looked down the slope, and felt as if we ourselves were likely to besurrounded and overcome if we lingered too long. There was a vigor ofgrowth, a persistence and savagery about the sturdy little trees thatput weak human nature at complete defiance. One felt a sudden pity forthe men and women who had been worsted after a long fight in thatlonely place; one felt a sudden fear of the unconquerable, immediateforces of Nature, as in the irresistible moment of a thunderstorm. 

"I can recollect the time when folks were shy o' these woods we justcome through, " said Mrs. Todd seriously. "The men-folks themselvesnever 'd venture into 'em alone; if their cattle got strayed they 'dcollect whoever they could get, and start off all together. They saida person was liable to get bewildered in there alone, and in old timesfolks had been lost. I expect there was considerable fear left overfrom the old Indian times, and the poor days o' witchcraft; anyway, I've seen bold men act kind o' timid. Some women o' the Asa Bowdenfamily went out one afternoon berryin' when I was a girl, and got lostand was out all night; they found 'em middle o' the mornin' next day, not half a mile from home, scared most to death, an' sayin' they'dheard wolves and other beasts sufficient for a caravan. Poorcreatur's! they 'd strayed at last into a kind of low place amongstsome alders, an' one of 'em was so overset she never got over it, an'went off in a sort o' slow decline. 'T was like them victims thatdrowns in a foot o' water; but their minds did suffer dreadful. Somefolks is born afraid of the woods and all wild places, but I must saythey 've always been like home to me. "

I glanced at the resolute, confident face of my companion. Life wasvery strong in her, as if some force of Nature were personified in thissimple-hearted woman and gave her cousinship to the ancient deities. She might have walked the primeval fields of Sicily; her strong ginghamskirts might at that very moment bend the slender stalks of asphodeland be fragrant with trodden thyme, instead of the brown wind-brushedgrass of New England and frost-bitten goldenrod. She was a great soul, was Mrs. Todd, and I her humble follower, as we went our way to visitthe Queen's Twin, leaving the bright view of the sea behind us, anddescending to a lower country-side through the dry pastures and fields. 

The farms all wore a look of gathering age, though the settlement was, after all, so young. The fences were already fragile, and it seemed asif the first impulse of agriculture had soon spent itself without hopeof renewal. The better houses were always those that had some holdupon the riches of the sea; a house that could not harbor afishing-boat in some neighboring inlet was far from being sure ofevery-day comforts. The land alone was not enough to live upon in thatstony region; it belonged by right to the forest, and to the forest itfast returned. From the top of the hill where we had been sitting wehad seen prosperity in the dim distance, where the land was good andthe sun shone upon fat barns, and where warm-looking houses with threeor four chimneys apiece stood high on their solid ridge above the bay. 

As we drew nearer to Mrs. Martin's it was sad to see what poor bushyfields, what thin and empty dwelling-places had been left by those whohad chosen this disappointing part of the northern country for theirhome. We crossed the last field and came into a narrow rain-washedroad, and Mrs. Todd looked eager and expectant and said that we werealmost at our journey's end. "I do hope Mis' Martin 'll ask you intoher best room where she keeps all the Queen's pictures. Yes, I thinklikely she will ask you; but 't ain't everybody she deems worthy tovisit 'em, I can tell you!" said Mrs. Todd warningly. "She 's beencollectin' 'em an' cuttin' 'em out o' newspapers an' magazines time outo' mind, and if she heard of anybody sailin' for an English port she 'dcontrive to get a little money to 'em and ask to have the last likenessthere was. She 's most covered her best-room wall now; she keeps thatroom shut up sacred as a meetin'-house! 'I won't say but I have myfavorites amongst 'em, ' she told me t' other day, 'but they 're allbeautiful to me as they can be!' And she's made some kind o' prettylittle frames for 'em all--you know there's always a new fashion o'frames comin' round; first 't was shell-work, and then 't waspine-cones, and bead-work's had its day, and now she 's much concernedwith perforated cardboard worked with silk. I tell you that bestroom's a sight to see! But you must n't look for anything elegant, "continued Mrs. Todd, after a moment's reflection. "Mis' Martin'salways been in very poor, strugglin' circumstances. She had ambitionfor her children, though they took right after their father an' hadlittle for themselves; she wa'n't over an' above well married, howeverkind she may see fit to speak. She's been patient an' hard-workin' allher life, and always high above makin' mean complaints of other folks. I expect all this business about the Queen has buoyed her over many ashoal place in life. Yes, you might say that Abby 'd been a slave, butthere ain't any slave but has some freedom. "

IV. 

Presently I saw a low gray house standing on a grassy bank close to theroad. The door was at the side, facing us, and a tangle of snowberrybushes and cinnamon roses grew to the level of the window-sills. Onthe doorstep stood a bent-shouldered, little old woman; there was anair of welcome and of unmistakable dignity about her. 

"She sees us coming, " exclaimed Mrs. Todd in an excited whisper. "There, I told her I might be over this way again if the weather heldgood, and if I came I 'd bring you. She said right off she 'd takegreat pleasure in havin' a visit from you; I was surprised, she'susually so retirin'. "

Even this reassurance did not quell a faint apprehension on our part;there was something distinctly formal in the occasion, and one feltthat consciousness of inadequacy which is never easy for the humblestpride to bear. On the way I had torn my dress in an unexpectedencounter with a little thornbush, and I could now imagine how it feltto be going to Court and forgetting one's feathers or her Court train. 

The Queen's Twin was oblivious of such trifles; she stood waiting witha calm look until we came near enough to take her kind hand. She was abeautiful old woman, with clear eyes and a lovely quietness andgenuineness of manner; there was not a trace of anything pretentiousabout her, or high-flown, as Mrs. Todd would say comprehensively. Beauty in age is rare enough in women who have spent their lives in thehard work of a farmhouse; but autumn-like and withered as this womanmay have looked, her features had kept, or rather gained, a greatrefinement. She led us into her old kitchen and gave us seats, andtook one of the little straight-backed chairs herself and sat a shortdistance away, as if she were giving audience to an ambassador. Itseemed as if we should all be standing; you could not help feeling thatthe habits of her life were more ceremonious, but that for the momentshe assumed the simplicities of the occasion. 

Mrs. Todd was always Mrs. Todd, too great and self-possessed a soul forany occasion to ruffle. I admired her calmness, and presently the slowcurrent of neighborhood talk carried one easily along; we spoke of theweather and the small adventures of the way, and then, as if I wereafter all not a stranger, our hostess turned almost affectionately tospeak to me. 

"The weather will be growing dark in London now. I expect that you 'vebeen in London, dear?" she said. 

"Oh, yes, " I answered. "Only last year. "

"It is a great many years since I was there, along in the forties, "said Mrs. Martin. "'T was the only voyage I ever made; most of myneighbors have been great travelers. My brother was master of avessel, and his wife usually sailed with him; but that year she had ayoung child more frail than the others, and she dreaded the care of itat sea. It happened that my brother got a chance for my husband to goas supercargo, being a good accountant, and came one day to urge him totake it; he was very ill-disposed to the sea, but he had met withlosses, and I saw my own opportunity and persuaded them both to let mego too. In those days they did n't object to a woman's being aboard towash and mend, the voyages were sometimes very long. And that was theway I come to see the Queen. "

Mrs. Martin was looking straight in my eyes to see if I showed anygenuine interest in the most interesting person in the world. 

"Oh, I am very glad you saw the Queen, " I hastened to say. "Mrs. Toddhas told me that you and she were born the very same day. "

"We were indeed, dear!" said Mrs. Martin, and she leaned backcomfortably and smiled as she had not smiled before. Mrs. Todd gave asatisfied nod and glance, as if to say that things were going on aswell as possible in this anxious moment. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Martin again, drawing her chair a little nearer, "'twas a very remarkable thing; we were born the same day, and at exactlythe same hour, after you allowed for all the difference in time. Myfather figured it out sea-fashion. Her Royal Majesty and I opened oureyes upon this world together; say what you may, 't is a bond betweenus. "

Mrs. Todd assented with an air of triumph, and untied her hat-stringsand threw them back over her shoulders with a gallant air. 

"And I married a man by the name of Albert, just the same as she did, and all by chance, for I did n't get the news that she had an Alberttoo till a fortnight afterward; news was slower coming then than it isnow. My first baby was a girl, and I called her Victoria after mymate; but the next one was a boy, and my husband wanted the right toname him, and took his own name and his brother Edward's, and prettysoon I saw in the paper that the little Prince o' Wales had beenchristened just the same. After that I made excuse to wait till I knewwhat she 'd named her children. I did n't want to break the chain, soI had an Alfred, and my darling Alice that I lost long before she losthers, and there I stopped. If I 'd only had a dear daughter to stay athome with me, same's her youngest one, I should have been so thankful!But if only one of us could have a little Beatrice, I 'm glad 't wasthe Queen; we 've both seen trouble, but she 's had the most care. "

I asked Mrs. Martin if she lived alone all the year, and was told thatshe did except for a visit now and then from one of her grandchildren, "the only one that really likes to come an' stay quiet 'long o'grandma. She always says quick as she's through her schoolin' she'sgoin' to live with me all the time, but she 's very pretty an' hastaking ways, " said Mrs. Martin, looking both proud and wistful, "so Ican tell nothing at all about it! Yes, I 've been alone most o' thetime since my Albert was taken away, and that's a great many years; hehad a long time o' failing and sickness first. " (Mrs. Todd's foot gavean impatient scuff on the floor. ) "An' I 've always lived right here. I ain't like the Queen's Majesty, for this is the only palace I 'vegot, " said the dear old thing, smiling again. "I 'm glad of it too, Idon't like changing about, an' our stations in life are set verydifferent. I don't require what the Queen does, but sometimes I 'vethought 't was left to me to do the plain things she don't have timefor. I expect she's a beautiful housekeeper, nobody could n't havedone better in her high place, and she's been as good a mother as she's been a queen. "

"I guess she has, Abby, " agreed Mrs. Todd instantly. "How was it youhappened to get such a good look at her? I meant to ask you again whenI was here t' other day. "

"Our ship was layin' in the Thames, right there above Wapping. We wasdischargin' cargo, and under orders to clear as quick as we could forBordeaux to take on an excellent freight o' French goods, " explainedMrs. Martin eagerly. "I heard that the Queen was goin' to a greatreview of her army, and would drive out o' her Buckin'ham Palace aboutten o'clock in the mornin', and I run aft to Albert, my husband, andbrother Horace where they was standin' together by the hatchway, andtold 'em they must one of 'em take me. They laughed, I was in such ahurry, and said they could n't go; and I found they meant it and gotsort of impatient when I began to talk, and I was 'most broken-hearted;'t was all the reason I had for makin' that hard voyage. Albert couldn't help often reproachin' me, for he did so resent the sea, an' I 'dknown how 't would be before we sailed; but I 'd minded nothing all theway till then, and I just crep' back to my cabin an' begun to cry. They was disappointed about their ship's cook, an' I 'd cooked forfo'c's'le an' cabin myself all the way over; 't was dreadful hard work, specially in rough weather; we 'd had head winds an' a six weeks'voyage. They 'd acted sort of ashamed o' me when I pled so to goashore, an' that hurt my feelin's most of all. But Albert come belowpretty soon; I 'd never given way so in my life, an' he begun to actfrightened, and treated me gentle just as he did when we was goin' tobe married, an' when I got over sobbin' he went on deck and saw Horacean' talked it over what they could do; they really had their duty tothe vessel, and could n't be spared that day. Horace was real goodwhen he understood everything, and he come an' told me I 'd more thanworked my passage an' was goin' to do just as I liked now we was inport. He 'd engaged a cook, too, that was comin' aboard that mornin', and he was goin' to send the ship's carpenter with me--a nice fellowfrom up Thomaston way; he 'd gone to put on his ashore clothes asquick's he could. So then I got ready, and we started off in the smallboat and rowed up river. I was afraid we were too late, but the tidewas setting up very strong, and we landed an' left the boat to akeeper, and I run all the way up those great streets and across a park. 'Twas a great day, with sights o' folks everywhere, but 't was just asif they was nothin' but wax images to me. I kep' askin' my way an'runnin' on, with the carpenter comin' after as best he could, and justas I worked to the front o' the crowd by the palace, the gates wasflung open and out she came; all prancin' horses and shinin' gold, andin a beautiful carriage there she sat; 't was a moment o' heaven to me. I saw her plain, and she looked right at me so pleasant and happy, justas if she knew there was somethin' different between us from otherfolks. "

There was a moment when the Queen's Twin could not go on and neither ofher listeners could ask a question. 

"Prince Albert was sitting right beside her in the carriage, " shecontinued. "Oh, he was a beautiful man! Yes, dear, I saw 'em bothtogether just as I see you now, and then she was gone out o' sight inanother minute, and the common crowd was all spread over the placepushin' an' cheerin'. 'T was some kind o' holiday, an' the carpenterand I got separated, an' then I found him again after I did n't think Ishould, an' he was all for makin' a day of it, and goin' to show me allthe sights; he 'd been in London before, but I did n't want nothin'else, an' we went back through the streets down to the waterside an'took the boat. I remember I mended an old coat o' my Albert's as goodas I could, sittin' on the quarter-deck in the sun all that afternoon, and 't was all as if I was livin' in a lovely dream. I don't know howto explain it, but there hasn't been no friend I've felt so near to meever since. "

One could not say much--only listen. Mrs. Todd put in a discerningquestion now and then, and Mrs. Martin's eyes shone brighter andbrighter as she talked. What a lovely gift of imagination and trueaffection was in this fond old heart! I looked about the plain NewEngland kitchen, with its wood-smoked walls and homely braided rugs onthe worn floor, and all its simple furnishings. The loud-ticking clockseemed to encourage us to speak; at the other side of the room was anearly newspaper portrait of Her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain andIreland. On a shelf below were some flowers in a little glass dish, asif they were put before a shrine. 

"If I could have had more to read, I should have known 'most everythingabout her, " said Mrs. Martin wistfully. "I 've made the most of what Idid have, and thought it over and over till it came clear. I sometimesseem to have her all my own, as if we 'd lived right together. I 'veoften walked out into the woods alone and told her what my troubleswas, and it always seemed as if she told me 't was all right, an' wemust have patience. I 've got her beautiful book about the Highlands;'t was dear Mis' Todd here that found out about her printing it and gota copy for me, and it's been a treasure to my heart, just as if 't waswritten right to me. I always read it Sundays now, for my Sundaytreat. Before that I used to have to imagine a good deal, but when Icome to read her book, I knew what I expected was all true. We dothink alike about so many things, " said the Queen's Twin withaffectionate certainty. "You see, there is something between us, beingborn just at the some time; 't is what they call a birthright. She 'shad great tasks put upon her, being the Queen, an' mine has been thehumble lot; but she's done the best she could, nobody can say to thecontrary, and there 's something between us; she's been the greatlesson I 've had to live by. She's been everything to me. An' whenshe had her Jubilee, oh, how my heart was with her!"

"There, 't would n't play the part in her life it has in mine, " saidMrs. Martin generously, in answer to something one of her listeners hadsaid. "Sometimes I think, now she's older, she might like to knowabout us. When I think how few old friends anybody has left at ourage, I suppose it may be just the same with her as it is with me;perhaps she would like to know how we came into life together. But I've had a great advantage in seeing her, an' I can always fancy hergoin' on, while she don't know nothin' yet about me, except she mayfeel my love stayin' her heart sometimes an' not know just where itcomes from. An' I dream about our being together out in some prettyfields, young as ever we was, and holdin' hands as we walk along. I 'dlike to know if she ever has that dream too. I used to have days whenI made believe she did know, an' was comin' to see me, " confessed thespeaker shyly, with a little flush on her cheeks; "and I 'd plan what Icould have nice for supper, and I was n't goin' to let anybody know shewas here havin' a good rest, except I 'd wish you, Almira Todd, or dearMis' Blackett would happen in, for you 'd know just how to talk withher. You see, she likes to be up in Scotland, right out in the wildcountry, better than she does anywhere else. "

"I 'd really love to take her out to see mother at Green Island, " saidMrs. Todd with a sudden impulse. 

"Oh, yes! I should love to have you, " exclaimed Mrs. Martin, and thenshe began to speak in a lower tone. "One day I got thinkin' so aboutmy dear Queen, " she said, "an' livin' so in my thoughts, that I went towork an' got all ready for her, just as if she was really comin'. Inever told this to a livin' soul before, but I feel you 'll understand. I put my best fine sheets and blankets I spun an' wove myself on thebed, and I picked some pretty flowers and put 'em all round the house, an' I worked as hard an' happy as I could all day, and had as nice asupper ready as I could get, sort of telling myself a story all thetime. She was comin' an' I was goin' to see her again, an' I kep' itup until nightfall; an' when I see the dark an' it come to me I was allalone, the dream left me, an' I sat down on the doorstep an' felt allfoolish an' tired. An', if you 'll believe it, I heard steps comin', an' an old cousin o' mine come wanderin' along, one I was apt to be shyof. She was n't all there, as folks used to say, but harmless enoughand a kind of poor old talking body. And I went right to meet her whenI first heard her call, 'stead o' hidin' as I sometimes did, an' shecome in dreadful willin', an' we sat down to supper together; 't was asupper I should have had no heart to eat alone. "

"I don't believe she ever had such a splendid time in her life as shedid then. I heard her tell all about it afterwards, " exclaimed Mrs. Todd compassionately. "There, now I hear all this it seems just as ifthe Queen might have known and could n't come herself, so she sent thatpoor old creatur' that was always in need!"

Mrs. Martin looked timidly at Mrs. Todd and then at me. "'T waschildish o' me to go an' get supper, " she confessed. 

"I guess you wa'n't the first one to do that, " said Mrs. Todd. "No, Iguess you wa'n't the first one who 's got supper that way, Abby, " andthen for a moment she could say no more. 

Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Martin had moved their chairs a little so that theyfaced each other, and I, at one side, could see them both. 

"No, you never told me o' that before, Abby, " said Mrs. Todd gently. "Don't it show that for folks that have any fancy in 'em, suchbeautiful dreams is the real part o' life? But to most folks thecommon things that happens outside 'em is all in all. "

Mrs. Martin did not appear to understand at first, strange to say, whenthe secret of her heart was put into words; then a glow of pleasure andcomprehension shone upon her face. "Why, I believe you 're right, Almira!" she said, and turned to me. 

"Wouldn't you like to look at my pictures of the Queen?" she asked, andwe rose and went into the best room. 

V. 

The mid-day visit seemed very short; September hours are brief to matchthe shortening days. The great subject was dismissed for a while afterour visit to the Queen's pictures, and my companions spoke much oflesser persons until we drank the cup of tea which Mrs. Todd hadforeseen. I happily remembered that the Queen herself is said to likea proper cup of tea, and this at once seemed to make her Majesty kindlyjoin so remote and reverent a company. Mrs. Martin's thin cheeks tookon a pretty color like a girl's. "Somehow I always have thought of herwhen I made it extra good, " she said. "I 've got a real china cup thatbelonged to my grandmother, and I believe I shall call it hers now. "

"Why don't you?" responded Mrs. Todd warmly, with a delightful smile. 

Later they spoke of a promised visit which was to be made in the Indiansummer to the Landing and Green Island, but I observed that Mrs. Toddpresented the little parcel of dried herbs, with full directions, for acure-all in the spring, as if there were no real chance of theirmeeting again first. As we looked back from the turn of the road theQueen's Twin was still standing on the doorstep watching us away, andMrs. Todd stopped, and stood still for a moment before she waved herhand again. 

"There's one thing certain, dear, " she said to me with greatdiscernment; "it ain't as if we left her all alone!"

Then we set out upon our long way home over the hill, where we lingeredin the afternoon sunshine, and through the dark woods across theheron-swamp. 

A DUNNET SHEPHERDESS. 

I. 

Early one morning at Dunnet Landing, as if it were still night, Iwaked, suddenly startled by a spirited conversation beneath my window. It was not one of Mrs. Todd's morning soliloquies; she was notaddressing her plants and flowers in words of either praise or blame. Her voice was declamatory though perfectly good-humored, while thesecond voice, a man's, was of lower pitch and somewhat deprecating. 

The sun was just above the sea, and struck straight across my roomthrough a crack in the blind. It was a strange hour for the arrival ofa guest, and still too soon for the general run of business, even inthat tiny eastern haven where daybreak fisheries and early tides mustoften rule the day. 

The man's voice suddenly declared itself to my sleepy ears. It was Mr. William Blackett's. 

"Why, sister Almiry, " he protested gently, "I don't need none o' yournostrums!"

"Pick me a small han'ful, " she commanded. "No, no, a _small_ han'ful, I said, --o' them large pennyr'yal sprigs! I go to all the trouble an'cossetin' of 'em just so as to have you ready to meet such occasions, an' last year, you may remember, you never stopped here at all the dayyou went up country. An' the frost come at last an' blacked it. Inever saw any herb that so objected to gardin ground; might as well tryto flourish mayflowers in a common front yard. There, you can come innow, an' set and eat what breakfast you 've got patience for. I 'vefound everything I want, an' I 'll mash 'em up an' be all ready to put'em on. "

I heard such a pleading note of appeal as the speakers went round thecorner of the house, and my curiosity was so demanding, that I dressedin haste, and joined my friends a little later, with two unnoticedexcuses of the beauty of the morning, and the early mail boat. William's breakfast had been slighted; he had taken his cup of tea andmerely pushed back the rest on the kitchen table. He was now sittingin a helpless condition by the side window, with one of his sister'spurple calico aprons pinned close about his neck. Poor William wasmeekly submitting to being smeared, as to his countenance, with a mostpungent and unattractive lotion of pennyroyal and other green herbswhich had been hastily pounded and mixed with cream in the little whitestone mortar. 

I had to cast two or three straightforward looks at William to reassuremyself that he really looked happy and expectant in spite of hismelancholy circumstances, and was not being overtaken by retribution. The brother and sister seemed to be on delightful terms with each otherfor once, and there was something of cheerful anticipation in theirmorning talk. I was reminded of Medea's anointing Jason before thegreat episode of the iron bulls, but to-day William really could not begoing up country to see a railroad for the first time. I knew this tobe one of his great schemes, but he was not fitted to appear in public, or to front an observing world of strangers. As I appeared he essayedto rise, but Mrs. Todd pushed him back into the chair. 

"Set where you be till it dries on, " she insisted. "Land sakes, you'dthink he'd get over bein' a boy some time or 'nother, gettin' along inyears as he is. An' you 'd think he 'd seen full enough o' fish, butonce a year he has to break loose like this, an' travel off way up backo' the Bowden place--far out o' my beat, 'tis--an' go a trout fishin'!"

Her tone of amused scorn was so full of challenge that William changedcolor even under the green streaks. 

"I want some change, " he said, looking at me and not at her. "'T isthe prettiest little shady brook you ever saw. "

"If he ever fetched home more 'n a couple o' minnies, 't would seemworth while, " Mrs. Todd concluded, putting a last dab of the mysteriouscompound so perilously near her brother's mouth that William flushedagain and was silent. 

A little later I witnessed his escape, when Mrs. Todd had taken thefoolish risk of going down cellar. There was a horse and wagon outsidethe garden fence, and presently we stood where we could see him drivingup the hill with thoughtless speed. Mrs. Todd said nothing, butwatched him affectionately out of sight. 

"It serves to keep the mosquitoes off, " she said, and a moment later itoccurred to my slow mind that she spoke of the penny-royal lotion. "Idon't know sometimes but William's kind of poetical, " she continued, inher gentlest voice. "You 'd think if anything could cure him of it, 'twould be the fish business. "

It was only twenty minutes past six on a summer morning, but we bothsat down to rest as if the activities of the day were over. Mrs. Toddrocked gently for a time, and seemed to be lost, though not poorly, like Macbeth, in her thoughts. At last she resumed relations with heractual surroundings. "I shall now put my lobsters on. They'll make usa good supper, " she announced. "Then I can let the fire out for allday; give it a holiday, same's William. You can have a little one now, nice an' hot, if you ain't got all the breakfast you want. Yes, I 'llput the lobsters on. William was very thoughtful to bring 'em over;William is thoughtful; if he only had a spark o' ambition, there be fewcould match him. "

This unusual concession was afforded a sympathetic listener from thedepths of the kitchen closet. Mrs. Todd was getting out her old ironlobster pot, and began to speak of prosaic affairs. I hoped that Ishould hear something more about her brother and their island life, andsat idly by the kitchen window looking at the morning glories thatshaded it, believing that some flaw of wind might set Mrs. Todd's mindon its former course. Then it occurred to me that she had spoken aboutour supper rather than our dinner, and I guessed that she might havesome great scheme before her for the day. 

When I had loitered for some time and there was no further word aboutWilliam, and at last I was conscious of receiving no attentionwhatever, I went away. It was something of a disappointment to findthat she put no hindrance in the way of my usual morning affairs, ofgoing up to the empty little white schoolhouse on the hill where I didmy task of writing. I had been almost sure of a holiday when Idiscovered that Mrs. Todd was likely to take one herself; we had notbeen far afield to gather herbs and pleasures for many days now, but alittle later she had silently vanished. I found my luncheon ready onthe table in the little entry, wrapped in its shining old homespunnapkin, and as if by way of special consolation, there was a stonebottle of Mrs. Todd's best spruce beer, with a long piece of cod linewound round it by which it could be lowered for coolness into the deepschoolhouse well. 

I walked away with a dull supply of writing-paper and these provisions, feeling like a reluctant child who hopes to be called back at everystep. There was no relenting voice to be heard, and when I reached theschoolhouse, I found that I had left an open window and a swingingshutter the day before, and the sea wind that blew at evening hadfluttered my poor sheaf of papers all about the room. 

So the day did not begin very well, and I began to recognize that itwas one of the days when nothing could be done without company. Thetruth was that my heart had gone trouting with William, but it wouldhave been too selfish to say a word even to one's self about spoilinghis day. If there is one way above another of getting so close tonature that one simply is a piece of nature, following a primevalinstinct with perfect self-forgetfulness and forgetting everythingexcept the dreamy consciousness of pleasant freedom, it is to take thecourse of a shady trout brook. The dark pools and the sunny shallowsbeckon one on; the wedge of sky between the trees on either bank, thespeaking, companioning noise of the water, the amazing importance ofwhat one is doing, and the constant sense of life and beauty make astrange transformation of the quick hours. I had a sudden memory ofall this, and another, and another. I could not get myself free from"fishing and wishing. "

At that moment I heard the unusual sound of wheels, and I looked pastthe high-growing thicket of wild-roses and straggling sumach to see thewhite nose and meagre shape of the Caplin horse; then I saw Williamsitting in the open wagon, with a small expectant smile upon his face. 

"I 've got two lines, " he said. "I was quite a piece up the road. Ithought perhaps 't was so you 'd feel like going. "

There was enough excitement for most occasions in hearing William speakthree sentences at once. Words seemed but vain to me at that brightmoment. I stepped back from the schoolhouse window with a beatingheart. The spruce-beer bottle was not yet in the well, and with thatand my luncheon, and Pleasure at the helm, I went out into the happyworld. The land breeze was blowing, and, as we turned away, I saw aflutter of white go past the window as I left the schoolhouse and mymorning's work to their neglected fate. 

II. 

One seldom gave way to a cruel impulse to look at an ancient seafaringWilliam, but one felt as if he were a growing boy; I only hope that hefelt much the same about me. He did not wear the fishing clothes thatbelonged to his sea-going life, but a strangely shaped old suit oftea-colored linen garments that might have been brought home years agofrom Canton or Bombay. William had a peculiar way of giving silentassent when one spoke, but of answering your unspoken thoughts as ifthey reached him better than words. "I find them very easy, " he said, frankly referring to the clothes. "Father had them in his oldsea-chest. "

The antique fashion, a quaint touch of foreign grace and evenimagination about the cut were very pleasing; if ever Mr. WilliamBlackett had faintly resembled an old beau, it was upon that day. Henow appeared to feel as if everything had been explained between us, asif everything were quite understood; and we drove for some distancewithout finding it necessary to speak again about anything. At last, when it must have been a little past nine o'clock, he stopped the horsebeside a small farmhouse, and nodded when I asked if I should get downfrom the wagon. "You can steer about northeast right across thepasture, " he said, looking from under the eaves of his hat with anexpectant smile. "I always leave the team here. "

I helped to unfasten the harness, and William led the horse away to thebarn. It was a poor-looking little place, and a forlorn woman lookedat us through the window before she appeared at the door. I told herthat Mr. Blackett and I came up from the Landing to go fishing. "Hekeeps a-comin', don't he?" she answered, with a funny little laugh, towhich I was at a loss to find answer. When he joined us, I could notsee that he took notice of her presence in any way, except to take anarmful of dried salt fish from a corded stack in the back of the wagonwhich had been carefully covered with a piece of old sail. We had lefta wake of their pungent flavor behind us all the way. I wondered whatwas going to become of the rest of them and some fresh lobsters whichwere also disclosed to view, but he laid the present gift on thedoorstep without a word, and a few minutes later, when I looked back aswe crossed the pasture, the fish were being carried into the house. 

I could not see any signs of a trout brook until I came close upon itin the bushy pasture, and presently we struck into the low woods ofstraggling spruce and fir mixed into a tangle of swamp maples andalders which stretched away on either hand up and down stream. Wefound an open place in the pasture where some taller trees seemed tohave been overlooked rather than spared. The sun was bright and hot bythis time, and I sat down in the shade while William produced his linesand cut and trimmed us each a slender rod. I wondered where Mrs. Toddwas spending the morning, and if later she would think that pirates hadlanded and captured me from the schoolhouse. 

III. 

The brook was giving that live, persistent call to a listener thattrout brooks always make; it ran with a free, swift current even here, where it crossed an apparently level piece of land. I saw twounpromising, quick barbel chase each other upstream from bank to bankas we solemnly arranged our hooks and sinkers. I felt that William'sglances changed from anxiety to relief when he found that I was used tosuch gear; perhaps he felt that we must stay together if I could notbait my own hook, but we parted happily, full of a pleasing sense ofcompanionship. 

William had pointed me up the brook, but I chose to go down, which wasonly fair because it was his day, though one likes as well to followand see where a brook goes as to find one's way to the places it comesfrom, and its tiny springs and headwaters, and in this case trout werenot to be considered. William's only real anxiety was lest I mightsuffer from mosquitoes. His own complexion was still strangelyimpaired by its defenses, but I kept forgetting it, and looking to seeif we were treading fresh pennyroyal underfoot, so efficient was Mrs. Todd's remedy. I was conscious, after we parted, and I turned to seeif he were already fishing, and saw him wave his hand gallantly as hewent away, that our friendship had made a great gain. 

The moment that I began to fish the brook, I had a sense of itsemptiness; when my bait first touched the water and went lightly downthe quick stream, I knew that there was nothing to lie in wait for it. It is the same certainty that comes when one knocks at the door of anempty house, a lack of answering consciousness and of possibleresponse; it is quite different if there is any life within. But itwas a lovely brook, and I went a long way through woods and breezy openpastures, and found a forsaken house and overgrown farm, and laid upmany pleasures for future joy and remembrance. At the end of themorning I came back to our meeting-place hungry and without any fish. William was already waiting, and we did not mention the matter oftrout. We ate our luncheons with good appetites, and William broughtour two stone bottles of spruce beer from the deep place in the brookwhere he had left them to cool. Then we sat awhile longer in peace andquietness on the green banks. 

As for William, he looked more boyish than ever, and kept a more remoteand juvenile sort of silence. Once I wondered how he had come to be socuriously wrinkled, forgetting, absent-mindedly, to recognize theeffects of time. He did not expect any one else to keep up a vain showof conversation, and so I was silent as well as he. I glanced at himnow and then, but I watched the leaves tossing against the sky and thered cattle moving in the pasture. "I don't know's we need head forhome. It's early yet, " he said at last, and I was as startled as ifone of the gray firs had spoken. 

"I guess I 'll go up-along and ask after Thankful Hight's folks, " hecontinued. "Mother 'd like to get word;" and I nodded a pleased assent. 

IV. 

William led the way across the pasture, and I followed with a deepsense of pleased anticipation. I do not believe that my companion hadexpected me to make any objection, but I knew that he was gratified bythe easy way that his plans for the day were being seconded. He gave alook at the sky to see if there were any portents, but the sky wasfrankly blue; even the doubtful morning haze had disappeared. 

We went northward along a rough, clayey road, across a bare-looking, sunburnt country full of tiresome long slopes where the sun was hot andbright, and I could not help observing the forlorn look of the farms. There was a great deal of pasture, but it looked deserted, and Iwondered afresh why the people did not raise more sheep when thatseemed the only possible use to make of their land. I said so to Mr. Blackett, who gave me a look of pleased surprise. 

"That's what She always maintains, " he said eagerly. "She 's rightabout it, too; well, you 'll see!" I was glad to find myself approved, but I had not the least idea whom he meant, and waited until he feltlike speaking again. 

A few minutes later we drove down a steep hill and entered a largetract of dark spruce woods. It was delightful to be sheltered from theafternoon sun, and when we had gone some distance in the shade, to mygreat pleasure William turned the horse's head toward some bars, whichhe let down, and I drove through into one of those narrow, still, sweet-scented by-ways which seem to be paths rather than roads. Oftenwe had to put aside the heavy drooping branches which barred the way, and once, when a sharp twig struck William in the face, he announcedwith such spirit that somebody ought to go through there with an axe, that I felt unexpectedly guilty. So far as I now remember, this wasWilliam's only remark all the way through the woods to Thankful Hight'sfolks, but from time to time he pointed or nodded at something which Imight have missed: a sleepy little owl snuggled into the bend of abranch, or a tall stalk of cardinal flowers where the sunlight camedown at the edge of a small, bright piece of marsh. Many times, beingused to the company of Mrs. Todd and other friends who were in thehabit of talking, I came near making an idle remark to William, but Iwas for the most part happily preserved; to be with him only for ashort time was to live on a different level, where thoughts served bestbecause they were thoughts in common; the primary effect upon our mindsof the simple things and beauties that we saw. Once when I caughtsight of a lovely gay pigeon-woodpecker eyeing us curiously from a deadbranch, and instinctively turned toward William, he gave an indulgent, comprehending nod which silenced me all the rest of the way. Thewood-road was not a place for common noisy conversation; one wouldinterrupt the birds and all the still little beasts that belongedthere. But it was mortifying to find how strong the habit of idlespeech may become in one's self. One need not always be sayingsomething in this noisy world. I grew conscious of the differencebetween William's usual fashion of life and mine; for him there werelong days of silence in a sea-going boat, and I could believe that heand his mother usually spoke very little because they so perfectlyunderstood each other. There was something peculiarly unrespondingabout their quiet island in the sea, solidly fixed into the stillfoundations of the world, against whose rocky shores the sea beats andcalls and is unanswered. 

We were quite half an hour going through the woods; the horse's feetmade no sound on the brown, soft track under the dark evergreens. Ithought that we should come out at last into more pastures, but therewas no half-wooded strip of land at the end; the high woods grewsquarely against an old stone wall and a sunshiny open field, and wecame out suddenly into broad daylight that startled us and evenstartled the horse, who might have been napping as he walked, like anold soldier. The field sloped up to a low unpainted house that facedthe east. Behind it were long, frost-whitened ledges that made thehill, with strips of green turf and bushes between. It was thewildest, most Titanic sort of pasture country up there; there was asort of daring in putting a frail wooden house before it, though itmight have the homely field and honest woods to front against. Youthought of the elements and even of possible volcanoes as you looked upthe stony heights. Suddenly I saw that a region of what I had thoughtgray stones was slowly moving, as if the sun was making my eyesightunsteady. 

"There's the sheep!" exclaimed William, pointing eagerly. "You see thesheep?" and sure enough, it was a great company of woolly backs, whichseemed to have taken a mysterious protective resemblance to the ledgesthemselves. I could discover but little chance for pasturage on thathigh sunburnt ridge, but the sheep were moving steadily in a satisfiedway as they fed along the slopes and hollows. 

"I never have seen half so many sheep as these, all summer long!" Icried with admiration. 

"There ain't so many, " answered William soberly. "It's a great sight. They do so well because they 're shepherded, but you can't beat senseinto some folks. "

"You mean that somebody stays and watches them?" I asked. 

"She observed years ago in her readin' that they don't turn out theirflocks without protection anywhere but in the State o' Maine, " returnedWilliam. "First thing that put it into her mind was a little old bookmother's got; she read it one time when she come out to the Island. They call it the 'Shepherd o' Salisbury Plain. ' 'T was n't the purposeo' the book to most, but when she read it, 'There, Mis' Blackett!' shesaid, 'that's where we 've all lacked sense; our Bibles ought to havetaught us that what sheep need is a shepherd. ' You see most folksabout here gave up sheep-raisin' years ago 'count o' the dogs. So shegave up school-teachin' and went out to tend her flock, and hasshepherded ever since, an' done well. "

For William, this approached an oration. He spoke with enthusiasm, andI shared the triumph of the moment. "There she is now!" he exclaimed, in a different tone, as the tall figure of a woman came following theflock and stood still on the ridge, looking toward us as if her eyeshad been quick to see a strange object in the familiar emptiness of thefield. William stood up in the wagon, and I thought he was going tocall or wave his hand to her, but he sat down again more clumsily thanif the wagon had made the familiar motion of a boat, and we drove ontoward the house. 

It was a most solitary place to live, --a place where one might thinkthat a life could hide itself. The thick woods were between the farmand the main road, and as one looked up and down the country, there wasno other house in sight. 

"Potatoes look well, " announced William. "The old folks used to saythat there wa'n't no better land outdoors than the Hight field. "

I found myself possessed of a surprising interest in the shepherdess, who stood far away in the hill pasture with her great flock, like afigure of Millet's, high against the sky. 

V. 

Everything about the old farmhouse was clean and orderly, as if thegreen dooryard were not only swept, but dusted. I saw a flock ofturkeys stepping off carefully at a distance, but there was not theusual untidy flock of hens about the place to make everything look indisarray. William helped me out of the wagon as carefully as if I hadbeen his mother, and nodded toward the open door with a reassuring lookat me; but I waited until he had tied the horse and could lead the way, himself. He took off his hat just as we were going in, and stopped fora moment to smooth his thin gray hair with his hand, by which I sawthat we had an affair of some ceremony. We entered an old-fashionedcountry kitchen, the floor scrubbed into unevenness, and the doors wellpolished by the touch of hands. In a large chair facing the windowthere sat a masterful-looking old woman with the features of a warlikeRoman emperor, emphasized by a bonnet-like black cap with a band ofgreen ribbon. Her sceptre was a palm-leaf fan. 

William crossed the room toward her, and bent his head close to her ear. 

"Feelin' pretty well to-day, Mis' Hight?" he asked, with all the voicehis narrow chest could muster. 

"No, I ain't, William. Here I have to set, " she answered coldly, butshe gave an inquiring glance over his shoulder at me. 

"This is the young lady who is stopping with Almiry this summer, " heexplained, and I approached as if to give the countersign. She offeredher left hand with considerable dignity, but her expression neverseemed to change for the better. A moment later she said that she waspleased to meet me, and I felt as if the worst were over. William musthave felt some apprehension, while I was only ignorant, as we had comeacross the field. Our hostess was more than disapproving, she wasforbidding; but I was not long in suspecting that she felt the naturalresentment of a strong energy that has been defeated by illness andmade the spoil of captivity. 

"Mother well as usual since you was up last year?" and William repliedby a series of cheerful nods. The mention of dear Mrs. Blackett was ahelp to any conversation. 

"Been fishin', ashore, " he explained, in a somewhat conciliatory voice. "Thought you'd like a few for winter, " which explained at once thegenerous freight we had brought in the back of the wagon. I could seethat the offering was no surprise, and that Mrs. Hight was interested. 

"Well, I expect they 're good as the last, " she said, but did not evenapproach a smile. She kept a straight, discerning eye upon me. 

"Give the lady a cheer, " she admonished William, who hastened to placeclose by her side one of the straight-backed chairs that stood againstthe kitchen wall. Then he lingered for a moment like a timid boy. Icould see that he wore a look of resolve, but he did not ask thepermission for which he evidently waited. 

"You can go search for Esther, " she said, at the end of a long pausethat became anxious for both her guests. "Esther 'd like to see her;"and William in his pale nankeens disappeared with one light step andwas off. 

VI. 

"Don't speak too loud, it jars a person's head, " directed Mrs. Hightplainly. "Clear an' distinct is what reaches me best. Any news to theLandin'?"

I was happily furnished with the particulars of a sudden death, and anengagement of marriage between a Caplin, a seafaring widower home fromhis voyage, and one of the younger Harrises; and now Mrs. Hight reallysmiled and settled herself in her chair. We exhausted one subjectcompletely before we turned to the other. One of the returning turkeystook an unwarrantable liberty, and, mounting the doorstep, came in andwalked about the kitchen without being observed by its strict owner;and the tin dipper slipped off its nail behind us and made anastonishing noise, and jar enough to reach Mrs. Hight's inner ear andmake her turn her head to look at it; but we talked straight on. Wecame at last to understand each other upon such terms of friendshipthat she unbent her majestic port and complained to me as any poor oldwoman might of the hardships of her illness. She had already fixedvarious dates upon the sad certainty of the year when she had theshock, which had left her perfectly helpless except for a clumsy lefthand which fanned and gestured, and settled and resettled the folds ofher dress, but could do no comfortable time-shortening work. 

"Yes 'm, you can feel sure I use it what I can, " she said severely. "'Twas a long spell before I could let Esther go forth in the mornin'till she 'd got me up an' dressed me, but now she leaves things readyovernight and I get 'em as I want 'em with my light pair o' tongs, andI feel very able about helpin' myself to what I once did. Then whenEsther returns, all she has to do is to push me out here into thekitchen. Some parts o' the year Esther stays out all night, themmoonlight nights when the dogs are apt to be after the sheep, but shedon't use herself as hard as she once had to. She 's well able to hiresomebody, Esther is, but there, you can't find no hired man that wantsto git up before five o'clock nowadays; 't ain't as 't was in my time. They 're liable to fall asleep, too, and them moonlight nights she's soanxious she can't sleep, and out she goes. There's a kind of a fold, she calls it, up there in a sheltered spot, and she sleeps up in alittle shed she 's got, --built it herself for lambin' time and when thepoor foolish creatur's gets hurt or anything. I 've never seen it, butshe says it's in a lovely spot and always pleasant in any weather. Yousee off, other side of the ridge, to the south'ard, where there'shouses. I used to think some time I 'd get up to see it again, and allthem spots she lives in, but I sha'n't now. I 'm beginnin' to go back;an' 't ain't surprisin'. I 've kind of got used to disappointments, "and the poor soul drew a deep sigh. 

VII. 

It was long before we noticed the lapse of time; I not only told everycircumstance known to me of recent events among the households of Mrs. Todd's neighborhood at the shore, but Mrs. Hight became more and morecommunicative on her part, and went carefully into the genealogicaldescent and personal experience of many acquaintances, until between uswe had pretty nearly circumnavigated the globe and reached DunnetLanding from an opposite direction to that in which we had started. Itwas long before my own interest began to flag; there was a flavor ofthe best sort in her definite and descriptive fashion of speech. Itmay be only a fancy of my own that in the sound and value of manywords, with their lengthened vowels and doubled cadences, there is somefaint survival on the Maine coast of the sound of English speech ofChaucer's time. 

At last Mrs. Thankful Hight gave a suspicious look through the window. 

"Where do you suppose they be?" she asked me. "Esther must ha' beenoff to the far edge o' everything. I doubt William ain't been able tofind her; can't he hear their bells? His hearin' all right?"

William had heard some herons that morning which were beyond the reachof my own ears, and almost beyond eyesight in the upper skies, and Itold her so. I was luckily preserved by some unconscious instinct fromsaying that we had seen the shepherdess so near as we crossed thefield. Unless she had fled faster than Atalanta, William must havebeen but a few minutes in reaching her immediate neighborhood. I nowdiscovered with a quick leap of amusement and delight in my heart thatI had fallen upon a serious chapter of romance. The old woman lookedsuspiciously at me, and I made a dash to cover with a new piece ofinformation; but she listened with lofty indifference, and sooninterrupted my eager statements. 

"Ain't William been gone some considerable time?" she demanded, andthen in a milder tone: "The time has re'lly flown; I do enjoy havin'company. I set here alone a sight o' long days. Sheep is dreadfulfools; I expect they heard a strange step, and set right off throughbush an' brier, spite of all she could do. But William might have thesense to return, 'stead o' searchin' about. I want to inquire of himabout his mother. What was you goin' to say? I guess you 'll havetime to relate it. "

My powers of entertainment were on the ebb, but I doubled my diligenceand we went on for another half-hour at least with banners flying, butstill William did not reappear. Mrs. Hight frankly began to showfatigue. 

"Somethin' 's happened, an' he's stopped to help her, " groaned the oldlady, in the middle of what I had found to tell her about a rumor ofdisaffection with the minister of a town I merely knew by name in theweekly newspaper to which Mrs. Todd subscribed. "You step to the door, dear, an' look if you can't see 'em. " I promptly stepped, and onceoutside the house I looked anxiously in the direction which William hadtaken. 

To my astonishment I saw all the sheep so near that I wonder we had notbeen aware in the house of every bleat and tinkle. And there, within astone's-throw, on the first long gray ledge that showed above thejuniper, were William and the shepherdess engaged in pleasantconversation. At first I was provoked and then amused, and a thrill ofsympathy warmed my whole heart. They had seen me and risen as if bymagic; I had a sense of being the messenger of Fate. One could almosthear their sighs of regret as I appeared; they must have passed alovely afternoon. I hurried into the house with the reassuring newsthat they were not only in sight but perfectly safe, with all the sheep. 

VIII. 

Mrs. Hight, like myself, was spent with conversation, and had ceasedeven the one activity of fanning herself. I brought a desired drink ofwater, and happily remembered some fruit that was left from myluncheon. She revived with splendid vigor, and told me the simplehistory of her later years since she had been smitten in the prime ofher life by the stroke of paralysis, and her husband had died and lefther alone with Esther and a mortgage on their farm. There was only onefield of good land, but they owned a great region of sheep pasture anda little woodland. Esther had always been laughed at for her belief insheep-raising when one by one their neighbors were giving up theirflocks, and when everything had come to the point of despair she hadraised all the money and bought all the sheep she could, insisting thatMaine lambs were as good as any, and that there was a straight path bysea to Boston market. And by tending her flock herself she had managedto succeed; she had made money enough to pay off the mortgage fiveyears ago, and now what they did not spend was safe in the bank. "Ithas been stubborn work, day and night, summer and winter, an' now she's beginnin' to get along in years, " said the old mother sadly. "She's tended me 'long o' the sheep, an' she 's been a good girl rightalong, but she ought to have been a teacher;" and Mrs. Hight sighedheavily and plied the fan again. 

We heard voices, and William and Esther entered; they did not know thatit was so late in the afternoon. William looked almost bold, and oddlylike a happy young man rather than an ancient boy. As for Esther, shemight have been Jeanne d'Arc returned to her sheep, touched with ageand gray with the ashes of a great remembrance. She wore the simplelook of sainthood and unfeigned devotion. My heart was moved by thesight of her plain sweet face, weather-worn and gentle in its looks, her thin figure in its close dress, and the strong hand that clasped ashepherd's staff, and I could only hold William in new reverence; thissilent farmer-fisherman who knew, and he alone, the noble and patientheart that beat within her breast. I am not sure that theyacknowledged even to themselves that they had always been lovers; theycould not consent to anything so definite or pronounced; but they werehappy in being together in the world. Esther was untouched by the fretand fury of life; she had lived in sunshine and rain among her sillysheep, and been refined instead of coarsened, while her touchingpatience with a ramping old mother, stung by the sense of defeat andmourning her lost activities, had given back a lovely self-possession, and habit of sweet temper. I had seen enough of old Mrs. Hight to knowthat nothing a sheep might do could vex a person who was used to theuncertainties and severities of her companionship. 

IX. 

Mrs. Hight told her daughter at once that she had enjoyed a beautifulcall, and got a great many new things to think of. This was said sofrankly in my hearing that it gave a consciousness of high reward, andI was indeed recompensed by the grateful look in Esther's eyes. We didnot speak much together, but we understood each other. For the poorold woman did not read, and could not sew or knit with her helplesshand, and they were far from any neighbors, while her spirit was aseager in age as in youth, and expected even more from a disappointingworld. She had lived to see the mortgage paid and money in the bank, and Esther's success acknowledged on every hand, and there were still afew pleasures left in life. William had his mother, and Esther hadhers, and they had not seen each other for a year, though Mrs. Highthad spoken of a year's making no change in William even at his age. She must have been in the far eighties herself, but of a noble courageand persistence in the world she ruled from her stiff-backedrocking-chair. 

William unloaded his gift of dried fish, each one chosen with perfectcare, and Esther stood by, watching him, and then she walked across thefield with us beside the wagon. I believed that I was the only one whoknew their happy secret, and she blushed a little as we said good-by. 

"I hope you ain't goin' to feel too tired, mother's so deaf; no, I hopeyou won't be tired, " she said kindly, speaking as if she well knew whattiredness was. We could hear the neglected sheep bleating on the hillin the next moment's silence. Then she smiled at me, a smile of noblepatience, of uncomprehended sacrifice, which I can never forget. Therewas all the remembrance of disappointed hopes, the hardships of winter, the loneliness of single-handedness in her look, but I understood, andI love to remember her worn face and her young blue eyes. 

"Good-by, William, " she said gently, and William said good-by, and gaveher a quick glance, but he did not turn to look back, though I did, andwaved my hand as she was putting up the bars behind us. Nor did hespeak again until we had passed through the dark woods and were on ourway homeward by the main road. The grave yearly visit had been changedfrom a hope into a happy memory. 

"You can see the sea from the top of her pasture hill, " said William atlast. 

"Can you?" I asked, with surprise. 

"Yes, it's very high land; the ledges up there show very plain in clearweather from the top of our island, and there's a high upstandin' treethat makes a landmark for the fishin' grounds. " And William gave ahappy sigh. 

When we had nearly reached the Landing, my companion looked over intothe back of the wagon and saw that the piece of sailcloth was safe, with which he had covered the dried fish. "I wish we had got sometrout, " he said wistfully. "They always appease Almiry, and make herfeel 't was worth while to go. "

I stole a glance at William Blackett. We had not seen a solitarymosquito, but there was a dark stripe across his mild face, which mighthave been an old scar won long ago in battle. 

WHERE'S NORA?

I. 

"Where's Nora?"

The speaker was a small, serious-looking old Irishman, one of thosePatricks who are almost never called Pat. He was well-dressed andformal, and wore an air of dignified authority. 

"I don't know meself where's Nora then, so I don't, " answered hiscompanion. "The shild would n't stop for a sup o' breakfast before she'd go out to see the town, an' nobody 's seen the l'aste smitch of hersince. I might sweep the streets wit' a broom and I could n't findher. "

"Maybe she's strayed beyand and gone losing in the strange place, "suggested Mr. Quin, with an anxious glance. "Did n't none o' the folksgo wit' her?"

"How would annybody be goin' an' she up an' away before there was afoot out o' bed in the house?" answered Mike Duffy impatiently. "'Twas herself that caught sight of Nora stealin' out o' the door like athief, an' meself getting me best sleep at the time. Herself had tosit up an' laugh in the bed and be plaguin' me wit' her tarkin'. 'Lookat Nora!' says she. 'Where's Nora?' says I, wit' a great start. Ithought something had happened the poor shild. 'Oh, go to slape, youfool!' says Mary Ann. ''T is only four o'clock, ' says she, 'an' thatgrasshopper greenhorn can't wait for broad day till she go out an' seethe whole of Ameriky. ' So I wint off to sleep again; the first bellwas biginnin' on the mill, and I had an hour an' a piece, good, tomeself after that before Mary Ann come scoldin'. I don't be sleepin'so well as some folks the first part of the night. "

Mr. Patrick Quin ignored the interest of this autobiographicalstatement, and with a contemptuous shake of the head began to feel inhis pocket for a pipe. Every one knew that Mike Duffy was a personmuch too fond of his ease, and that all the credit of their prosperitybelonged to his hard-worked wife. She had reared a family ofrespectable sons and daughters, who were all settled and doing well forthemselves, and now she was helping to bring out some nephews andnieces from the old country. She was proud to have been born a Quin;Patrick Quin was her brother and a man of consequence. 

"'Deed, I 'd like well to see the poor shild, " said Patrick. "I'd nothought they 'd land before the day or to-morrow mornin', or I 'd havebeen over last night. I suppose she brought all the news from home?"

"The folks is all well, thanks be to God, " proclaimed Mr. Duffysolemnly. "'T was late when she come; 't was on the quarter to nineshe got here. There 's been great deaths after the winther among theold folks. Old Peter Murphy's gone, she says, an' his brother thatlived over by Ballycannon died the same week with him, and Dan Donahoean' Corny Donahoe's lost their old aunt on the twelfth of March, thatgave them her farm to take care of her before I came out. She was oldthen, too. "

"Faix, it was time for the old lady, so it was, " said Patrick Quin, with affectionate interest. "She 'd be the oldest in the parish thistin years past. "

"Nora said 't was a fine funeral; they 'd three priests to her, andeverything of the best. Nora was there herself and all our folks. Theb'ys was very proud of her for being so old and respicted. "

"Sure, Mary was an old woman, and I first coming out, " repeatedPatrick, with feeling. "I went up to her that Monday night, and Isailing on a Wednesday, an' she gave me her blessing and a present offive shillings. She said then she 'd see me no more; 't was poor oldMary had the giving hand, God bless her and save her! I joked her thatshe 'd soon be marrying and coming out to Ameriky like meself. 'No, 'says she, 'I 'm too old. I 'll die here where I was born; this oldfarm is me one home o' the world, and I 'll never be afther l'avin' it;'t is right enough for you young folks to go, ' says she. I could n'tget my mouth open to answer her. 'T was meself that was very homesickin me inside, coming away from the old place, but I had great boldnessbefore every one. 'T was old Mary saw the tears in me eyes then. 'Don't mind, Patsy, ' says she; 'if you don't do well there, come backto it an' I 'll be glad to take your folks in till you 'll be afthergetting started again. ' She had n't the money then she got afterwardfrom her cousin in Dublin; 't was the kind heart of her spoke, an'meself being but a boy that was young to maintain himself, let alone afamily. Thanks be to God, I 've done well, afther all, but for mecrooked leg. I does be dr'amin' of going home sometimes; 't is oftenyet I wake up wit' the smell o' the wet bushes in the mornin' when aman does be goin' to his work at home. "

Mike Duffy looked at his brother-in-law with curiosity; the two menwere sitting side by side before Mike's house on a bit of green bankbetween the sidewalk and the road. It was May, and the dandelions wereblooming all about them, thick in the grass. Patrick Quin readied outand touched one of them with his stick. He was a lame man, and hadworked as section hand for the railroad for many years, until the badaccident which forced him to retire on one of the company's rarelygiven pensions. He had prevented a great disaster on the road; thosewho knew him well always said that his position had never been equal tohis ability, but the men who stood above him and the men who were belowhim held Patrick Quin at exactly the same estimate. He had limpedalong the road from the clean-looking little yellow house that he ownednot far away on the river-bank, and his mind was upon his errand. 

"I come over early to ask the shild would n't she come home wit' me an'ate her dinner, " said Patrick. "Herself sent me; she's got a greatwash the day, last week being so rainy, an' we niver got word of Norabeing here till this morning, and then everybody had it that passed by, wondering what got us last night that we were n't there. "

"'T was on the quarter to nine she come, " said Uncle Mike, taking upthe narrative with importance. "Herself an' me had blown out thelight, going to bed, when there come a scuttlin' at the door and Iheard a bit of a laugh like the first bird in the morning"--

"'Stop where you are, Bridget, ' says I, " continued Mr. Quin, withouttaking any notice, "'an' I 'll take me third leg and walk over andbring Nora down to you. ' Bridget's great for the news from home now, for all she was so sharp to be l'aving it. "

"She brought me a fine present, and the mate of it for yourself, " saidMike Duffy. "Two good thorn sticks for the two of us. They 're insidein the house. "

"A thorn stick, indeed! Did she now?" exclaimed Patrick, with unusualdelight. "The poor shild, did she do that now? I 've thought manny 'sthe time since I got me lameness how well I 'd like one o' thoseold-fashioned thorn sticks. Me own is one o' them sticks a man 'dcarry tin years and toss it into a brook at the ind an' not miss it. "

"They 're good thorn sticks, the both of them, " said Mike complacently. "I don't know 'ill I bring 'em out before she comes. "

"Is she a pritty slip of a gerrl, I d' know?" asked Patrick, withincreased interest. 

"She ain't, then, " answered his companion frankly. "She does be thinas a young grasshopper, and she 's red-headed, and she 's freckled, too, from the sea, like all them young things comin' over; but she 'sgot a pritty voice, like all her mother's folks, and a quick eye like abird's. The old-country talk's fresh in her mouth, too, so it is; you'd think you were coming out o' mass some spring morning at home andhearing all the girls whin they'd be chatting and funning at the boys. I do be thinking she's a smart little girl, annyway; look at her off tosee the town so early and not back yet, bad manners to her! She 'll bewanting some clothes, I suppose; she's very old-fashioned looking; theydoes always be wanting new clothes, coming out, " and Mike gave anostentatious sigh and suggestive glance at his brother-in-law. 

"'Deed, I 'm willing to help her get a good start; ain't she me ownsister's shild?" agreed Patrick Quin cheerfully. "We 've been youngourselves, too. Well, then, 'tis bad news of old Mary Donahoe bein'gone at the farm. I always thought if I 'd go home how I 'd go alongthe fields to get the great welcome from her. She was one that alwaysliked to hear folks had done well, " and he looked down at hiscomfortable, clean old clothes as if they but reminded him how poor ayoung fellow he had come away. "I 'm very sorry afther Mary; she was agood 'oman, God save her!"

"Faix, it was time for her, " insisted Mike, not without sympathy. "Were you afther wanting her to live forever, the poor soul? An' theshild said she 'd the best funeral was ever in the parish of Dunkennysince she remimbered it. What could anny one ask more than that, andshe r'aching such an age, the cr'atur'! Stop here awhile an' you 'llhear all the tark from Nora; she told over to me all the folks that wasthere. Where has she gone wit' herself, I don't know? Mary Ann!" heturned his head toward the house and called in a loud, complainingtone; "where's Nora, annyway?"

"Here's Nora, then, " a sweet girlish voice made unexpected reply, and alight young figure flitted from the sidewalk behind him and stood lowerdown on the green bank. 

"What's wanting wit' Nora?" and she stooped quickly like a child topick some of the dandelions as if she had found gold. She had a sprigof wild-cherry blossom in her dress, which she must have found a goodway out in the country. 

"Come now, and speak to Patrick Quin, your mother's own brother, that'swaiting here for you all this time you 've been running over theplace, " commanded Mr. Duffy, with some severity. 

"An' is it me own Uncle Patsy, dear?" exclaimed Nora, with the sweetestbrogue and most affectionate sincerity. "Oh, that me mother could seehim too!" and she dropped on her knees beside the lame little man andkissed him, and knelt there looking at him with delight, holding hiswilling hand in both her own. 

"An' ain't you got me mother's own looks, too? Oh, Uncle Patsy, is ityourself, dear? I often heard about you, and I brought you me mother'sheart's love, 'deed I did then! It's many a lovely present of a poundyou 've sent us. An' I 've got a thorn stick that grew in the hedge, goin' up the little rise of ground above the Wishin' Brook, sir; mothersaid you 'd mind the place well when I told you. "

"I do then, me shild, " said Patrick Quin, with dignity; "'tis manny theday we all played there together, for all we 're so scattered now andsome dead, too, God rest them! Sure, you 're a nice little gerrl, an'I give you great welcome and the hope you 'll do well. Come along wit'me now. Your Aunty Biddy's jealous to put her two eyes on you, an' wenever getting the news you 'd come till late this morning. 'I 'll gofetch Nora for you, ' says I, to contint her. 'They 'll be tarked outat Duffy's by this time, ' says I. "

"Oh, I 'm full o' tark yet!" protested Nora gayly. "Coom on, then, Uncle Patsy!" and she gave him her strong young hand as he rose. 

"An' how do you be likin' Ameriky?" asked the pleased old man, as theywalked along. 

"I like Ameriky fine, " answered the girl gravely. She was taller thanhe, though she looked so slender and so young. "I was verydownhearted, too, l'avin' home and me mother, but I 'll go back to itsome day, God willing, sir; I could n't die wit'out seeing me motheragain. I 'm all over the place here since daybreak. I think I 'd likework best on the railway, " and she turned toward him with a resolvedand serious look. 

"Wisha! there 's no work at all for a girl like you on the Road, " saidUncle Patsy patiently. "You 've a bit to learn yet, sure; 't is themill you mane. "

"There 'll be plinty work to do. I always thought at home, when Iheard the folks tarking, that I 'd get work on the railway when I 'dcome to Ameriky. Yis, indeed, sir!" continued Nora earnestly. "I waslooking at the mills just now, and I heard the great n'ise from them. I 'd never be afther shutting meself up in anny mill out of the goodair. I 've no call to go to jail yet in thim mill walls. Perhapsthere 'd be somebody working next me that I 'd never get to like, sir. "

There was something so convinced and decided about these arguments thatUncle Patsy, usually the calm autocrat of his young relatives, hadnothing whatever to say. Nora was gently keeping step with his slowgait. She had won his heart once for all when she called him by theold boyish name her mother used forty years before, when they playedtogether by the Wishing Brook. 

"I wonder do you know a b'y named Johnny O'Callahan?" inquired Norapresently, in a somewhat confidential tone; "a pritty b'y that'sworking on the railway; I seen him last night and I coming here; heain't a guard at all, but a young fellow that minds the brakes. Westopped a long while out there; somethin' got off the rails, and headwised wit' me, seeing I was a stranger. He said he knew you, sir. "

"Oh, yes, Johnny O'Callahan. I know him well; he 's a nice b'y, too, "answered Patrick Quin approvingly. 

"Yis, sir, a pritty b'y, " said Nora, and her color brightened for aninstant, but she said no more. 

II. 

Mike Duffy and his wife came into the Quins' kitchen one week-daynight, dressed in their Sunday clothes; they had been making a visit totheir well-married daughter in Lawrence. Patrick Quin's chair wascomfortably tipped back against the wall, and Bridget, who lookedsomewhat gloomy, was putting away the white supper-dishes. 

"Where 's Nora?" demanded Mike Duffy, after the first salutations. 

"You may well say it; I 'm afther missing her every hour in the day, "lamented Bridget Quin. 

"Nora's gone into business on the Road then, so she has, " said Patrick, with an air of fond pride. He was smoking, and in his shirt-sleeves;his coat lay on the wooden settee at the other side of the room. 

"Hand me me old coat there before you sit down; I want me pocket, " hecommanded, and Mike obeyed. Mary Ann, fresh from her journey, began atonce to give a spirited account of her daughter's best room and generalequipment for housekeeping, but she suddenly became aware that the talewas of secondary interest. When the narrator stopped for breath therewas a polite murmur of admiration, but her husband boldly repeated hisquestion. "Where's Nora?" he insisted, and the Quins looked at eachother and laughed. 

"Ourselves is old hins that's hatched ducks, " confessed Patrick. "Ain't I afther telling you she's gone into trade on the Road?" and hetook his pipe from his mouth, --that after-supper pipe which neitherprosperity nor adversity was apt to interrupt. "She 's set up forherself over-right the long switch, down there at Birch Plains. Nora'll soon be rich, the cr'atur'; her mind was on it from the firststart; 't was from one o' them O'Callahan b'ys she got the notion, thenight she come here first a greenhorn. "

"Well, well, she's lost no time; ain't she got the invintion!" chuckledMr. Michael Duffy, who delighted in the activity of others. "Whatexcuse had she for Birch Plains? There's no town to it. "

"'T was a chance on the Road she mint to have from the first, "explained the proud uncle, forgetting his pipe altogether; "'twas thatshe told me the first day she came out, an' she walking along goinghome wit' me to her dinner; 't was the first speech I had wit' Nora. ''T is the mills you mane?' says I. 'No, no, Uncle Patsy!' says she, 'it ain't the mills at all, at all; 't is on the Road I 'm going. ' It'ought she 'd some wild notion she 'd soon be laughing at, but shesettled down very quiet-like with Aunty Biddy here, knowing yourselvesto be going to Lawrence, and I told her stay as long as she had a mind. Wisha, she 'd an old apron on her in five minutes' time, an' took holdwit' the wash, and wint singing like a blackbird out in the yard at theline. 'Sit down, Aunty!' says she; 'you 're not so light-stepping asme, an' I 'll tell you all the news from home; an' I 'll get thedinner, too, when I 've done this, ' says she. Wisha, but she's thegood cook for such a young thing; 't is Bridget says it as well asmeself. She made a stew that day; 't was like the ones her mother madeSundays, she said, if they 'd be lucky in getting a piece of meat; 'twas a fine-tasting stew, too; she thinks we 're all rich over here. 'So we are, me dear!' says I, 'but every one don't have the sinse tobelieve it. '"

"Spake for yourselves!" exclaimed one of the listeners. "You do belike Father Ross, always pr'achin' that we 'd best want less than wantmore. He takes honest folks for fools, poor man, " said Mary Ann Duffy, who had no patience at any time with new ideas. 

"An' so she wint on the next two or free days, " said Patrickapprovingly, without noticing the interruption, "being as quiet as you'd ask, and being said by her aunt in everything; and she would n't leton she was homesick, but she 'd no tark of anything but the folks atDunkinny. When there 'd be nothing to do for an hour she 'd slip outand be gone wit' herself for a little while, and be very still comin'in. Last Thursday, after supper, she ran out; but by the time I 'ddone me pipe, back she came flying in at the door. 

"'I 'm going off to a place called Birch Plains to-morrow morning, onthe nine, Uncle Patsy, ' says she; 'do you know where it is?' says she. 'I do, ' says I; ''t was not far from it I broke me leg wit' the dam'derrick. 'T was to Jerry Ryan's house they took me first. There's notown there at all; 't is the only house in it; Ryan 's the switchman. '

"'Would they take me to lodge for a while, I d' know?' says she, havin'great business. 'What 'd ye be afther in a place like that?' says I. 'Ryan 's got girls himself, an' they 're all here in the mills, goin'home Saturday nights, 'less there's some show or some dance. There'sno money out there. ' She laughed then an' wint back to the door, andin come Mickey Dunn from McLoughlin's store, lugging the size ofhimself of bundles. 'What's all this?' says I; ''t ain't here theybelong; I bought nothing to-day. ' 'Don't be scolding!' says she, andMickey got out of it laughing. 'I 'm going to be cooking for meself inthe morning!' says she, with her head on one side, like a cock-sparrow. 'You lind me the price o' the fire and I'll pay you in cakes, ' saysshe, and off she wint then to bed. 'T was before day I heard her atthe stove, and I smelt a baking that made me want to go find it, andwhen I come out in the kitchen she 'd the table covered with hercakeens, large and small. 'What's all this whillalu, me topknot-hin?'says I. 'Ate that, ' says she, and hopped back to the oven-door. Heraunt come out then, scolding fine, and whin she saw the great bakingshe dropped down in a chair like she'd faint and her breath all gone. 'We 'ont ate them in ten days, ' says she; 'no, not till the blue mouldhas struck them all, God help us!' says she. 'Don't bother me, ' saysNora; 'I 'm goin' off with them all on the nine. Uncle Patsy 'll helpme wit' me basket. '

"'Uncle Patsy 'ont now, ' says Bridget. Faix, I thought she was up withone o' them t'ree days' scolds she 'd have when she was young and thechildre' all the one size. You could hear the bawls of her a mile away. 

"'Whishper, dear, ' says Nora; 'I don't want to be livin' on anny of mefolks, and Johnny O'Callahan said all the b'ys was wishing there wassomebody would kape a clane little place out there at BirchPlains, --with something to ate and the like of a cup of tay. He says'tis a good little chance; them big trains does all be waiting theretin minutes and fifteen minutes at a time, and everybody's hungry. "I'll thry me luck for a couple o' days, " says I; "'tis no harm, an' I'vetin shillings o' me own that Father Daley gave me wit' a grand blessingand I l'aving home behind me. "'"

"'What tark you have of Johnny O'Callahan, ' says I. 

"Look at this now!" continued the proud uncle, while Aunt Biddy sattriumphantly watching the astonished audience; "'t is a letter I gotfrom the shild last Friday night, " and he brought up a small piece ofpaper from his coat-pocket. "She writes a good hand, too. 'Dear UnclePatsy, ' says she, 'this leaves me well, thanks be to God. I 'm doingthe roaring trade with me cakes; all Ryan's little boys is selling onthe trains. I took one pound three the first day: 't was a greatexcursion train got stuck fast and they 'd a hot box on a wheel keepingthem an hour and two more trains stopping for them; 't would be a verypleasant day in the old country that anybody 'd take a pound and threeshillings. Dear Uncle Patsy, I want a whole half-barrel of that sameflour and ten pounds of sugar, and I 'll pay it back on Sunday. I sindrespects and duty to Aunty Bridget and all friends; this l'aves me ingreat haste. I wrote me dear mother last night and sint her me firstpound, God bless her. '"

"Look at that for you now!" exclaimed Mike Duffy. "Did n't I tellevery one here she was fine an' smart?"

"She 'll be soon Prisident of the Road, " announced Aunt Mary Ann, who, having been energetic herself, was pleased to recognize the samequality in others. 

"She don't be so afraid of the worruk as the worruk's afraid of her, "said Aunt Bridget admiringly. "She 'll have her fling for a while andbe glad to go in and get a good chance in the mill, and be kaping herplants in the weave-room windows this winter with the rest of thegirls. Come, tell us all about Elleneen and the baby. I ain't heard aword about Lawrence yet, " she added politely. 

"Ellen's doing fine, an' it's a pritty baby. She's got a good husband, too, that l'aves her her own way and the keep of his money everySaturday night, " said Mary Ann; and the little company proceeded to thediscussion of a new and hardly less interesting subject. But beforethey parted, they spoke again of Nora. 

"She's a fine, crabbed little gerrl, that little Nora, " said Mr. Michael Duffy. 

"Thank God, none o' me childre' is red-headed on me; they're no more tobe let an' held than a flick o' fire, " said Aunt Mary Ann. "Who 'dever take the notion to be setting up business out there on the BirchyPlains?"

"Ryan's folks 'll look after her, sure, the same as ourselves, "insisted Uncle Patsy hopefully, as he lighted his pipe again. It waslike a summer night; the kitchen windows were all open, the month ofMay was nearly at an end, and there was a sober croaking of frogs inthe low fields that lay beyond the village. 

III. 

"Where's Nora?" Young Johnny O'Callahan was asking the question; theexpress had stopped for water, and he seemed to be the only passenger;this was his day off. 

Mrs. Ryan was sitting on her doorstep to rest in the early evening; herhusband had been promoted from switch-tender to boss of the greatwater-tank which was just beginning to be used, and there was talk offurther improvements and promotions at Birch Plains; but thegood-natured wife sensibly declared that the better off a woman was, the harder she always had to work. 

She took a long look at Johnny, who was dressed even more carefullythan if it were a pleasant Sunday. 

"This don't be your train, annyway, " she answered, in a meditativetone. "How come you here now all so fine, I 'd like to know, riding inthe cars like a lord; ain't you brakeman yet on old twinty-four?"

"'Deed I am, Mrs. Ryan; you would n't be afther grudging a boy his dayoff? Where's Nora?"

"She's gone up the road a bitteen, " said Mrs. Ryan, as if she suddenlyturned to practical affairs. "She 's worked hard the day, poor shild!and she took the cool of the evening, and the last bun she had left, and wint away with herself. I kep' the taypot on the stove for her, but she 'd have none at all, at all!"

The young man turned away, and Mrs. Ryan looked after him with anindulgent smile. "He's a pritty b'y, " she said. "I 'd like well if he'd give a look at one o' me own gerrls; Julia, now, would look wellwalking with him, she 's so dark. He's got money saved. I saw thefirst day he come after the cakeens 't was the one that baked them wasin his mind. She's lucky, is Nora; well, I'm glad of it. "

It was fast growing dark, and Johnny's eyes were still dazzled by thebright lights of the train as he stepped briskly along the narrowcountry road. The more he had seen Nora and the better he liked her, the less she would have to say to him, and tonight he meant to find herand have a talk. He had only succeeded in getting half a dozen wordsat a time since the night of their first meeting on the slow train, when she had gladly recognized the peculiar brogue of her owncountry-side, as Johnny called the names of the stations, and Johnny'squick eyes had seen the tired-looking, uncertain, yet cheerful littlegreenhorn in the corner of the car, and asked if she were not the niecethat was coming out to Mrs. Duffy. He had watched the growth of herbusiness with delight, and heard praises of the cakes and buns withwilling ears; was it not his own suggestion that had laid thefoundation of Nora's prosperity? Since their first meeting they hadalways greeted each other like old friends, but Nora grew more and morewilling to talk with any of her breathless customers who hurried up thesteep bank from the trains than with him. She would never take any payfor her wares from him, and for a week he had stopped coming himselfand sent by a friend his money for the cakes; but one day poor Johnny'sheart could not resist the temptation of going with the rest, and Norahad given him a happy look, straightforward and significant. There wasno time for a word, but she picked out a crusty bun, and he took it andran back without offering to pay. It was the best bun that a man everate. Nora was two months out now, and he had never walked with her anevening yet. 

The shadows were thick under a long row of willows; there was a newmoon, and a faint glow in the west still lit the sky. Johnny walked onthe grassy roadside with his ears keen to hear the noise of a betrayingpebble under Nora's light foot. Presently his heart beat loud and allout of time as a young voice began to sing a little way beyond. 

Nora was walking slowly away, but Johnny stopped still to listen. Shewas singing "A Blacksmith Courted Me, " one of the quaintest andsweetest of the old-country songs, as she strolled along in thesoft-aired summer night. By the time she came to "My love 's gonealong the fields, " Johnny hurried on to overtake her; he could hear theother verses some other time, --the bird was even sweeter than the voice. 

Nora was startled for a moment, and stopped singing, as if she weretruly a bird in a bush, but she did not flutter away. "Is it yourself, Mister Johnny?" she asked soberly, as if the frank affection of thesong had not been assumed. 

"It's meself, " answered Johnny, with equal discretion. "I come out fora mout'ful of air; it's very hot inside in the town. Days off are wellenough in winter, but in summer you get a fine air on the train. 'Twas well we both took the same direction. How is the business? Allthe b'ys are saying they'd be lost without it; sure there ain't astomach of them but wants its bun, and they cried the length of theRoad that day the thunder spoiled the baking. "

"Take this, " said Nora, as if she spoke to a child; "there's a finecrust of sugar on the top. 'T is one I brought out for me littlesupper, but I 'm so pleased wit' bein' rich that I 've no need at allfor 'ating. An' I 'm as tired as I 'm rich, " she added, with a sigh;"'t is few can say the same in this lazy land. "

"Sure, let's ate it together; 'tis a big little cakeen, " urged Johnny, breaking the bun and anxiously offering Nora the larger piece. "I canlike the taste of anything better by halves, if I 've got company. Youought to have a good supper of tay and a piece of steak and somepotaties rather than this! Don't be giving yourself nothing but thesaved cakes, an' you working so hard!"

"'T is plenty days I 'd a poorer supper when I was at home, " said Norasadly; "me father dying so young, and all of us begging at me mother'sskirts. It's all me thought how will I get rich and give me mother allthe fine things that's in the world. I wish I 'd come over sooner, butit broke my heart whinever I 'd think of being out of sight of herface. She looks old now, me mother does. "

Nora may have been touched by Johnny's affectionate interest in hersupper; she forgot all her shyness and drew nearer to him as theywalked along, and he drew a little closer to her. 

"My mother is dead these two years, " he said simply. "It makes a manbe very lonesome when his mother 's dead. I board with my sisterthat's married; I 'm not much there at all. I do be thinking I 'd likea house of my own. I 've plinty saved for it. "

"I said in the first of coming out that I 'd go home again when I hadfifty pounds, " said Nora hastily, and taking the other side of thenarrow road. "I 've got a piece of it already, and I 've sent backmore beside. I thought I 'd be gone two years, but some days I think Iwon't be so long as that. "

"Why don't you be afther getting your mother out? 'T is so warm in thewinter in a good house, and no dampness like there does be at home; andher brother and her sister both being here. " There was deep anxiety inJohnny's voice. 

"Oh, I don't know indeed!" said Nora. "She's very wake-hearted, is memother; she 'd die coming away from the old place and going to sea. No, I 'm going to work meself and go home; I 'll have presents, too, for everybody along the road, and the children 'll be running andskrieghing afther me, and they 'll all get sweeties from me. 'T is avery poor neighborhood where we live, but a lovely sight of the say. It ain't often annybody comes home to it, but 't will be a great daythen, and the poor old folks 'll all be calling afther me: 'Where'sNora?' 'Show me Nora!' 'Nora, sure, what have you got for me?' I'ont forget one of them aither, God helping me!" said Nora, in apassion of tenderness and pity. "And, oh, Johnny, then afther that I'll see me mother in the door!"

Johnny was so close at her side that she slipped her hand into his, andneither of them stopped to think about so sweet and natural a pleasure. "I 'd like well to help you, me darlin', " said Johnny. 

"Sure, an' was n't it yourself gave me all me good fortune?" exclaimedNora. "I 'd be hard-hearted an' I forgot that so soon and you a Kerryboy, and me mother often spaking of your mother's folks before ever Ithought of coming out!"

"Sure and would n't you spake the good word to your mother about mesometime, dear?" pleaded Johnny, openly taking the part of lover. Nora's hand was still in his; they were walking slowly in the summernight. "I loved you the first word I heard out of your mouth, --'twaslike a thrush from home singing to me there in the train. I said whenI got home that night, I 'd think of no other girl till the day I died. "

"Oh!" said Nora, frightened with the change of his voice. "Oh, Johnny, 't is too soon. We never walked out this way before; you 'll have towait for me; perhaps you 'd soon be tired of poor Nora, and the likesof one that's all for saving and going home! You 'll marry a prittiergirl than me some day, " she faltered, and let go his hand. 

"Indeed, I won't, then, " insisted Johnny O'Callahan stoutly. 

"Will you let me go home to see me mother?" said Nora soberly. "I 'mafther being very homesick, 't is the truth for me. I 'd lose all mecourage if it wa'n't for the hope of that. "

"I will, indeed, " said Johnny honestly. 

Nora put out her hand again, of her own accord. "I 'll not say no, then, " she whispered in the dark. "I can't work long unless I do behappy, and--well, leave me free till the month's end, and maybe then I'll say yes. Stop, stop!" she let go Johnny's hand, and hurried alongby herself in the road, Johnny, in a transport of happiness, walkingvery fast to keep up. She reached a knoll where he could see herslender shape against the dim western sky. "Wait till I tell you;_whisper_!" said Nora eagerly. "You know there were some of themanagers of the road, the superintendents and all those big ones, cameto Birch Plains yesterday?"

"I did be hearing something, " said Johnny, wondering. 

"There was a quiet-spoken, nice old gentleman came asking me at thedoor for something to eat, and I being there baking; 't is my time inthe morning whin the early trains does be gone, and I 've a finestretch till the expresses are beginnin' to screech, --the tin, and thetin-thirty-two, and the Flying Aigle. I was in a great hurry with wordof an excursion coming in the afternoon and me stock very low; I 'dbeen baking since four o'clock. He 'd no coat on him, 't was verywarm; and I thought 't was some tramp. Lucky for me I looked again andI said, 'What are you wanting, sir?' and then I saw he 'd a beautifulshirt on him, and was very quiet and pleasant. 

"'I came away wit'out me breakfast, ' says he. 'Can you give mesomething without too much throuble?' says he. 'Do you have anny ofthose buns there that I hear the men talking about?'

"'There's buns there, sir, ' says I, 'and I 'll make you a cup of tay ora cup of coffee as quick as I can, ' says I, being pleased at the b'ysgiving me buns a good name to the likes of him. He was very hungry, too, poor man, an' I ran to Mrs. Ryan to see if she 'd a piece ofbeefsteak, and my luck ran before me. He sat down in me little placeand enjoyed himself well. 

"'I had no such breakfast in tin years, me dear, ' said he at the last, very quiet and thankful; and he l'aned back in the chair to rest him, and I cleared away, being in the great hurry, and he asking me how Icome there, and I tolt him, and how long I 'd been out, and I said itwas two months and a piece, and she being always in me heart, I spokeof me mother, and all me great hopes. 

"Then he sat and thought as if his mind wint to his own business, and Iwint on wit' me baking. Says he to me after a while, 'We 're going tobuild a branch road across country to connect with the greatmountain-roads, ' says he; 'the junction 's going to be right here; 'twill give you a big market for your buns. There 'll be a lunch-counterin the new station; do you think you could run it?' says he, spakingvery sober. 

"'I 'd do my best, sir, annyway, ' says I. 'I 'd look out for the bestof help. Do you know Patrick Quin, sir, that was hurt on the Road andgets a pinsion, sir?'

"'I do, ' says he. 'One of the best men that ever worked for thiscompany, ' says he. 

"'He 's me mother's own brother, then, an' he 'll stand by me, ' says I;and he asked me me name and wrote it down in a book he got out of thepocket of him. 'You shall have the place if you want it, ' says he; 'Iwon't forget, ' and off he wint as quiet as he came. "

"Tell me who was it?" said Johnny O'Callahan, listening eagerly. 

"Mr. Ryan come tumbling in the next minute, spattered with water fromthe tank. 'Well, then, ' says he, 'is your fine company gone?'

"'He is, ' says I. 'I don't know is it some superintendent? He 's anice man, Mr. Ryan, whoiver he is, ' says I. 

"''T is the Gineral Manager of the Road, ' says he; 'that's who he is, sure!'

"My apron was all flour, and I was in a great rage wit' so much to do, but I did the best I could for him. I 'd do the same for anny one sohungry, " concluded Nora modestly. 

"Ain't you got the Queen's luck!" exclaimed Johnny admiringly. "Yourfortune 's made, me dear. I 'll have to come off the road to help you. "

"Oh, two good trades 'll be better than one!" answered Nora gayly, "andthe big station nor the branch road are n't building yet. "

"What a fine little head you 've got, " said Johnny, as they reached thehouse where the Ryans lived, and the train was whistling that he meantto take back to town. "Good-night, annyway, Nora; nobody 'd know fromthe size of your head there could be so much inside in it!"

"I'm lucky, too, " announced Nora serenely. "No, I won't give you meword till the ind of the month. You may be seeing another gerrl beforethat, and calling me the red-headed sparrow. No, I 'll wait a goodwhile, and see if the two of us can't do better. Come, run away, Johnny. I 'll drop asleep in the road; I 'm up since four o'clockmaking me cakes for plinty b'ys like you. "

The Ryans were all abed and asleep, but there was a lamp burning in thekitchen. Nora blew it out as she stole into her hot little room. Shehad waited, talking eagerly with Johnny, until they saw the headlightof the express like a star, far down the long line of double track. 

IV. 

The summer was not ended before all the railroad men knew about JohnnyO'Callahan's wedding and all his good fortune. They boarded at theRyans' at first, but late in the evenings Johnny and his wife were atwork, building as if they were birds. First, there was a shed with abroad counter for the cakes, and a table or two, and the boys did notfail to notice that Nora had a good sisterly work-basket ready, and wasquick to see that a useful button was off or a stitch needed. The nextfortnight saw a room added to this, where Nora had her own stove, andcooking went on steadily. Then there was another room with whitemuslin curtains at the windows, and scarlet-runner beans made haste totwine themselves to a line of strings for shade. Johnny would unload afew feet of clean pine boards from the freight train, and within a dayor two they seemed to be turned into a wing of the small castle by someeasy magic. The boys used to lay wagers and keep watch, and there wasa cheer out of the engine-cab and all along the platforms one day whena tidy sty first appeared and a neat pig poked his nose through thefence of it. The buns and biscuits grew famous; customers sent forthem from the towns up and down the long railroad line, and the storyof thrifty, kind-hearted little Nora and her steady young husband wasknown to a surprising number of persons. When the branch road wasbegun, Nora and Johnny took a few of their particular friends to board, and business was further increased. On Sunday they always went intotown to mass and visited their uncles and aunts and Johnny's sister. Nora never said that she was tired, and almost never was cross. Shecounted her money every Saturday night, and took it to Uncle Patsy toput into the bank. She had long talks about her mother with UnclePatsy, and he always wrote home for her when she had no time. Many apound went across the sea in the letters, and so another summer came;and one morning when Johnny's train stopped, Nora stood at the door ofthe little house and held a baby in her arms for all the boys to see. She was white as a ghost and as happy as a queen. "I 'll be making thebuns again pretty soon, " she cried cheerfully. "Have courage, boys; 'twon't be long first; this one 'll be selling them for me on the FlyingAigle, don't you forget it!" And there was a great ringing of theengine-bell a moment after, when the train started. 

V. 

It was many and many a long month after this that an old man and ayoung woman and a baby were journeying in a side-car along one of thesmooth Irish roads into County Kerry. They had left the railroad anhour before; they had landed early that morning at the Cove of Cork. The side-car was laden deep with bundles and boxes, but the old horsetrotted briskly along until the gossoon who was driving turned into acart-track that led through a furzy piece of wild pasture-ground uptoward the dark rain-clouded hills. 

"See, over there's Kinmare!" said the old man, looking back. "Manny 'sthe day I 've trudged it and home again. Oh, I know all this country;I knew it well whin ayther of you wa'n't born!"

"God be thanked, you did, sir!" responded the gossoon, with ferventadmiration. He was a pleasant-looking lad in a ragged old coat and anabsolutely roofless hat, through which his bright hair waved in thesummer wind. "Och, but the folks 'll be looking out of all the doorsto see you come. I 'll be afther saying I never drove anny party withso rich a heart; there ain't a poor soul that asked a pinny of us sincewe left Bantry but she's got the shillin'. Look a' the flock comingnow, sir, out of that house. There's the four-legged lady that paysthe rint watchin' afther them from the door, too. They think you 're agintleman that's shootin', I suppose. 'T is Tom Flaherty's house, poorcrathur; he died last winter, God rest him; 'twas very inconvanient forhim an' every one at the time, wit' snow on the ground and a great daleof sickness and distress. Father Daley, poor man, had to go to thehospital in Dublin wit' himself to get a leg cut off, and we 'd nothingbut rain out of the sky afther that till all the stones in the road wasfloatin' to the top. "

"Son of old John Flaherty, I suppose?" asked the traveler, with aknowing air, after he had given the eager children some pennies andgingerbread, out of a great package. One of the older girls knew Noraand climbed to the spare seat at her side to join the company. "Son ofold John Flaherty, I suppose, that was there before? There wasFlahertys there and I l'aving home more than thirty-five years ago. "

"Sure there 's plinty Flahertys in it now, glory be to God!" answeredthe charioteer, with enthusiasm. "I 'd have no mother meself but forthe Flahertys. " He leaped down to lead the stumbling horse past a deeprut and some loose stones, and beckoned the little girl sternly fromher proud seat. "Run home, now!" he said, as she obeyed: "I 'll giveyou a fine drive an' I coming down the hill;" but she had joined thetravelers with full intent, and trotted gayly alongside like a littledog. 

The old passenger whispered to his companion that they 'd best doublethe gossoon's money, or warm it with two, or three shillings extra, atleast, and Nora nodded her prompt approval. "The old folks are allgetting away; we 'd best give a bitteen to the young ones they 've leftafther them, " said Uncle Patsy, by way of excuse. "Och, there's morebeggars between here and Queenstown than you 'd find in the whole ofAmeriky. "

It seemed to Nora as if her purseful of money were warm against herbreast, like another heart; the sixpences in her pocket all felt warmto her fingers and hopped by themselves into the pleading hands thatwere stretched out all along the way. The sweet clamor of the Irishvoices, the ready blessings, the frank requests to those returning fromAmerica with their fortunes made, were all delightful to her ears. Howshe had dreamed of this day, and how the sun and shadows were chasingeach other over these upland fields at last! How close the blue sealooked to the dark hills! It seemed as if the return of one prosperouschild gave joy to the whole landscape. It was the old country the sameas ever, --old Mother Ireland in her green gown, and the warm heart ofher ready and unforgetting. As for Nora, she could only leave a wakeof silver six-pences behind her, and when these were done, a dullertrail of ha'pennies; and the air was full of blessings as she passedalong the road to Dunkenny. 

By this time Nora had stopped talking and laughing. At first everybodyon the road seemed like her near relation, but the last minutes seemedlike hours, and now and then a tear went shining down her cheek. Theold man's lips were moving, --he was saying a prayer without knowing it;they were almost within sight of home. The poor little white houses, with their high gable-ends and weather-beaten thatch, that stood aboutthe fields among the green hedges; the light shower that suddenly fellout of the clear sky overhead, made an old man's heart tremble in hisbreast. Round the next slope of the hill they should see the old place. 

The wheel-track stopped where you turned off to go to the Donahoe farm, but no old Mary was there to give friendly welcome. The old man gotstiffly down from the side-car and limped past the gate with a sigh;but Nora hurried ahead, carrying the big baby, not because he could n'twalk, but because he could. The young son had inherited his mother'sactive disposition, and would run straight away like a spider theminute his feet were set to the ground. Now and then, at the sight ofa bird or a flower in the grass, he struggled to get down. "Whisht, now!" Nora would say; "and are n't you going to see Granny indeed?Keep aisy now, darlin'!"

The old heart and the young heart were beating alike as these exilesfollowed the narrow footpath round the shoulder of the great hill; theycould hear the lambs bleat and the tinkling of the sheep-bells thatsweet May morning. From the lower hillside came the sound of voices. The neighbors had seen them pass, and were calling to each other acrossthe fields. Oh, it was home, home! the sight of it, and the smell ofthe salt air and the flowers in the bog, the look of the early whitemushrooms in the sod, and the song of the larks overhead and theblackbirds in the hedges! Poor Ireland was gay-hearted in the springweather, and Nora was there at last. "Oh, thank God, we 're safehome!" she said again. "Look, here's the Wishing Brook; d' ye mindit?" she called back to the old man. 

"I mind everything the day, no fear for me, " said Patrick Quin. 

The great hillside before them sloped up to meet the blue sky, thegolden gorse spread its splendid tapestry against the green pasture. There was the tiny house, the one house in Ireland for Nora; its verywindows watched her coming. A whiff of turf-smoke flickered above thechimney, the white walls were as white as the clouds above; there was afigure moving about inside the house, and a bent little woman in herwhite frilled cap and a small red shawl pinned about her shoulders cameand stood in the door. 

"Oh, me mother, me mother!" cried Nora; then she dropped the baby inthe soft grass, and flew like a pigeon up the hill and into hermother's arms. 

VI. 

The gossoon was equal to emergencies; he put down his heavier burden ofgoods and picked up the baby, lest it might run back to America. "Godbe praised, what's this coming afther ye?" exclaimed the mother, whileNora, weeping for joy, ran past her into the house. "Oh, God bless theshild that I thought I 'd never see. Oh!" and she looked again at thestranger, the breathless old man with the thorn stick, whom everybodyhad left behind. "'T is me brother Patsy! Oh, me heart's broke wit'joy!" and she fell on her knees among the daisies. 

"It's meself, then!" said Mr. Patrick Quin. "How are ye the day, Mary?I always t'ought I 'd see home again, but 't was Nora enticed me now. Johnny O'Callahan's a good son to ye; he 'd liked well to come with us, but he gets short l'ave on the Road, and he has a fine, steady job; he'll see after the business, too, while we 're gone; no, I could n't letthe two childer cross the say alone. Coom now, don't be sayin' annymore prayers; sure, we 'll be sayin' them together in the old churchcoom Sunday. 

"There, don't cry, Mary, don't cry, now! Coom in in the house! Sure, all the folks sint their remimbrance, and hoped you 'd come back withus and stay a long while. That's our intintion, too, for you, "continued Patrick, none the less tearful himself because he was so fullof fine importance; but nobody could stop to listen after the firstmoment, and the brother and sister were both crying faster than theycould talk. A minute later the spirit of the hostess rose to her greatoccasion. 

"Go, chase those white hins, " Nora's mother commanded the gossoon, whohad started back to bring up more of the rich-looking bundles from theside-car. "Run them up-hill now, or they 'll fly down to Kinmare. Gonow, while I stir up me fire and make a cup o' tay. 'T is the laste Ican do whin me folks is afther coming so far!"

"God save all here!" said Uncle Patsy devoutly, as he stepped into thehouse. There sat little Nora with the tired baby in her arms; to tellthe truth, she was crying now for lack of Johnny. She looked pale, buther eyes were shining, and a ray of sunlight fell through the door andbrightened her red hair. She looked quite beautiful and radiant as shesat there. 

"Well, Nora, ye 're here, ain't you?" said the old man. 

"Only this morning, " said the mother, "whin I opened me eyes I says tomeself: 'Where's Nora?' says I; 'she do be so long wit'out writing hometo me;' look at her now by me own fire! Wisha, but what's all thiswhillalu and stramach down by the brook? Oh, see now! the folks havegot word; all the folks is here! Coom out to them, Nora; give me theshild; coom out, Patsy boy!"

"Where 's Nora? Where 's Nora?" they could hear the loud cry coming, as all the neighbors hurried up the hill. 

BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 

I. 

"'Well, now, ' says I, 'Mrs. Con'ly, ' says I, 'how ever you may tark, 'tis nobody's business and I wanting to plant a few pumpkins for me cowin among me cabbages. I 've got the right to plant whatever I maychoose, if it's the divil of a crop of t'istles in the middle of meground. ' 'No ma'am, you ain't, ' says Biddy Con'ly; 'you ain't got annyright to plant t'istles that's not for the public good, ' says she; andI being so hasty wit' me timper, I shuk me fist in her face then, andherself shuk her fist at me. Just then Father Brady come by, as luckardered, an' recomminded us would we keep the peace. He knew well I 'dhad my provocation; 't was to herself he spoke first. You'd think sheowned the whole corporation. I wished I 'd t'rown her over into thewather, so I did, before he come by at all. 'T was on the bridge thetwo of us were. I was stepping home by meself very quiet in theafthernoon to put me tay-kittle on for supper, and herself overtookme, --ain't she the bold thing!

"'How are you the day, Mrs. Dunl'avy?' says she, so mincin' an'preenin', and I knew well she 'd put her mind on having words wit' mefrom that minute. I 'm one that likes to have peace in theneighborhood, if it wa'n't for the likes of her, that makes the top ofme head lift and clat' wit' rage like a pot-lid!"

"What was the matter with the two of you?" asked a listener, withsimple interest. 

"Faix indeed, 't was herself had a thrifle of melons planted the otherside of the fince, " acknowledged Mrs. Dunleavy. "She said the pumpkinswould be the ruin of them intirely. I says, and 'twas thrue for me, that I 'd me pumpkins planted the week before she'd dropped anny oldmelon seed into the ground, and the same bein' already dwining from somanny bugs. Oh, but she 's blackhearted to give me the lie about it, and say those poor things was all up, and she 'd thrown lime on 'em tokeep away their inemies when she first see me come out betune mecabbage rows. How well she knew what I might be doing! Me cabbagesgrows far apart and I 'd plinty of room, and if a pumpkin vine getsattention you can entice it wherever you pl'ase and it'll grow fine andlong, while the poor cabbages ates and grows fat and round, and no harmto annybody, but she must pick a quarrel with a quiet 'oman in the faceof every one. 

"We were on the bridge, don't you see, and plinty was passing by withtheir grins, and loitering and stopping afther they were behind herback to hear what was going on betune us. Annybody does be liking togot the sound of loud talk an' they having nothing better to do. BiddyCon'ly, seeing she was well watched, got the airs of a pr'acher, andset down whatever she might happen to be carrying and tried would sheget the better of me for the sake of their admiration. Oh, but wa'n'tshe all drabbled and wet from the roads, and the world knows meself fora very tidy walker!

"'Clane the mud from your shoes if you 're going to dance;' 't was allI said to her, and she being that mad she did be stepping up and downlike an old turkey-hin, and shaking her fist all the time at me. 'Coomnow, Biddy, ' says I, 'what put you out so?' says I. 'Sure, it creepsme skin when I looks at you! Is the pig dead, ' says I, 'or anny littlething happened to you, ma'am? Sure this is far beyond the rights of afew pumpkin seeds that has just cleared the ground!' and all the folkslaughed. I 'd no call to have tark with Biddy Con'ly before them idleb'ys and gerrls, nor to let the two of us become their laughing-stock. I tuk up me basket, being ashamed then, and I meant to go away, mad asI was. 'Coom, Mrs. Con'ly!' says I, 'let bygones be bygones; what'sall this whillalu we 're afther having about nothing?' says I verypleasant. 

"'May the divil fly away with you, Mary Dunl'avy!' says she then, 'spoiling me garden ground, as every one can see, and full of your boldtalk. I 'll let me hens out into it this afternoon, so I will, ' saysshe, and a good deal more. 'Hold off, ' says I, 'and remember what fellto your aunt one day when she sint her hins in to pick a neighbor'spiece, and while her own back was turned they all come home and hadevery sprouted bean and potatie heeled out in the hot sun, and all herfine lettuces picked into Irish lace. We 've lived neighbors, ' says I, 'thirteen years, ' says I; 'and we 've often had words together abovethe fince, ' says I, 'but we 're neighbors yet, and we 've no call tostand here in such spectacles and disgracing ourselves and each other. Coom, Biddy, ' says I, again, going away with me basket and remimberingFather Brady's caution whin it was too late. Some o' the b'ys wentoff, too, thinkin' 't was all done. 

"'I don't want anny o' your Coom Biddy's, ' says she, stepping at me, with a black stripe across her face, she was that destroyed with rage, and I stepped back and held up me basket between us, she being biggerthan I, and I getting no chance, and herself slipped and fell, and hernose got a clout with the hard edge of the basket, it would trouble thesaints to say how, and then I picked her up and wint home with her tothry and quinch the blood. Sure I was sorry for the crathur an' shehaving such a timper boiling in her heart. 

"'Look at you now, Mrs. Con'ly, ' says I, kind of soft, 'you 'ont be fitfor mass these two Sundays with a black eye like this, and your facearl scratched, and every bliguard has gone the lingth of the town totell tales of us. I 'm a quiet 'oman, ' says I, 'and I don't thankyou, ' says I, whin the blood was stopped, --'no, I don't thank you fordisgracin' an old neighbor like me. 'T is of our prayers and the gravewe should be thinkin', and not be having bold words on the bridge. 'Wisha! but I fought I was after spaking very quiet, and up she got andcaught up the basket, and I dodged it by good luck, but after that Iwalked off and left her to satisfy her foolishness with b'ating thewall if it pl'ased her. I 'd no call for her company anny more, and Itook a vow I 'd never spake a word to her again while the world stood. So all is over since then betune Biddy Con'ly and me. No, I don't lookat her at all!"

II. 

Some time afterward, in late summer, Mrs. Dunleavy stood, large andnoisy, but generous-hearted, addressing some remarks from her frontdoorway to a goat on the sidewalk. He was pulling some of hercherished foxgloves through the picket fence, and eagerly devouringtheir flowery stalks. 

"How well you rache through an honest fince, you black pirate!" sheshouted; but finding that harsh words had no effect, she took aconvenient broom, and advanced to strike a gallant blow upon thecreature's back. This had the simple effect of making him step alittle to one side and modestly begin to nibble at a tuft of grass. 

"Well, if I ain't plagued!" said Mrs. Dunleavy sorrowfully; "if I ain'tthroubled with every wild baste, and me cow that was some use gone dryvery unexpected, and a neighbor that's worse than none at all. I 'venobody to have an honest word with, and the morning being so fine andpleasant. Faix, I'd move away from it, if there was anny place I 'denjoy better. I 've no heart except for me garden, me poor littlecrops is doing so well; thanks be to God, me cabbages is very fine. There does be those that overlooked me pumpkins for the poor cow; they're no size at all wit' so much rain. "

The two small white houses stood close together, with their littlegardens behind them. The road was just in front, and led down to astone bridge which crossed the river to the busy manufacturing villagebeyond. The air was fresh and cool at that early hour, the wind hadchanged after a season of dry, hot weather; it was just the morning fora good bit of gossip with a neighbor, but summer was almost done, andthe friends were not reconciled. Their respective acquaintances hadgrown tired of hearing the story of the quarrel, and the novelty ofsuch a pleasing excitement had long been over. Mrs. Connelly wasthumping away at a handful of belated ironing, and Mrs. Dunleavy, estranged and solitary, sighed as she listened to the iron. She wassociable by nature, and she had an impulse to go in and sit down as sheused at the end of the ironing table. 

"Wisha, the poor thing is mad at me yet, I know that from the sounds ofher iron; 't was a shame for her to go picking a quarrel with the likesof me, " and Mrs. Dunleavy sighed heavily and stepped down into herflower-plot to pull the distressed foxgloves back into their placesinside the fence. The seed had been sent her from the old country, andthis was the first year they had come into full bloom. She had beenhoping that the sight of them would melt Mrs. Connelly's heart intosome expression of friendliness, since they had come from adjoiningparishes in old County Kerry. The goat lifted his head, and gazed athis enemy with mild interest; he was pasturing now by the roadside, andthe foxgloves had proved bitter in his mouth. 

Mrs. Dunleavy stood looking at him over the fence, glad of even agoat's company. 

"Go 'long there; see that fine little tuft ahead now, " she advised him, forgetful of his depredations. "Oh, to think I 've nobody to spake to, the day!"

At that moment a woman came in sight round the turn of the road. Shewas a stranger, a fellow country-woman, and she carried a largenewspaper bundle and a heavy handbag. Mrs. Dunleavy stepped out of theflower-bed toward the gate, and waited there until the stranger came upand stopped to ask a question. 

"Ann Bogan don't live here, do she?"

"She don't, " answered the mistress of the house, with dignity. 

"I t'ought she did n't; you don't know where she lives, do you?"

"I don't, " said Mrs. Dunleavy. 

"I don't know ayther; niver mind, I 'll find her; 't is a fine day, ma'am. "

Mrs. Dunleavy could hardly bear to let the stranger go away. Shewatched her far down the hill toward the bridge before she turned to gointo the house. She seated herself by the side window next Mrs. Connelly's, and gave herself to her thoughts. The sound of theflatiron had stopped when the traveler came to the gate, and it had notbegun again. Mrs. Connelly had gone to her front door; the hem of hercalico dress could be plainly seen, and the bulge of her apron, and shewas watching the stranger quite out of sight. She even came out to thedoorstep, and for the first time in many weeks looked with friendlyintent toward her neighbor's house. Then she also came and sat down ather side window. Mrs. Dunleavy's heart began to leap with excitement. 

"Bad cess to her foolishness, she does be afther wanting to come round;I 'll not make it too aisy for her, " said Mrs. Dunleavy, seizing apiece of sewing and forbearing to look up. "I don't know who Ann Boganis, annyway; perhaps herself does, having lived in it five or six yearslonger than me. Perhaps she knew this woman by her looks, and theheart is out of her with wanting to know what she asked from me. Shecan sit there, then, and let her irons grow cold!

"There was Bogans living down by the brick mill when I first come here, neighbors to Flaherty's folks, " continued Mrs. Dunleavy, more and moreaggrieved. "Biddy Con'ly ought to know the Flahertys, they being hercousins. 'T was a fine loud-talking 'oman; sure Biddy might wellenough have heard her inquiring of me, and have stepped out, and saidif she knew Ann Bogan, and satisfied a poor stranger that was huntingthe town over. No, I don't know anny one in the name of Ann Bogan, soI don't, " said Mrs. Dunleavy aloud, "and there's nobody I can ask acivil question, with every one that ought to be me neighbors stoppingtheir mouths, and keeping black grudges whin 't was meself got all theoffince. "

"Faix 't was meself got the whack on me nose, " responded Mrs. Connellyquite unexpectedly. She was looking squarely at the window where Mrs. Dunleavy sat behind the screen of blue mosquito netting. They wereboth conscious that Mrs. Connelly made a definite overture of peace. 

"That one was a very civil-spoken 'oman that passed by just now, "announced Mrs. Dunleavy, handsomely waiving the subject of the quarreland coming frankly to the subject of present interest. "Faix, 't is apoor day for Ann Bogans; she 'll find that out before she gets far inthe place. "

"Ann Bogans was plinty here once, then, God rest them! There was twoAnn Bogans, mother and daughter, lived down by Flaherty's when I firstcome here. They died in the one year, too; 't is most thirty yearsago, " said Bridget Connelly, in her most friendly tone. 

"'I 'll find her, ' says the poor 'oman as if she 'd only to look;indeed, she 's got the boldness, " reported Mary Dunleavy, peace beingfully restored. 

"'T was to Flaherty's she 'd go first, and they all moved to La'rencetwelve years ago, and all she 'll get from anny one would be theaddress of the cimet'ry. There was plenty here knowing to Ann Boganonce. That 'oman is one I 've seen long ago, but I can't name her yet. Did she say who she was?" asked the neighbor. 

"She did n't; I 'm sorry for the poor 'oman, too, " continued Mrs. Dunleavy, in the same spirit of friendliness. "She 'd the expectin'look of one who came hoping to make a nice visit and find friends, andherself lugging a fine bundle. She 'd the looks as if she 'd latelycome out; very decent, but old-fashioned. Her bonnet was made at homeannyways, did ye mind? I 'll lay it was bought in Cork when it wasnew, or maybe 'twas from a good shop in Bantry or Kinmare, or some o'those old places. If she 'd seemed satisfied to wait, I 'd made herthe offer of a cup of tay, but off she wint with great courage. "

"I don't know but I 'll slip on me bonnet in the afthernoon and go findher, " said Biddy Connelly, with hospitable warmth. "I 've seen herbefore, perhaps 't was long whiles ago at home. "

"Indeed I thought of it myself, " said Mrs. Dunleavy, with approval. "We 'd best wait, perhaps, till she 'd be coming back; there's no trainnow till three o'clock. She might stop here till the five, and we 'llfind out all about her. She 'll have a very lonesome day, whoiver sheis. Did you see that old goat 'ating the best of me fairy-fingers thatall bloomed the day?" she asked eagerly, afraid that the conversationmight come to an end at any moment; but Mrs. Connelly took no notice ofso trivial a subject. 

"Me melons is all getting ripe, " she announced, with an air ofsatisfaction. "There 's a big one must be ate now while we can; it'sdown in the cellar cooling itself, an' I 'd like to be dropping it, getting down the stairs. 'Twas afther picking it I was beforebreakfast, itself having begun to crack open. Himself was the b'y thatloved a melon, an' I ain't got the heart to look at it alone. Coomover, will ye, Mary?"

"'Deed then an' I will, " said Mrs. Dunleavy, whose face was closeagainst the mosquito netting. "Them old pumpkin vines was no good annyway; did you see how one of them had the invintion, and wint away up onthe fince entirely wit' its great flowers, an' there come a rain on'em, and so they all blighted? I 'd no call to grow such stramminggreat things in my piece annyway, 'ating up all the goodness from mebeautiful cabbages. "

III. 

That afternoon the reunited friends sat banqueting together and keepingan eye on the road. They had so much to talk over and found each otherso agreeable that it was impossible to dwell with much regret upon thelong estrangement. When the melon was only half finished the strangerof the morning, with her large unopened bundle and the heavy handbag, was seen making her way up the hill. She wore such a weary anddisappointed look that she was accosted and invited in by both thewomen, and being proved by Mrs. Connelly to be an old acquaintance, shejoined them at their feast. 

"Yes, I was here seventeen years ago for the last time, " she explained. "I was working in Lawrence, and I came over and spent a fortnight withHonora Flaherty; then I wint home that year to mind me old mother, andshe lived to past ninety. I 'd nothing to keep me then, and I wasalways homesick afther America, so back I come to it, but all me oldfrinds and neighbors is changed and gone. Faix, this is the firstwelcome I 've got yet from anny one. 'Tis a beautiful welcome, too, --I'll get me apron out of me bundle, by your l'ave, Mrs. Con'ly. You 've a strong resemblance to Flaherty's folks, dear, being cousins. Well, 't is a fine thing to have good neighbors. You an' Mrs. Dunleavyis very pleasant here so close together. "

"Well, we does be having a hasty word now and then, ma'am, " confessedMrs. Dunleavy, "but ourselves is good neighbors this manny years. Whina quarrel's about nothing betune friends, it don't count for much, soit don't. "

"Most quarrels is the same way, " said the stranger, who did not likemelons, but accepted a cup of hot tea. "Sure, it always takes two tomake a quarrel, and but one to end it; that's what me mother alwaystold me, that never gave anny one a cross word in her life. "

"'T is a beautiful melon, " repeated Mrs. Dunleavy for the seventh time. "Sure, I 'll plant a few seed myself next year; me pumpkins is no goodafther all me foolish pride wit' 'em. Maybe the land don't suit 'em, but glory be to God, me cabbages is the size of the house, an' you 'llgit the pick of the best, Mrs. Con'ly. "

"What's melons betune friends, or cabbages ayther, that they shouldever make any trouble?" answered Mrs. Connelly handsomely, and thegreat feud was forever ended. 

But the stranger, innocent that she was the harbinger of peace, couldhardly understand why Bridget Connelly insisted upon her staying allnight and talking over old times, and why the two women put on theirbonnets and walked, one on either hand, to see the town with her thatevening. As they crossed the bridge they looked at each other shyly, and then began to laugh. 

"Well, I missed it the most on Sundays going all alone to mass, "confessed Mary Dunleavy. "I 'm glad there's no one here seeing us goover, so I am. "

"'T was ourselves had bold words at the bridge, once, that we 've gotthe laugh about now, " explained Mrs. Connelly politely to the stranger. 

MARTHA'S LADY. 

I. 

One day, many years ago, the old Judge Pyne house wore an unwonted lookof gayety and youthfulness. The high-fenced green garden was brightwith June flowers. Under the elms in the large shady front yard youmight see some chairs placed near together, as they often used to bewhen the family were all at home and life was going on gayly with eagertalk and pleasure-making; when the elder judge, the grandfather, usedto quote that great author, Dr. Johnson, and say to his girls, "Bebrisk, be splendid, and be public. "

One of the chairs had a crimson silk shawl thrown carelessly over itsstraight back, and a passer-by, who looked in through the latticed gatebetween the tall gate-posts with their white urns, might think thatthis piece of shining East Indian color was a huge red lily that hadsuddenly bloomed against the syringa bush. There were certain windowsthrown wide open that were usually shut, and their curtains wereblowing free in the light wind of a summer afternoon; it looked as if alarge household had returned to the old house to fill the prim bestrooms and find them full of cheer. 

It was evident to every one in town that Miss Harriet Pyne, to use thevillage phrase, had company. She was the last of her family, and wasby no means old; but being the last, and wonted to live with peoplemuch older than herself, she had formed all the habits of a seriouselderly person. Ladies of her age, something past thirty, often worediscreet caps in those days, especially if they were married, but beingsingle, Miss Harriet clung to youth in this respect, making the oneconcession of keeping her waving chestnut hair as smooth and stifflyarranged as possible. She had been the dutiful companion of her fatherand mother in their latest years, all her elder brothers and sistershaving married and gone, or died and gone, out of the old house. Nowthat she was left alone it seemed quite the best thing frankly toaccept the fact of age, and to turn more resolutely than ever to thecompanionship of duty and serious books. She was more serious andgiven to routine than her elders themselves, as sometimes happened whenthe daughters of New England gentlefolks were brought up wholly in thesociety of their elders. At thirty-five she had more reluctance thanher mother to face an unforeseen occasion, certainly more than hergrandmother, who had preserved some cheerful inheritance of gayety andworldliness from colonial times. 

There was something about the look of the crimson silk shawl in thefront yard to make one suspect that the sober customs of the best housein a quiet New England village were all being set at defiance, and oncewhen the mistress of the house came to stand in her own doorway, shewore the pleased but somewhat apprehensive look of a guest. In thesedays New England life held the necessity of much dignity and discretionof behavior; there was the truest hospitality and good cheer in alloccasional festivities, but it was sometimes a self-conscioushospitality, followed by an inexorable return to asceticism both ofdiet and of behavior. Miss Harriet Pyne belonged to the very dullestdays of New England, those which perhaps held the most priggishness forthe learned professions, the most limited interpretation of the word"evangelical, " and the pettiest indifference to large things. Theoutbreak of a desire for larger religious freedom caused at first amost determined reaction toward formalism, especially in small andquiet villages like Ashford, intently busy with their own concerns. Itwas high time for a little leaven to begin its work, in this momentwhen the great impulses of the war for liberty had died away and thoseof the coming war for patriotism and a new freedom had hardly yet begun. 

The dull interior, the changed life of the old house, whose formeractivities seemed to have fallen sound asleep, really typified theselarger conditions, and a little leaven had made its easily recognizedappearance in the shape of a light-hearted girl. She was MissHarriet's young Boston cousin, Helena Vernon, who, half-amused andhalf-impatient at the unnecessary sober-mindedness of her hostess andof Ashford in general, had set herself to the difficult task of gayety. Cousin Harriet looked on at a succession of ingenious and, on thewhole, innocent attempts at pleasure, as she might have looked on atthe frolics of a kitten who easily substitutes a ball of yarn for theuncertainties of a bird or a wind-blown leaf, and who may at any momentravel the fringe of a sacred curtain-tassel in preference to either. 

Helena, with her mischievous appealing eyes, with her enchanting oldsongs and her guitar, seemed the more delightful and even reasonablebecause she was so kind to everybody, and because she was a beauty. She had the gift of most charming manners. There was all theunconscious lovely ease and grace that had come with the good breedingof her city home, where many pleasant people came and went; she had nofear, one had almost said no respect, of the individual, and she didnot need to think of herself. Cousin Harriet turned cold withapprehension when she saw the minister coming in at the front gate, andwondered in agony if Martha were properly attired to go to the door, and would by any chance hear the knocker; it was Helena who, delightedto have anything happen, ran to the door to welcome the Reverend Mr. Crofton as if he were a congenial friend of her own age. She couldbehave with more or less propriety during the stately first visit, andeven contrive to lighten it with modest mirth, and to extort theconfession that the guest had a tenor voice, though sadly out ofpractice; but when the minister departed a little flattered, and hopingthat he had not expressed himself too strongly for a pastor upon thepoems of Emerson, and feeling the unusual stir of gallantry in hisproper heart, it was Helena who caught the honored hat of the lateJudge Pyne from its last resting-place in the hall, and holding itsecurely in both hands, mimicked the minister's self-consciousentrance. She copied his pompous and anxious expression in the dimparlor in such delicious fashion that Miss Harriet, who could notalways extinguish a ready spark of the original sin of humor, laughedaloud. 

"My dear!" she exclaimed severely the next moment, "I am ashamed ofyour being so disrespectful!" and then laughed again, and took theaffecting old hat and carried it back to its place. 

"I would not have had any one else see you for the world, " she saidsorrowfully as she returned, feeling quite self-possessed again, to theparlor doorway; but Helena still sat in the minister's chair, with hersmall feet placed as his stiff boots had been, and a copy of his solemnexpression before they came to speaking of Emerson and of the guitar. "I wish I had asked him if he would be so kind as to climb thecherry-tree, " said Helena, unbending a little at the discovery that hercousin would consent to laugh no more. "There are all those ripecherries on the top branches. I can climb as high as he, but I can'treach far enough from the last branch that will bear me. The ministeris so long and thin"--

"I don't know what Mr. Crofton would have thought of you; he is a veryserious young man, " said cousin Harriet, still ashamed of her laughter. "Martha will get the cherries for you, or one of the men. I should notlike to have Mr. Crofton think you were frivolous, a young lady of youropportunities"--but Helena had escaped through the hall and out at thegarden door at the mention of Martha's name. Miss Harriet Pyne sighedanxiously, and then smiled, in spite of her deep convictions, as sheshut the blinds and tried to make the house look solemn again. 

The front door might be shut, but the garden door at the other end ofthe broad hall was wide open upon the large sunshiny garden, where thelast of the red and white peonies and the golden lilies, and the firstof the tall blue larkspurs lent their colors in generous fashion. Thestraight box borders were all in fresh and shining green of their newleaves, and there was a fragrance of the old garden's inmost life andsoul blowing from the honeysuckle blossoms on a long trellis. It wasnow late in the afternoon, and the sun was low behind great apple-treesat the garden's end, which threw their shadows over the short turf ofthe bleaching-green. The cherry-trees stood at one side in fullsunshine, and Miss Harriet, who presently came to the garden steps towatch like a hen at the water's edge, saw her cousin's pretty figure inits white dress of India muslin hurrying across the grass. She wasaccompanied by the tall, ungainly shape of Martha the new maid, who, dull and indifferent to every one else, showed a surprising willingnessand allegiance to the young guest. 

"Martha ought to be in the dining-room, already, slow as she is; itwants but half an hour of tea-time, " said Miss Harriet, as she turnedand went into the shaded house. It was Martha's duty to wait at table, and there had been many trying scenes and defeated efforts toward hereducation. Martha was certainly very clumsy, and she seemed theclumsier because she had replaced her aunt, a most skillful person, whohad but lately married a thriving farm and its prosperous owner. Itmust be confessed that Miss Harriet was a most bewildering instructor, and that her pupil's brain was easily confused and prone to blunders. The coming of Helena had been somewhat dreaded by reason of thisincompetent service, but the guest took no notice of frowns or futilegestures at the first tea-table, except to establish friendly relationswith Martha on her own account by a reassuring smile. They were aboutthe same age, and next morning, before cousin Harriet came down, Helenashowed by a word and a quick touch the right way to do something thathad gone wrong and been impossible to understand the night before. Amoment later the anxious mistress came in without suspicion, butMartha's eyes were as affectionate as a dog's, and there was a new lookof hopefulness on her face; this dreaded guest was a friend after all, and not a foe come from proud Boston to confound her ignorance andpatient efforts. 

The two young creatures, mistress and maid, were hurrying across thebleaching-green. 

"I can't reach the ripest cherries, " explained Helena politely, "and Ithink that Miss Pyne ought to send some to the minister. He has justmade us a call. Why Martha, you have n't been crying again!"

"Yes 'm, " said Martha sadly. "Miss Pyne always loves to send somethingto the minister, " she acknowledged with interest, as if she did notwish to be asked to explain these latest tears. 

"We 'll arrange some of the best cherries in a pretty dish. I 'll showyou how, and you shall carry them over to the parsonage after tea, "said Helena cheerfully, and Martha accepted the embassy with pleasure. Life was beginning to hold moments of something like delight in thelast few days. 

"You 'll spoil your pretty dress, Miss Helena, " Martha gave shywarning, and Miss Helena stood back and held up her skirts with unusualcare while the country girl, in her heavy blue checked gingham, beganto climb the cherry-tree like a boy. 

Down came the scarlet fruit like bright rain into the green grass. 

"Break some nice twigs with the cherries and leaves together; oh, you're a duck, Martha!" and Martha, flushed with delight, and looking farmore like a thin and solemn blue heron, came rustling down to earthagain, and gathered the spoils into her clean apron. 

That night at tea, during her hand-maiden's temporary absence, MissHarriet announced, as if by way of apology, that she thought Martha wasbeginning to understand something about her work. "Her aunt was atreasure, she never had to be told anything twice; but Martha has beenas clumsy as a calf, " said the precise mistress of the house. "I havebeen afraid sometimes that I never could teach her anything. I wasquite ashamed to have you come just now, and find me so unprepared toentertain a visitor. "

"Oh, Martha will learn fast enough because she cares so much, " said thevisitor eagerly. "I think she is a dear good girl. I do hope that shewill never go away. I think she does things better every day, cousinHarriet, " added Helena pleadingly, with all her kind young heart. Thechina-closet door was open a little way, and Martha heard every word. From that moment, she not only knew what love was like, but she knewlove's dear ambitions. To have come from a stony hill-farm and a baresmall wooden house, was like a cave-dweller's coming to make apermanent home in an art museum, such had seemed the elaborateness andelegance of Miss Pyne's fashion of life; and Martha's simple brain wasslow enough in its processes and recognitions. But with thissympathetic ally and defender, this exquisite Miss Helena who believedin her, all difficulties appeared to vanish. 

Later that evening, no longer homesick or hopeless, Martha returnedfrom her polite errand to the minister, and stood with a sort oftriumph before the two ladies, who were sitting in the front doorway, as if they were waiting for visitors, Helena still in her white muslinand red ribbons, and Miss Harriet in a thin black silk. Being happilyself-forgetful in the greatness of the moment, Martha's manners wereperfect, and she looked for once almost pretty and quite as young asshe was. 

"The minister came to the door himself, and returned his thanks. Hesaid that cherries were always his favorite fruit, and he was muchobliged to both Miss Pyne and Miss Vernon. He kept me waiting a fewminutes, while he got this book ready to send to you, Miss Helena. "

"What are you saying, Martha? I have sent him nothing!" exclaimed MissPyne, much astonished. "What does she mean, Helena?"

"Only a few cherries, " explained Helena. "I thought Mr. Crofton wouldlike them after his afternoon of parish calls. Martha and I arrangedthem before tea, and I sent them with our compliments. "

"Oh, I am very glad you did, " said Miss Harriet, wondering, but muchrelieved. "I was afraid"--

"No, it was none of my mischief, " answered Helena daringly. "I did notthink that Martha would be ready to go so soon. I should have shownyou how pretty they looked among their green leaves. We put them inone of your best white dishes with the openwork edge. Martha shallshow you to-morrow; mamma always likes to have them so. " Helena'sfingers were busy with the hard knot of a parcel. 

"See this, cousin Harriet!" she announced proudly, as Marthadisappeared round the corner of the house, beaming with the pleasuresof adventure and success. "Look! the minister has sent me a book:Sermons on _what_? Sermons--it is so dark that I can't quite see. "

"It must be his 'Sermons on the Seriousness of Life;' they are the onlyones he has printed, I believe, " said Miss Harriet, with much pleasure. "They are considered very fine discourses. He pays you a greatcompliment, my dear. I feared that he noticed your girlish levity. "

"I behaved beautifully while he stayed, " insisted Helena. "Ministersare only men, " but she blushed with pleasure. It was certainlysomething to receive a book from its author, and such a tribute madeher of more value to the whole reverent household. The minister wasnot only a man, but a bachelor, and Helena was at the age that bestloves conquest; it was at any rate comfortable to be reinstated incousin Harriet's good graces. 

"Do ask the kind gentleman to tea! He needs a little cheering up, "begged the siren in India muslin, as she laid the shiny black volume ofsermons on the stone doorstep with an air of approval, but as if theyhad quite finished their mission. 

"Perhaps I shall, if Martha improves as much as she has within the lastday or two, " Miss Harriet promised hopefully. "It is something Ialways dread a little when I am all alone, but I think Mr. Croftonlikes to come. He converses so elegantly. "

II. 

These were the days of long visits, before affectionate friends thoughtit quite worth while to take a hundred miles' journey merely to dine orto pass a night in one another's houses. Helena lingered through thepleasant weeks of early summer, and departed unwillingly at last tojoin her family at the White Hills, where they had gone, like otherhouseholds of high social station, to pass the month of August out oftown. The happy-hearted young guest left many lamenting friends behindher, and promised each that she would come back again next year. Sheleft the minister a rejected lover, as well as the preceptor of theacademy, but with their pride unwounded, and it may have been withwider outlooks upon the world and a less narrow sympathy both for theirown work in life and for their neighbors' work and hindrances. EvenMiss Harriet Pyne herself had lost some of the unnecessaryprovincialism and prejudice which had begun to harden a naturally goodand open mind and affectionate heart. She was conscious of feelingyounger and more free, and not so lonely. Nobody had ever been so gay, so fascinating, or so kind as Helena, so full of social resource, sosimple and undemanding in her friendliness. The light of her younglife cast no shadow on either young or old companions, her prettyclothes never seemed to make other girls look dull or out of fashion. When she went away up the street in Miss Harriet's carriage to take theslow train toward Boston and the gayeties of the new Profile House, where her mother waited impatiently with a group of Southern friends, it seemed as if there would never be any more picnics or parties inAshford, and as if society had nothing left to do but to grow old andget ready for winter. 

Martha came into Miss Helena's bedroom that last morning, and it waseasy to see that she had been crying; she looked just as she did inthat first sad week of homesickness and despair. All for love's sakeshe had been learning to do many things, and to do them exactly right;her eyes had grown quick to see the smallest chance for personalservice. Nobody could be more humble and devoted; she looked yearsolder than Helena, and wore already a touching air of caretaking. 

"You spoil me, you dear Martha!" said Helena from the bed. "I don'tknow what they will say at home, I am so spoiled. "

Martha went on opening the blinds to let in the brightness of thesummer morning, but she did not speak. 

"You are getting on splendidly, aren't you?" continued the littlemistress. "You have tried so hard that you make me ashamed of myself. At first you crammed all the flowers together, and now you make themlook beautiful. Last night cousin Harriet was so pleased when thetable was so charming, and I told her that you did everything yourself, every bit. Won't you keep the flowers fresh and pretty in the houseuntil I come back? It's so much pleasanter for Miss Pyne, and you 'llfeed my little sparrows, won't you? They're growing so tame. "

"Oh, yes, Miss Helena!" and Martha looked almost angry for a moment, then she burst into tears and covered her face with her apron. "Icould n't understand a single thing when I first came. I never hadbeen anywhere to see anything, and Miss Pyne frightened me when shetalked. It was you made me think I could ever learn. I wanted to keepthe place, 'count of mother and the little boys; we 're dreadful hardpushed. Hepsy has been good in the kitchen; she said she ought to havepatience with me, for she was awkward herself when she first came. "

Helena laughed; she looked so pretty under the tasseled white curtains. 

"I dare say Hepsy tells the truth, " she said. "I wish you had told meabout your mother. When I come again, some day we 'll drive upcountry, as you call it, to see her. Martha! I wish you would thinkof me sometimes after I go away. Won't you promise?" and the brightyoung face suddenly grew grave. "I have hard times myself; I don'talways learn things that I ought to learn, I don't always put thingsstraight. I wish you would n't forget me ever, and would just believein me. I think it does help more than anything. "

"I won't forget, " said Martha slowly. "I shall think of you everyday. " She spoke almost with indifference, as if she had been asked todust a room, but she turned aside quickly and pulled the little matunder the hot water jug quite out of its former straightness; then shehastened away down the long white entry, weeping as she went. 

III. 

To lose out of sight the friend whom one has loved and lived to pleaseis to lose joy out of life. But if love is true, there comes presentlya higher joy of pleasing the ideal, that is to say, the perfect friend. The same old happiness is lifted to a higher level. As for Martha, thegirl who stayed behind in Ashford, nobody's life could seem duller tothose who could not understand; she was slow of step, and her eyes werealmost always downcast as if intent upon incessant toil; but theystartled you when she looked up, with their shining light. She wascapable of the happiness of holding fast to a great sentiment, theineffable satisfaction of trying to please one whom she truly loved. She never thought of trying to make other people pleased with herself;all she lived for was to do the best she could for others, and toconform to an ideal, which grew at last to be like a saint's vision, aheavenly figure painted upon the sky. 

On Sunday afternoons in summer, Martha sat by the window of herchamber, a low-storied little room, which looked into the side yard andthe great branches of an elm-tree. She never sat in the old woodenrocking-chair except on Sundays like this; it belonged to the day ofrest and to happy meditation. She wore her plain black dress and aclean white apron, and held in her lap a little wooden box, with abrass ring on top for a handle. She was past sixty years of age andlooked even older, but there was the same look on her face that it hadsometimes worn in girlhood. She was the same Martha; her hands wereold-looking and work-worn, but her face still shone. It seemed likeyesterday that Helena Vernon had gone away, and it was more than fortyyears. 

War and peace had brought their changes and great anxieties, the faceof the earth was furrowed by floods and fire, the faces of mistress andmaid were furrowed by smiles and tears, and in the sky the stars shoneon as if nothing had happened. The village of Ashford added a fewpages to its unexciting history, the minister preached, the peoplelistened; now and then a funeral crept along the street, and now andthen the bright face of a little child rose above the horizon of afamily pew. Miss Harriet Pyne lived on in the large white house, whichgained more and more distinction because it suffered no changes, savesuccessive repaintings and a new railing about its stately roof. MissHarriet herself had moved far beyond the uncertainties of an anxiousyouth. She had long ago made all her decisions, and settled allnecessary questions; her scheme of life was as faultless as theminiature landscape of a Japanese garden, and as easily kept in order. The only important change she would ever be capable of making was thefinal change to another and a better world; and for that nature itselfwould gently provide, and her own innocent life. 

Hardly any great social event had ruffled the easy current of lifesince Helena Vernon's marriage. To this Miss Pyne had gone, stately inappearance and carrying gifts of some old family silver which bore theVernon crest, but not without some protest in her heart against theuncertainties of married life. Helena was so equal to a happyindependence and even to the assistance of other lives grown strangelydependent upon her quick sympathies and instinctive decisions, that itwas hard to let her sink her personality in the affairs of another. Yet a brilliant English match was not without its attractions to anold-fashioned gentlewoman like Miss Pyne, and Helena herself wasamazingly happy; one day there had come a letter to Ashford, in whichher very heart seemed to beat with love and self-forgetfulness, to tellcousin Harriet of such new happiness and high hope. "Tell Martha allthat I say about my dear Jack, " wrote the eager girl; "please show myletter to Martha, and tell her that I shall come home next summer andbring the handsomest and best man in the world to Ashford. I have toldhim all about the dear house and the dear garden; there never was sucha lad to reach for cherries with his six-foot-two. " Miss Pyne, wondering a little, gave the letter to Martha, who took it deliberatelyand as if she wondered too, and went away to read it slowly by herself. Martha cried over it, and felt a strange sense of loss and pain; ithurt her heart a little to read about the cherry-picking. Her idolseemed to be less her own since she had become the idol of a stranger. She never had taken such a letter in her hands before, but love at lastprevailed, since Miss Helena was happy, and she kissed the last pagewhere her name was written, feeling overbold, and laid the envelope onMiss Pyne's secretary without a word. 

The most generous love cannot but long for reassurance, and Martha hadthe joy of being remembered. She was not forgotten when the day of thewedding drew near, but she never knew that Miss Helena had asked ifcousin Harriet would not bring Martha to town; she should like to haveMartha there to see her married. "She would help about the flowers, "wrote the happy girl; "I know she will like to come, and I 'll askmamma to plan to have some one take her all about Boston and make herhave a pleasant time after the hurry of the great day is over. "

Cousin Harriet thought it was very kind and exactly like Helena, butMartha would be out of her element; it was most imprudent and girlishto have thought of such a thing. Helena's mother would be far fromwishing for any unnecessary guest just then, in the busiest part of herhousehold, and it was best not to speak of the invitation. Some dayMartha should go to Boston if she did well, but not now. Helena didnot forget to ask if Martha had come, and was astonished by theindifference of the answer. It was the first thing which reminded herthat she was not a fairy princess having everything her own way in thatlast day before the wedding. She knew that Martha would have loved tobe near, for she could not help understanding in that moment of her ownhappiness the love that was hidden in another heart. Next day thishappy young princess, the bride, cut a piece of a great cake and put itinto a pretty box that had held one of her wedding presents. Witheager voices calling her, and all her friends about her, and hermother's face growing more and more wistful at the thought of parting, she still lingered and ran to take one or two trifles from herdressing-table, a little mirror and some tiny scissors that Marthawould remember, and one of the pretty handkerchiefs marked with hermaiden name. These she put in the box too; it was half a girlish freakand fancy, but she could not help trying to share her happiness, andMartha's life was so plain and dull. She whispered a message, and putthe little package into cousin Harriet's hand for Martha as she saidgood-by. She was very fond of cousin Harriet. She smiled with a gleamof her old fun; Martha's puzzled look and tall awkward figure seemed tostand suddenly before her eyes, as she promised to come again toAshford. Impatient voices called to Helena, her lover was at the door, and she hurried away, leaving her old home and her girlhood gladly. Ifshe had only known it, as she kissed cousin Harriet good-by, they werenever going to see each other again until they were old women. Thefirst step that she took out of her father's house that day, married, and full of hope and joy, was a step that led her away from the greenelms of Boston Common and away from her own country and those she lovedbest, to a brilliant, much-varied foreign life, and to nearly all thesorrows and nearly all the joys that the heart of one woman could holdor know. 

On Sunday afternoons Martha used to sit by the window in Ashford andhold the wooden box which a favorite young brother, who afterward diedat sea, had made for her, and she used to take out of it the prettylittle box with a gilded cover that had held the piece of wedding-cake, and the small scissors, and the blurred bit of a mirror in its silvercase; as for the handkerchief with the narrow lace edge, once in two orthree years she sprinkled it as if it were a flower, and spread it outin the sun on the old bleaching-green, and sat near by in the shrubberyto watch lest some bold robin or cherry-bird should seize it and flyaway. 

IV. 

Miss Harriet Pyne was often congratulated upon the good fortune ofhaving such a helper and friend as Martha. As time went on this tall, gaunt woman, always thin, always slow, gained a dignity of behavior andsimple affectionateness of look which suited the charm and dignity ofthe ancient house. She was unconsciously beautiful like a saint, likethe picturesqueness of a lonely tree which lives to shelter unnumberedlives and to stand quietly in its place. There was such rustichomeliness and constancy belonging to her, such beautiful powers ofapprehension, such reticence, such gentleness for those who weretroubled or sick; all these gifts and graces Martha hid in her heart. She never joined the church because she thought she was not goodenough, but life was such a passion and happiness of service that itwas impossible not to be devout, and she was always in her humble placeon Sundays, in the back pew next the door. She had been educated by aremembrance; Helena's young eyes forever looked at her reassuringlyfrom a gay girlish face, Helena's sweet patience in teaching her ownawkwardness could never be forgotten. 

"I owe everything to Miss Helena, " said Martha, half aloud, as she satalone by the window; she had said it to herself a thousand times. Whenshe looked in the little keepsake mirror she always hoped to see somefaint reflection of Helena Vernon, but there was only her own brown oldNew England face to look back at her wonderingly. 

Miss Pyne went less and less often to pay visits to her friends inBoston; there were very few friends left to come to Ashford and makelong visits in the summer, and life grew more and more monotonous. Nowand then there came news from across the sea and messages ofremembrance, letters that were closely written on thin sheets of paper, and that spoke of lords and ladies, of great journeys, of the death oflittle children and the proud successes of boys at school, of thewedding of Helena Dysart's only daughter; but even that had happenedyears ago. These things seemed far away and vague, as if they belongedto a story and not to life itself; the true links with the past werequite different. There was the unvarying flock of ground-sparrows thatHelena had begun to feed; every morning Martha scattered crumbs forthem from the side door-steps while Miss Pyne watched from thedining-room window, and they were counted and cherished year by year. 

Miss Pyne herself had many fixed habits, but little ideality orimagination, and so at last it was Martha who took thought for hermistress, and gave freedom to her own good taste. After a while, without any one's observing the change, the every-day ways of doingthings in the house came to be the stately ways that had once belongedonly to the entertainment of guests. Happily both mistress and maidseized all possible chances for hospitality, yet Miss Harriet nearlyalways sat alone at her exquisitely served table with its freshflowers, and the beautiful old china which Martha handled so lovinglythat there was no good excuse for keeping it hidden on closet shelves. Every year when the old cherry-trees were in fruit, Martha carried theround white old English dish with a fretwork edge, full of pointedgreen leaves and scarlet cherries, to the minister, and his wife neverquite understood why every year he blushed and looked so conscious ofthe pleasure, and thanked Martha as if he had received a veryparticular attention. There was no pretty suggestion toward thepursuit of the fine art of housekeeping in Martha's limitedacquaintance with newspapers that she did not adopt; there was norefined old custom of the Pyne housekeeping that she consented to letgo. And every day, as she had promised, she thought of MissHelena, --oh, many times in every day: whether this thing would pleaseher, or that be likely to fall in with her fancy or ideas of fitness. As far as was possible the rare news that reached Ashford through anoccasional letter or the talk of guests was made part of Martha's ownlife, the history of her own heart. A worn old geography often stoodopen at the map of Europe on the light-stand in her room, and a littleold-fashioned gilt button, set with a bit of glass like a ruby, thathad broken and fallen from the trimming of one of Helena's dresses, wasused to mark the city of her dwelling-place. In the changes of adiplomatic life Martha followed her lady all about the map. Sometimesthe button was at Paris, and sometimes at Madrid; once, to her greatanxiety, it remained long at St. Petersburg. For such a slow scholarMartha was not unlearned at last, since everything about life in theseforeign towns was of interest to her faithful heart. She satisfied herown mind as she threw crumbs to the tame sparrows; it was all part ofthe same thing and for the same affectionate reasons. 

V. 

One Sunday afternoon in early summer Miss Harriet Pyne came hurryingalong the entry that led to Martha's room and called two or three timesbefore its inhabitant could reach the door. Miss Harriet lookedunusually cheerful and excited, and she held something in her hand. "Where are you, Martha?" she called again. "Come quick, I havesomething to tell you!"

"Here I am, Miss Pyne, " said Martha, who had only stopped to put herprecious box in the drawer, and to shut the geography. 

"Who do you think is coming this very night at half-past six? We musthave everything as nice as we can; I must see Hannah at once. Do youremember my cousin Helena who has lived abroad so long? Miss HelenaVernon, --the Honorable Mrs. Dysart, she is now. "

"Yes, I remember her, " answered Martha, turning a little pale. 

"I knew that she was in this country, and I had written to ask her tocome for a long visit, " continued Miss Harriet, who did not oftenexplain things, even to Martha, though she was always conscientiousabout the kind messages that were sent back by grateful guests. "Shetelegraphs that she means to anticipate her visit by a few days andcome to me at once. The heat is beginning in town, I suppose. Idaresay, having been a foreigner so long, she does not mind travelingon Sunday. Do you think Hannah will be prepared? We must have tea alittle later. "

"Yes, Miss Harriet, " said Martha. She wondered that she could speak asusual, there was such a ringing in her ears. "I shall have time topick some fresh strawberries; Miss Helena is so fond of ourstrawberries. "

"Why, I had forgotten, " said Miss Pyne, a little puzzled by somethingquite unusual in Martha's face. "We must expect to find Mrs. Dysart agood deal changed, Martha; it is a great many years since she was here;I have not seen her since her wedding, and she has had a great deal oftrouble, poor girl. You had better open the parlor chamber, and makeit ready before you go down. "

"It is all ready, " said Martha. "I can carry some of those littlesweet-brier roses upstairs before she comes. "

"Yes, you are always thoughtful, " said Miss Pyne, with unwonted feeling. 

Martha did not answer. She glanced at the telegram wistfully. She hadnever really suspected before that Miss Pyne knew nothing of the lovethat had been in her heart all these years; it was half a pain and halfa golden joy to keep such a secret; she could hardly bear this momentof surprise. 

Presently the news gave wings to her willing feet. When Hannah, thecook, who never had known Miss Helena, went to the parlor an hour lateron some errand to her old mistress, she discovered that this strangerguest must be a very important person. She had never seen thetea-table look exactly as it did that night, and in the parlor itselfthere were fresh blossoming boughs in the old East India jars, andlilies in the paneled hall, and flowers everywhere, as if there weresome high festivity. 

Miss Pyne sat by the window watching, in her best dress, lookingstately and calm; she seldom went out now, and it was almost time forthe carriage. Martha was just coming in from the garden with thestrawberries, and with more flowers in her apron. It was a bright coolevening in June, the golden robins sang in the elms, and the sun wasgoing down behind the apple-trees at the foot of the garden. Thebeautiful old house stood wide open to the long-expected guest. 

"I think that I shall go down to the gate, " said Miss Pyne, looking atMartha for approval, and Martha nodded and they went together slowlydown the broad front walk. 

There was a sound of horses and wheels on the roadside turf: Marthacould not see at first; she stood back inside the gate behind the whitelilac-bushes as the carriage came. Miss Pyne was there; she washolding out both arms and taking a tired, bent little figure in blackto her heart. "Oh, my Miss Helena is an old woman like me!" and Marthagave a pitiful sob; she had never dreamed it would be like this; thiswas the one thing she could not bear. 

"Where are you, Martha?" called Miss Pyne. "Martha will bring thesein; you have not forgotten my good Martha, Helena?" Then Mrs. Dysartlooked up and smiled just as she used to smile in the old days. Theyoung eyes were there still in the changed face, and Miss Helena hadcome. 

That night Martha waited in her lady's room just as she used, humbleand silent, and went through with the old unforgotten loving services. The long years seemed like days. At last she lingered a moment tryingto think of something else that might be done, then she was goingsilently away, but Helena called her back. She suddenly knew the wholestory and could hardly speak. 

"Oh, my dear Martha!" she cried, "won't you kiss me good-night? Oh, Martha, have you remembered like this, all these long years!"

THE COON DOG. 

I. 

In the early dusk of a warm September evening the bats were flitting toand fro, as if it were still summer, under the great elm thatovershadowed Isaac Brown's house, on the Dipford road. Isaac Brownhimself, and his old friend and neighbor John York, were leaningagainst the fence. 

"Frost keeps off late, don't it?" said John York. "I laughed when Ifirst heard about the circus comin'; I thought 't was so unusual latein the season. Turned out well, however. Everybody I noticed wasreturnin' with a palm-leaf fan. Guess they found 'em useful under thetent; 't was a master hot day. I saw old lady Price with her handsfull o' those free advertisin' fans, as if she was layin' in a stockagainst next summer. Well, I expect she 'll live to enjoy 'em. "

"I was right here where I 'm standin' now, and I see her as she wasgoin' by this mornin', " said Isaac Brown, laughing, and settlinghimself comfortably against the fence as if they had chanced upon awelcome subject of conversation. "I hailed her, same 's I gener'llydo. 'Where are you bound to-day, ma'am?' says I. 

"'I 'm goin' over as fur as Dipford Centre, ' says she. 'I 'm goin' tosee my poor dear 'Liza Jane. I want to 'suage her grief; her husband, Mr. 'Bijah Topliff, has passed away. '

"'So much the better, ' says I. 

"'No; I never l'arnt about it till yisterday, ' says she; an' she lookedup at me real kind of pleasant, and begun to laugh. 

"'I hear he's left property, ' says she, tryin' to pull her face downsolemn. I give her the fifty cents she wanted to borrow to make up hercar-fare and other expenses, an' she stepped off like a girl downtow'ds the depot. 

"This afternoon, as you know, I 'd promised the boys that I 'd take 'emover to see the menagerie, and nothin' would n't do none of us any goodbut we must see the circus too; an' when we'd just got posted on one o'the best high seats, mother she nudged me, and I looked right downfront two, three rows, an' if there wa'n't Mis' Price, spectacles an'all, with her head right up in the air, havin' the best time you eversee. I laughed right out. She had n't taken no time to see 'LizaJane; she wa'n't 'suagin' no grief for nobody till she 'd seen thecircus. 'There, ' says I, 'I do like to have anybody keep their youngfeelin's!'"

"Mis' Price come over to see our folks before breakfast, " said JohnYork. "Wife said she was inquirin' about the circus, but she wanted toknow first if they couldn't oblige her with a few trinkets o' mournin', seein' as how she 'd got to pay a mournin' visit. Wife thought 't wasa bosom-pin, or somethin' like that, but turned out she wanted theskirt of a dress; 'most anything would do, she said. "

"I thought she looked extra well startin' off, " said Isaac, with anindulgent smile. "The Lord provides very handsome for such, I dodeclare! She ain't had no visible means o' support these ten orfifteen years back, but she don't freeze up in winter no more than wedo. "

"Nor dry up in summer, " interrupted his friend; "I never did see suchan able hand to talk. "

"She's good company, and she's obliging an' useful when the women folkshave their extra work progressin', " continued Isaac Brown kindly. "'Tain't much for a well-off neighborhood like this to support that oldchirpin' cricket. My mother used to say she kind of helped the workalong by 'livenin' of it. Here she comes now; must have taken the lasttrain, after she had supper with 'Lizy Jane. You stay still; we 'regoin' to hear all about it. "

The small, thin figure of Mrs. Price had to be hailed twice before shecould be stopped. 

"I wish you a good evenin', neighbors, " she said. "I have been to thehouse of mournin'. "

"Find 'Liza Jane in, after the circus?" asked Isaac Brown, with equalseriousness. "Excellent show, was n't it, for so late in the season?"

"Oh, beautiful; it was beautiful, I declare, " answered the pleasedspectator readily. "Why, I did n't see you, nor Mis' Brown. Yes; Ifelt it best to refresh my mind an' wear a cheerful countenance. WhenI see 'Liza Jane I was able to divert her mind consid'able. She wasglad I went. I told her I 'd made an effort, knowin' 'twas so she hadto lose the a'ternoon. 'Bijah left property, if he did die away fromhome on a foreign shore. "

"You don't mean that 'Bijah Topliff 's left anything!" exclaimed JohnYork with interest, while Isaac Brown put both hands deep into hispockets, and leaned back in a still more satisfactory position againstthe gatepost. 

"He enjoyed poor health, " answered Mrs. Price, after a moment ofdeliberation, as if she must take time to think. "'Bijah never was onethat scattereth, nor yet increaseth. 'Liza Jane's got some memories o'the past that's a good deal better than others; but he died somewheresout in Connecticut, or so she heard, and he's left a very val'able coondog, --one he set a great deal by. 'Liza Jane said, last time he was tohome, he priced that dog at fifty dollars. 'There, now, 'Liza Jane, 'says I, right to her, when she told me, 'if I could git fifty dollarsfor that dog, I certain' would. Perhaps some o' the circus folks wouldlike to buy him; they 've taken in a stream o' money this day. ' But'Liza Jane ain't never inclined to listen to advice. 'T is a dreadfulpoor-spirited-lookin' creatur'. I don't want no right o' dower in him, myself. "

"A good coon dog 's worth somethin', certain, " said John Yorkhandsomely. 

"If he is a good coon dog, " added Isaac Brown. "I would n't haveparted with old Rover, here, for a good deal of money when he was rightin his best days; but a dog like him 's like one of the family. Stopan' have some supper, won't ye, Mis' Price?"--as the thin old creaturewas flitting off again. At that same moment this kind invitation wasrepeated from the door of the house; and Mrs. Price turned in, unprotesting and always sociably inclined, at the open gate. 

II. 

It was a month later, and a whole autumn's length colder, when the twomen were coming home from a long tramp through the woods. They hadbeen making a solemn inspection of a wood-lot that they owned together, and had now visited their landmarks and outer boundaries, and settledthe great question of cutting or not cutting some large pines. When itwas well decided that a few years' growth would be no disadvantage tothe timber, they had eaten an excellent cold luncheon and rested fromtheir labors. 

"I don't feel a day older 'n ever I did when I get out in the woods thiway, " announced John York, who was a prim, dusty-looking little man, aprudent person, who had been selectman of the town at least a dozentimes. 

"No more do I, " agreed his companion, who was large and jovial andopen-handed, more like a lucky sea-captain than a farmer. Afterpounding a slender walnut-tree with a heavy stone, he had succeeded ingetting down a pocketful of late-hanging nuts which had escaped thesquirrels, and was now snapping them back, one by one, to a venturesomechipmunk among some little frost-bitten beeches. Isaac Brown had awonderfully pleasant way of getting on with all sorts of animals, evenmen. After a while they rose and went their way, these two companions, stopping here and there to look at a possible woodchuck's hole, or tostrike a few hopeful blows at a hollow tree with the light axe whichIsaac had carried to blaze new marks on some of the line-trees on thefarther edge of their possessions. Sometimes they stopped to admirethe size of an old hemlock, or to talk about thinning out the youngpines. At last they were not very far from the entrance to the greattract of woodland. The yellow sunshine came slanting in much brighteragainst the tall trunks, spotting them with golden light high among thestill branches. 

Presently they came to a great ledge, frost-split and cracked intomysterious crevices. 

"Here's where we used to get all the coons, " said John York. "I haven't seen a coon this great while, spite o' your courage knocking on thetrees up back here. You know that night we got the four fat ones? Westarted 'em somewheres near here, so the dog could get after 'em whenthey come out at night to go foragin'. "

"Hold on, John;" and Mr. Isaac Brown got up from the log where he hadjust sat down to rest, and went to the ledge, and looked carefully allabout. When he came back he was much excited, and beckoned his friendaway, speaking in a stage whisper. 

"I guess you 'll see a coon before you 're much older, " he proclaimed. "I 've thought it looked lately as if there 'd been one about my place, and there's plenty o' signs here, right in their old haunts. Couple o'hens' heads an' a lot o' feathers"--

"Might be a fox, " interrupted John York. 

"Might be a coon, " answered Mr. Isaac Brown. "I 'm goin' to have him, too. I 've been lookin' at every old hollow tree I passed, but I neverthought o' this place. We 'll come right off to-morrow night, I guess, John, an' see if we can't get him. 'T is an extra handy place for 'emto den; in old times the folks always called it a good place; they 'vebeen so sca'ce o' these late years that I 've thought little about 'em. Nothin' I ever liked so well as a coon-hunt. Gorry! he must be a bigold fellow, by his tracks! See here, in this smooth dirt; just like ababy's footmark. "

"Trouble is, we lack a good dog, " said John York anxiously, after hehad made an eager inspection. "I don't know where in the world to getone, either. There ain't no such a dog about as your Rover, but you've let him get spoilt; these days I don't see him leave the yard. Youought to keep the women folks from overfeedin' of him so. He ought to've lasted a good spell longer. He's no use for huntin' now, that'scertain. "

Isaac accepted the rebuke meekly. John York was a calm man, but he nowgrew very fierce under such a provocation. Nobody likes to be hinderedin a coon-hunt. 

"Oh, Rover's too old, anyway, " explained the affectionate masterregretfully. "I 've been wishing all this afternoon I 'd brought him;but I did n't think anything about him as we came away, I 've got soused to seeing him layin' about the yard. 'T would have been a realtreat for old Rover, if he could have kept up. Used to be at my heelsthe whole time. He could n't follow us, anyway, up here. "

"I should n't wonder if he could, " insisted John, with a humorousglance at his old friend, who was much too heavy and huge of girth forquick transit over rough ground. John York himself had grown lighteras he had grown older. 

"I 'll tell you one thing we could do, " he hastened to suggest. "There's that dog of 'Bijah Topllff's. Don't you know the old lady told us, that day she went over to Dipford, how high he was valued? Most o''Bijah's important business was done in the fall, goin' out by night, gunning with fellows from the mills. He was just the kind of aworthless do-nothing that's sure to have an extra knowin' smart dog. Iexpect 'Liza Jane 's got him now. Perhaps we could get him byto-morrow night. Let one o' my boys go over!"

"Why, 'Liza Jane 's come, bag an' baggage, to spend the winter with hermother, " exclaimed Isaac Brown, springing to his feet like a boy. "I've had it in mind to tell you two or three times this afternoon, andthen something else has flown it out of my head. I let my John Henrytake the long-tailed wagon an' go down to the depot this mornin' tofetch her an' her goods up. The old lady come in early, while we wereto breakfast, and to hear her lofty talk you 'd thought 't would takena couple o' four-horse teams to move her. I told John Henry he mighttake that wagon and fetch up what light stuff he could, and see howmuch else there was, an' then I 'd make further arrangements. She said'Liza Jane 'd see me well satisfied, an' rode off, pleased to death. Isee 'em returnin' about eight, after the train was in. They 'd got'Liza Jane with 'em, smaller 'n ever; and there was a trunk tied upwith a rope, and a small roll o' beddin' and braided mats, and aquilted rockin'-chair. The old lady was holdin' on tight to abird-cage with nothin' in it. Yes; an' I see the dog, too, in behind. He appeared kind of timid. He 's a yaller dog, but he ain'tstump-tailed. They hauled up out front o' the house, and mother an' Iwent right out; Mis' Price always expects to have notice taken. Shewas in great sperits. Said 'Liza Jane concluded to sell off most ofher stuff rather 'n have the care of it. She 'd told the folks thatMis' Topliff had a beautiful sofa and a lot o' nice chairs, and twoframed pictures that would fix up the house complete, and invited usall to come over and see 'em. There, she seemed just as pleasedreturnin' with the bird-cage. Disappointments don't appear to troubleher no more than a butterfly. I kind of like the old creatur'; I don'tmean to see her want. "

"They 'll let us have the dog, " said John York. "I don't know but I'll give a quarter for him, and we 'll let 'em have a good piece o' thecoon. "

"You really comin' 'way up here by night, coon-huntin'?" asked IsaacBrown, looking reproachfully at his more agile comrade. 

"I be, " answered John York. 

"I was dre'tful afraid you was only talking, and might back out, "returned the cheerful heavy-weight, with a chuckle. "Now we 've gotthings all fixed, I feel more like it than ever. I tell you there'sjust boy enough left inside of me. I 'll clean up my old gun to-morrowmornin', and you look right after your'n. I dare say the boys havetook good care of 'em for us, but they don't know what we do abouthuntin', and we 'll bring 'em all along and show 'em a little fun. "

"All right, " said John York, as soberly as if they were going to lookafter a piece of business for the town; and they gathered up the axeand other light possessions, and started toward home. 

III. 

The two friends, whether by accident or design, came out of the woodssome distance from their own houses, but very near to the low-storiedlittle gray dwelling of Mrs. Price. They crossed the pasture, andclimbed over the toppling fence at the foot of her small sandy piece ofland, and knocked at the door. There was a light already in thekitchen. Mrs. Price and Eliza Jane Topliff appeared at once, eagerlyhospitable. 

"Anybody sick?" asked Mrs. Price, with instant sympathy. "Nothin'happened, I hope?"

"Oh, no, " said both the men. 

"We came to talk about hiring your dog to-morrow night, " explainedIsaac Brown, feeling for the moment amused at his eager errand. "Wegot on track of a coon just now, up in the woods, and we thought we 'dgive our boys a little treat. You shall have fifty cents, an' welcome, and a good piece o' the coon. "

"Yes, Square Brown; we can let you have the dog as well as not, "interrupted Mrs. Price, delighted to grant a favor. "Poor departed'Bijah, he set everything by him as a coon dog. He always said a dog'scapital was all in his reputation. "

"You 'll have to be dreadful careful an' not lose him, " urged Mrs. Topliff. "Yes, sir; he 's a proper coon dog as ever walked the earth, but he's terrible weak-minded about followin' 'most anybody. 'Bijahused to travel off twelve or fourteen miles after him to git him back, when he wa'n't able. Somebody 'd speak to him decent, or fling awhip-lash as they drove by, an' off he 'd canter on three legs rightafter the wagon. But 'Bijah said he wouldn't trade him for no coon doghe ever was acquainted with. Trouble is, coons is awful sca'ce. "

"I guess he ain't out o' practice, " said John York amiably; "I guess he'll know when he strikes the coon. Come, Isaac, we must be gittin'along tow'ds home. I feel like eatin' a good supper. You tie him upto-morrow afternoon, so we shall be sure to have him, " he turned to sayto Mrs. Price, who stood smiling at the door. 

"Land sakes, dear, he won't git away; you 'll find him right therebetwixt the wood-box and the stove, where he is now. Hold the light, 'Liza Jane; they can't see their way out to the road. I 'll fetch himover to ye in good season, " she called out, by way of farewell; "'twill save ye third of a mile extra walk. No, 'Liza Jane; you 'll letme do it, if you please. I 've got a mother's heart. The gentlemenwill excuse us for showin' feelin'. You 're all the child I 've got, an' your prosperity is the same as mine. "

IV. 

The great night of the coon-hunt was frosty and still, with only a dimlight from the new moon. John York and his boys, and Isaac Brown, whose excitement was very great, set forth across the fields toward thedark woods. The men seemed younger and gayer than the boys. There wasa burst of laughter when John Henry Brown and his little brotherappeared with the coon dog of the late Mr. Abijah Topliff, which hadpromptly run away home again after Mrs. Price had coaxed him over inthe afternoon. The captors had tied a string round his neck, at whichthey pulled vigorously from time to time to urge him forward. Perhapshe found the night too cold; at any rate, he stopped short in thefrozen furrows every few minutes, lifting one foot and whining alittle. Half a dozen times he came near to tripping up Mr. Isaac Brownand making him fall at full length. 

"Poor Tiger! poor Tiger!" said the good-natured sportsman, whensomebody said that the dog did n't act as if he were much used to beingout by night. "He 'll be all right when he once gets track of thecoon. " But when they were fairly in the woods, Tiger's distress wasperfectly genuine. The long rays of light from the old-fashionedlanterns of pierced tin went wheeling round and round, making a tallghost of every tree, and strange shadows went darting in and out behindthe pines. The woods were like an interminable pillared room where thedarkness made a high ceiling. The clean frosty smell of the openfields was changed for a warmer air, damp with the heavy odor of mossand fallen leaves. There was something wild and delicious in theforest in that hour of night. The men and boys tramped on silently insingle file, as if they followed the flickering light instead ofcarrying it. The dog fell back by instinct, as did his companions, into the easy familiarity of forest life. He ran beside them, andwatched eagerly as they chose a safe place to leave a coat or two and abasket. He seemed to be an affectionate dog, now that he had madeacquaintance with his masters. 

"Seems to me he don't exactly know what he 's about, " said one of theYork boys scornfully; "we must have struck that coon's track somewhere, comin' in. "

"We 'll get through talkin', an' heap up a little somethin' for a fire, if you 'll turn to and help, " said his father. "I 've always noticedthat nobody can give so much good advice about a piece o' work as a newhand. When you 've treed as many coons as your Uncle Brown an' me, youwon't feel so certain. Isaac, you be the one to take the dog up roundthe ledge, there. He 'll scent the coon quick enough then. We 'll'tend to this part o' the business. "

"You may come too, John Henry, " said the indulgent father, and they setoff together silently with the coon dog. He followed well enough now;his tail and ears were drooping even more than usual, but he whimperedalong as bravely as he could, much excited, at John Henry's heels, likeone of those great soldiers who are all unnerved until the battle iswell begun. 

A minute later the father and son came hurrying back, breathless, andstumbling over roots and bushes. The fire was already lighted, andsending a great glow higher and higher among the trees. 

"He's off! He 's struck a track! He was off like a major!" wheezedMr. Isaac Brown. 

"Which way 'd he go?" asked everybody. 

"Right out toward the fields. Like's not the old fellow was juststarting after more of our fowls. I 'm glad we come early, --he can'thave got far yet. We can't do nothin' but wait now, boys. I 'll setright down here. "

"Soon as the coon trees, you 'll hear the dog sing, now I tell you!"said John York, with great enthusiasm. "That night your father an' megot those four busters we 've told you about, they come right back hereto the ledge. I don't know but they will now. 'T was a dreadful coldnight, I know. We did n't get home till past three o'clock in themornin', either. You remember, don't you, Isaac?"

"I do, " said Isaac. "How old Rover worked that night! Could n't seeout of his eyes, nor hardly wag his clever old tail, for two days;thorns in both his fore paws, and the last coon took a piece right outof his off shoulder. "

"Why did n't you let Rover come tonight, father?" asked the youngerboy. "I think he knew somethin' was up. He was jumpin' round at agreat rate when I come out of the yard. "

"I did n't know but he might make trouble for the other dog, " answeredIsaac, after a moment's silence. He felt almost disloyal to thefaithful creature, and had been missing him all the way. "'Sh! there'sa bark!" And they all stopped to listen. 

The fire was leaping higher; they all sat near it, listening andtalking by turns. There is apt to be a good deal of waiting in acoon-hunt. 

"If Rover was young as he used to be, I'd resk him to tree any coonthat ever run, " said the regretful master. "This smart creature o'Topliff's can't beat him, I know. The poor old fellow's eyesight seemsto be going. Two--three times he's run out at me right in broad day, an' barked when I come up the yard toward the house, and I did pity himdreadfully; he was so 'shamed when he found out what he 'd done. Rover's a dog that's got an awful lot o' pride. He went right off outbehind the long barn the last time, and would n't come in for nobodywhen they called him to supper till I went out myself and made it upwith him. No; he can't see very well now, Rover can't. "

"He 's heavy, too; he 's got too unwieldy to tackle a smart coon, Iexpect, even if he could do the tall runnin', " said John York, withsympathy. "They have to get a master grip with their teeth through acoon's thick pelt this time o' year. No; the young folks gets all thegood chances after a while;" and he looked round indulgently at thechubby faces of his boys, who fed the fire, and rejoiced in beingpromoted to the society of their elders on equal terms. "Ain't it timewe heard from the dog?" And they all listened, while the fire snappedand the sap whistled in some green sticks. 

"I hear him, " said John Henry suddenly; and faint and far away therecame the sound of a desperate bark. There is a bark that means attack, and there is a bark that means only foolish excitement. 

"They ain't far off!" said Isaac. "My gracious, he's right after him!I don't know's I expected that poor-looking dog to be so smart. Youcan't tell by their looks. Quick as he scented the game up here in therocks, off he put. Perhaps it ain't any matter if they ain'tstump-tailed, long's they 're yaller dogs. He did n't look heavyenough to me. I tell you, he means business. Hear that bark!"

"They all bark alike after a coon. " John York was as excited asanybody. "Git the guns laid out to hand, boys; I told you we 'd oughtto follow!" he commanded. "If it's the old fellow that belongs here, he may put in any minute. " But there was again a long silence andstate of suspense; the chase had turned another way. There were faintdistant yaps. The fire burned low and fell together with a shower ofsparks. The smaller boys began to grow chilly and sleepy, when therewas a thud and rustle and snapping of twigs close at hand, then thegasp of a breathless dog. Two dim shapes rushed by; a shower of barkfell, and a dog began to sing at the foot of the great twisted pine notfifty feet away. 

"Hooray for Tiger!" yelled the boys; but the dog's voice filled all thewoods. It might have echoed to the mountain-tops. There was the oldcoon; they could all see him half-way up the tree, flat to the greatlimb. They heaped the fire with dry branches till it flared high. Nowthey lost him in a shadow as he twisted about the tree. John Yorkfired, and Isaac Brown fired, and the boys took a turn at the guns, while John Henry started to climb a neighboring oak; but at last it wasIsaac who brought the coon to ground with a lucky shot, and the dogstopped his deafening bark and frantic leaping in the underbrush, andafter an astonishing moment of silence crept out, a proud victor, tohis prouder master's feet. 

"Goodness alive, who 's this? Good for you, old handsome! Why, I 'llbe hanged if it ain't old Rover, boys; _it's old Rover_!" But Isaaccould not speak another word. They all crowded round the wistful, clumsy old dog, whose eyes shone bright, though his breath was allgone. Each man patted him, and praised him, and said they ought tohave mistrusted all the time that it could be nobody but he. It wassome minutes before Isaac Brown could trust himself to do anything butpat the sleek old head that was always ready to his hand. 

"He must have overheard us talkin'; I guess he 'd have come if he 'ddropped dead half-way, " proclaimed John Henry, like a prince of thereigning house; and Rover wagged his tail as if in honest assent, as helay at his master's side. They sat together, while the fire wasbrightened again to make a good light for the coon-hunt supper; andRover had a good half of everything that found its way into hismaster's hand. It was toward midnight when the triumphal processionset forth toward home, with the two lanterns, across the fields. 

V. 

The next morning was bright and warm after the hard frost of the nightbefore. Old Rover was asleep on the doorstep in the sun, and hismaster stood in the yard, and saw neighbor Price come along the road inher best array, with a gay holiday air. 

"Well, now, " she said eagerly, "you wa'n't out very late last night, was you? I got up myself to let Tiger in. He come home, all beat out, about a quarter past nine. I expect you had n't no kind o' troublegittin' the coon. The boys was tellin' me he weighed 'most thirtypounds. "

"Oh, no kind o' trouble, " said Isaac, keeping the great secretgallantly. "You got the things I sent over this mornin'?"

"Bless your heart, yes! I 'd a sight rather have all that good porkan' potatoes than any o' your wild meat, " said Mrs. Price, smiling withprosperity. "You see, now, 'Liza Jane she 's given in. She did n'tre'lly know but 't was all talk of 'Bijah 'bout that dog's bein' wuthfifty dollars. She says she can't cope with a huntin' dog same 's hecould, an' she 's given me the money you an' John York sent over thismornin'; an' I did n't know but what you 'd lend me another half adollar, so I could both go to Dipford Centre an' return, an' see if Icould n't make a sale o' Tiger right over there where they all knowabout him. It's right in the coon season; now 's my time, ain't it?"

"Well, gettin' a little late, " said Isaac, shaking with laughter as hetook the desired sum of money out of his pocket. "He seems to be aclever dog round the house. "

"I don't know 's I want to harbor him all winter, " answered theexcursionist frankly, striking into a good traveling gait as shestarted off toward the railroad station. 

AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 

I. 

"No, " said Mrs. Hand, speaking wistfully, --"no, we never were in thehabit of keeping Christmas at our house. Mother died when we were allyoung; she would have been the one to keep up with all new ideas, butfather and grandmother were old-fashioned folks, and--well, you knowhow 't was then, Miss Pendexter: nobody took much notice of the dayexcept to wish you a Merry Christmas. "

"They did n't do much to make it merry, certain, " answered MissPendexter. "Sometimes nowadays I hear folks complainin' o' bein'overtaxed with all the Christmas work they have to do. "

"Well, others think that it makes a lovely chance for all that reallyenjoys givin'; you get an opportunity to speak your kind feelin' rightout, " answered Mrs. Hand, with a bright smile. "But there! I shallalways keep New Year's Day, too; it won't do no hurt to have an extraday kept an' made pleasant. And there 'a many of the real old folkshave got pretty things to remember about New Year's Day. "

"Aunt Cynthy Dallett 's just one of 'em, " said Miss Pendexter. "She 'salways very reproachful if I don't get up to see her. Last year Imissed it, on account of a light fall o' snow that seemed to make thewalkin' too bad, an' she sent a neighbor's boy 'way down from themount'in to see if I was sick. Her lameness confines her to the housealtogether now, an' I have her on my mind a good deal. How anybodydoes get thinkin' of those that lives alone, as they get older! Iwaked up only last night with a start, thinkin' if Aunt Cynthy's houseshould get afire or anything, what she would do, 'way up there allalone. I was half dreamin', I s'pose, but I could n't seem to settledown until I got up an' went upstairs to the north garret window to seeif I could see any light; but the mountains was all dark an' safe, same's usual. I remember noticin' last time I was there that her chimneyneeded pointin', and I spoke to her about it, --the bricks looked poorin some places. "

"Can you see the house from your north gable window?" asked Mrs. Hand, a little absently. 

"Yes 'm; it's a great comfort that I can, " answered her companion. "Ihave often wished we were near enough to have her make me some sort o'signal in case she needed help. I used to plead with her to come downand spend the winters with me, but she told me one day I might as welltry to fetch down one o' the old hemlocks, an' I believe 't was true. "

"Your aunt Dallett is a very self-contained person, " observed Mrs. Hand. 

"Oh, very!" exclaimed the elderly niece, with a pleased look. "AuntCynthy laughs, an' says she expects the time will come when age 'llcompel her to have me move up an' take care of her; and last time I wasthere she looked up real funny, an' says, 'I do' know, Abby; I 'm mostafeard sometimes that I feel myself beginnin' to look for'ard to it!''T was a good deal, comin' from Aunt Cynthy, an' I so esteemed it. "

"She ought to have you there now, " said Mrs. Hand. "You 'd both make asavin' by doin' it; but I don't expect she needs to save as much assome. There! I know just how you both feel. I like to have my ownhome an' do everything just my way too. " And the friends laughed, andlooked at each other affectionately. 

"There was old Mr. Nathan Dunn, --left no debts an' no money when hedied, " said Mrs. Hand. "'T was over to his niece's last summer. Hehad a little money in his wallet, an' when the bill for funeralexpenses come in there was just exactly enough; some item or other madeit come to so many dollars an' eighty-four cents, and, lo an' behold!there was eighty-four cents in a little separate pocket beside the neatfold o' bills, as if the old gentleman had known before-hand. Hisniece could n't help laughin', to save her; she said the old gentlemandied as methodical as he lived. She did n't expect he had any money, an' was prepared to pay for everything herself; she 's very well off. "

"'T was funny, certain, " said Miss Pendexter. "I expect he feltcomfortable, knowin' he had that money by him. 'T is a comfort, whenall's said and done, 'specially to folks that's gettin' old. "

A sad look shadowed her face for an instant, and then she smiled androse to take leave, looking expectantly at her hostess to see if therewere anything more to be said. 

"I hope to come out square myself, " she said, by way of farewellpleasantry; "but there are times when I feel doubtful. "

Mrs. Hand was evidently considering something, and waited a moment ortwo before she spoke. "Suppose we both walk up to see your auntDallett, New Year's Day, if it ain't too windy and the snow keeps off?"she proposed. "I could n't rise the hill if 't was a windy day. Wecould take a hearty breakfast an' start in good season; I 'd ratherwalk than ride, the road's so rough this time o' year. "

"Oh, what a person you are to think o' things! I did so dread goin''way up there all alone, " said Abby Pendexter. "I 'm no hand to go offalone, an' I had it before me, so I really got to dread it. I do soenjoy it after I get there, seein' Aunt Cynthy, an' she 's always somuch better than I expect to find her. "

"Well, we 'll start early, " said Mrs. Hand cheerfully; and so theyparted. As Miss Pendexter went down the foot-path to the gate, shesent grateful thoughts back to the little sitting-room she had justleft. 

"How doors are opened!" she exclaimed to herself. "Here I 've been sopoor an' distressed at beginnin' the year with nothin', as it were, that I could n't think o' even goin' to make poor old Aunt Cynthy afriendly call. I 'll manage to make some kind of a little pleasuretoo, an' somethin' for dear Mis' Hand. 'Use what you 've got, ' motheralways used to say when every sort of an emergency come up, an' I mayonly have wishes to give, but I 'll make 'em good ones!"

II. 

The first day of the year was clear and bright, as if it were a NewYear's pattern of what winter can be at its very best. The two friendswere prepared for changes of weather, and met each other well wrappedin their winter cloaks and shawls, with sufficient brown barége veilstied securely over their bonnets. They ignored for some time the plaintruth that each carried something under her arm; the shawls wererounded out suspiciously, especially Miss Pendexter's, but eachrespected the other's air of secrecy. The narrow road was frozen indeep ruts, but a smooth-trodden little foot-path that ran along itsedge was very inviting to the wayfarers. Mrs. Hand walked first andMiss Pendexter followed, and they were talking busily nearly all theway, so that they had to stop for breath now and then at the tops ofthe little hills. It was not a hard walk; there were a good manyalmost level stretches through the woods, in spite of the fact thatthey should be a very great deal higher when they reached Mrs. Dallett's door. 

"I do declare, what a nice day 't is, an' such pretty footin'!" saidMrs. Hand, with satisfaction. "Seems to me as if my feet went o'themselves; gener'lly I have to toil so when I walk that I can't enjoynothin' when I get to a place. "

"It's partly this beautiful bracin' air, " said Abby Pendexter. "Sometimes such nice air comes just before a fall of snow. Don't itseem to make anybody feel young again and to take all your troublesaway?"

Mrs. Hand was a comfortable, well-to-do soul, who seldom worried aboutanything, but something in her companion's tone touched her heart, andshe glanced sidewise and saw a pained look in Abby Pendexter's thinface. It was a moment for confidence. 

"Why, you speak as if something distressed your mind, Abby, " said theelder woman kindly. 

"I ain't one that has myself on my mind as a usual thing, but it doesseem now as if I was goin' to have it very hard, " said Abby. "Well, I've been anxious before. "

"Is it anything wrong about your property?" Mrs. Hand ventured to ask. 

"Only that I ain't got any, " answered. Abby, trying to speak gayly. "'T was all I could do to pay my last quarter's rent, twelve dollars. I sold my hens, all but this one that had run away at the time, an' nowI 'm carryin' her up to Aunt Cynthy, roasted just as nice as I knowhow. "

"I thought you was carrying somethin', " said Mrs. Hand, in her usualtone. "For me, I 've got a couple o' my mince pies. I thought the oldlady might like 'em; one we can eat for our dinner, and one she shallhave to keep. But were n't you unwise to sacrifice your poultry, Abby?You always need eggs, and hens don't cost much to keep. "

"Why, yes, I shall miss 'em, " said Abby; "but, you see, I had to doevery way to get my rent-money. Now the shop 's shut down I have n'tgot any way of earnin' anything, and I spent what little I 've savedthrough the summer. "

"Your aunt Cynthy ought to know it an' ought to help you, " said Mrs. Hand. "You 're a real foolish person, I must say. I expect you do forher when she ought to do for you. "

"She 's old, an' she 's all the near relation I 've got, " said thelittle woman. "I 've always felt the time would come when she 'd needme, but it's been her great pleasure to live alone an' feel free. Ishall get along somehow, but I shall have it hard. Somebody may wanthelp for a spell this winter, but I 'm afraid I shall have to give upmy house. 'T ain't as if I owned it. I don't know just what to do, but there'll be a way. "

Mrs. Hand shifted her two pies to the other arm, and stepped across tothe other side of the road where the ground looked a little smoother. 

"No, I wouldn't worry if I was you, Abby, " she said. "There, I supposeif 't was me I should worry a good deal more! I expect I should layawake nights. " But Abby answered nothing, and they came to a steepplace in the road and found another subject for conversation at the top. 

"Your aunt don't know we 're coming?" asked the chief guest of theoccasion. 

"Oh, no, I never send her word, " said Miss Pendexter. "She 'd be sodesirous to get everything ready, just as she used to. "

"She never seemed to make any trouble o' havin' company; she alwaysappeared so easy and pleasant, and let you set with her while she madeher preparations, " said Mrs. Hand, with great approval. "Some has sucha dreadful way of making you feel inopportune, and you can't alwayssend word you 're comin'. I did have a visit once that's always been alesson to me; 't was years ago; I don't know 's I ever told you?"

"I don't believe you ever did, " responded the listener to this somewhatindefinite prelude. 

"Well, 't was one hot summer afternoon. I set forth an' took a greatlong walk 'way over to Mis' Eben Fulham's, on the crossroad between thecranberry ma'sh and Staples's Corner. The doctor was drivin' that way, an' he give me a lift that shortened it some at the last; but I nevershould have started, if I 'd known 't was so far. I had been promisin'all summer to go, and every time I saw Mis' Fulham, Sundays, she 'd saysomethin' about it. We wa'n't very well acquainted, but alwaysfriendly. She moved here from Bedford Hill. "

"Oh, yes; I used to know her, " said Abby, with interest. 

"Well, now, she did give me a beautiful welcome when I got there, "continued Mrs. Hand. "'T was about four o'clock in the afternoon, an'I told her I 'd come to accept her invitation if 't was convenient, an'the doctor had been called several miles beyond and expected to bedetained, but he was goin' to pick me up as he returned about seven; 'twas very kind of him. She took me right in, and she did appear sopleased, an' I must go right into the best room where 't was cool, andthen she said she 'd have tea early, and I should have to excuse her ashort time. I asked her not to make any difference, and if I could n'tassist her; but she said no, I must just take her as I found her; andshe give me a large fan, and off she went. 

"There. I was glad to be still and rest where 't was cool, an' I setthere in the rockin'-chair an' enjoyed it for a while, an' I heard herclacking at the oven door out beyond, an' gittin' out some dishes. Shewas a brisk-actin' little woman, an' I thought I 'd caution her whenshe come back not to make up a great fire, only for a cup o' tea, perhaps. I started to go right out in the kitchen, an' then somethin'told me I 'd better not, we never 'd been so free together as that; Idid n't know how she 'd take it, an' there I set an' set. 'T was sortof a greenish light in the best room, an' it begun to feel a littledamp to me, --the s'rubs outside grew close up to the windows. Oh, itdid seem dreadful long! I could hear her busy with the dishes an'beatin' eggs an' stirrin', an' I knew she was puttin' herself out toget up a great supper, and I kind o' fidgeted about a little an' evenstepped to the door, but I thought she 'd expect me to remain where Iwas. I saw everything in that room forty times over, an' I did divertmyself killin' off a brood o' moths that was in a worsted-work mat onthe table. It all fell to pieces. I never saw such a sight o' mothsto once. But occupation failed after that, an' I begun to feel sort o'tired an' numb. There was one o' them late crickets got into the rooman' begun to chirp, an' it sounded kind o' fallish. I could n't helpsayin' to myself that Mis' Fulham had forgot all about my bein' there. I thought of all the beauties of hospitality that ever I see!"--

"Did n't she ever come back at all, not whilst things was in the oven, nor nothin'?" inquired Miss Pendexter, with awe. 

"I never see her again till she come beamin' to the parlor door an'invited me to walk out to tea, " said Mrs. Hand. "'T was 'most aquarter past six by the clock; I thought 't was seven. I 'd thought o'everything, an' I 'd counted, an' I 'd trotted my foot, an' I 'd lookedmore 'n twenty times to see if there was any more moth-millers. "

"I s'pose you did have a very nice tea?" suggested Abby, with interest. 

"Oh, a beautiful tea! She could n't have done more if I 'd been theQueen, " said Mrs. Hand. "I don't know how she could ever have done itall in the time, I 'm sure. The table was loaded down; there wascup-custards and custard pie, an' cream pie, an' two kinds o' hotbiscuits, an' black tea as well as green, an' elegant cake, --one kindshe 'd just made new, and called it quick cake; I 've often made itsince--an' she 'd opened her best preserves, two kinds. We set downtogether, an' I 'm sure I appreciated what she 'd done; but 't wa'n'tno time for real conversation whilst we was to the table, and before wegot quite through the doctor come hurryin' along, an' I had to leave. He asked us if we 'd had a good talk, as we come out, an' I could n'thelp laughing to myself; but she said quite hearty that she 'd had anice visit from me. She appeared well satisfied, Mis' Fulham did; butfor me, I was disappointed; an' early that fall she died. "

Abby Pendexter was laughing like a girl; the speaker's tone had grownmore and more complaining. "I do call that a funny experience, " shesaid. "'Better a dinner o' herbs. ' I guess that text must ha' risento your mind in connection. You must tell that to Aunt Cynthy, ifconversation seems to fail. " And she laughed again, but Mrs. Handstill looked solemn and reproachful. 

"Here we are; there 's Aunt Cynthy's lane right ahead, there by thegreat yellow birch, " said Abby. "I must say, you 've made the way seemvery short, Mis' Hand. "

III. 

Old Aunt Cynthia Dallett sat in her high-backed rocking-chair by thelittle north window, which was her favorite dwelling-place. 

"New Year's Day again, " she said, aloud, --"New Year's Day again!" Andshe folded her old bent hands, and looked out at the great woodlandview and the hills without really seeing them, she was lost in so deepa reverie. "I 'm gittin' to be very old, " she added, after a littlewhile. 

It was perfectly still in the small gray house. Outside in theapple-trees there were some blue-jays flitting about and callingnoisily, like schoolboys fighting at their games. The kitchen was fullof pale winter sunshine. It was more like late October than the firstof January, and the plain little room seemed to smile back into thesun's face. The outer door was standing open into the green dooryard, and a fat small dog lay asleep on the step. A capacious cupboard stoodbehind Mrs. Dallett's chair and kept the wind away from her corner. Its doors and drawers were painted a clean lead-color, and there wereplaces round the knobs and buttons where the touch of hands had worndeep into the wood. Every braided rug was straight on the floor. Thesquare clock on its shelf between the front windows looked as if it hadjust had its face washed and been wound up for a whole year to come. If Mrs. Dallett turned her head she could look into the bedroom, whereher plump feather bed was covered with its dark blue homespun winterquilt. It was all very peaceful and comfortable, but it was verylonely. By her side, on a light-stand, lay the religious newspaper ofher denomination, and a pair of spectacles whose jointed silver bowslooked like a funny two-legged beetle cast helplessly upon its back. 

"New Year's Day again, " said old Cynthia Dallett. Time had left nobodyin her house to wish her a Happy New Year, --she was the last one leftin the old nest. "I 'm gittin' to be very old, " she said for thesecond time; it seemed to be all there was to say. 

She was keeping a careful eye on her friendly clock, but it was hardlypast the middle of the morning, and there was no excuse for moving; itwas the long hour between the end of her slow morning work and theappointed time for beginning to get dinner. She was so stiff and lamethat this hour's rest was usually most welcome, but to-day she sat asif it were Sunday, and did not take up her old shallow splint basket ofbraiding-rags from the side of her footstool. 

"I do hope Abby Pendexter 'll make out to git up to see me thisafternoon as usual, " she continued. "I know 't ain't so easy for herto get up the hill as it used to be, but I do seem to want to see someo' my own folks. I wish 't I 'd thought to send her word I expectedher when Jabez Hooper went back after he came up here with the flour. I 'd like to have had her come prepared to stop two or three days. "

A little chickadee perched on the window-sill outside and bobbed hishead sideways to look in, and then pecked impatiently at the glass. The old woman laughed at him with childish pleasure and feltcompanioned; it was pleasant at that moment to see the life in even abird's bright eye. 

"Sign of a stranger, " she said, as he whisked his wings and flew awayin a hurry. "I must throw out some crumbs for 'em; it's getting to behard pickin' for the stayin'-birds. " She looked past the trees of herlittle orchard now with seeing eyes, and followed the long forestslopes that led downward to the lowland country. She could see the twowhite steeples of Fairfield Village, and the map of fields and pasturesalong the valley beyond, and the great hills across the valley to thewestward. The scattered houses looked like toys that had beenscattered by children. She knew their lights by night, and watched thesmoke of their chimneys by day. Far to the northward were highermountains, and these were already white with snow. Winter was alreadyin sight, but to-day the wind was in the south, and the snow seemedonly part of a great picture. 

"I do hope the cold 'll keep off a while longer, " thought Mrs. Dallett. "I don't know how I 'm going to get along after the deep snow comes. "

The little dog suddenly waked, as if he had had a bad dream, and aftergiving a few anxious whines he began to bark outrageously. Hismistress tried, as usual, to appeal to his better feelings. 

"'T ain't nobody, Tiger, " she said. "Can't you have some patience?Maybe it's some foolish boys that's rangin' about with their guns. "But Tiger kept on, and even took the trouble to waddle in on his shortlegs, barking all the way. He looked warningly at her, and then turnedand ran out again. Then she saw him go hurrying down to the bars, asif it were an occasion of unusual interest. 

"I guess somebody is comin'; he don't act as if 't were a vagrant kindo' noise; must really be somebody in our lane. " And Mrs. Dallettsmoothed her apron and gave an anxious housekeeper's glance round thekitchen. None of her state visitors, the minister or the deacons, evercame in the morning. Country people are usually too busy to govisiting in the forenoons. 

Presently two figures appeared where the road came out of thewoods, --the two women already known to the story, but very surprisingto Mrs. Dallett; the short, thin one was easily recognized as AbbyPendexter, and the taller, stout one was soon discovered to be Mrs. Hand. Their old friend's heart was in a glow. As the guestsapproached they could see her pale face with its thin white hair framedunder the close black silk handkerchief. 

"There she is at her window smilin' away!" exclaimed Mrs. Hand; but bythe time they reached the doorstep she stood waiting to meet them. 

"Why, you two dear creatur's!" she said, with a beaming smile. "Idon't know when I 've ever been so glad to see folks comin'. I had akind of left-all-alone feelin' this mornin', an' I didn't even makebold to be certain o' you, Abby, though it looked so pleasant. Comeright in an' set down. You 're all out o' breath, ain't you, Mis'Hand?"

Mrs. Dallett led the way with eager hospitality. She was the tiniestlittle bent old creature, her handkerchiefed head was quick and alert, and her eyes were bright with excitement and feeling, but the rest ofher was much the worse for age; she could hardly move, poor soul, as ifshe had only a make-believe framework of a body under a shoulder-shawland thick petticoats. She got back to her chair again, and the gueststook off their bonnets in the bedroom, and returned discreet and sedatein their black woolen dresses. The lonely kitchen was blest withsociety at last, to its mistress's heart's content. They talked asfast as possible about the weather, and how warm it had been walking upthe mountain, and how cold it had been a year ago, that day when AbbyPendexter had been kept at home by a snowstorm and missed her visit. "And I ain't seen you now, aunt, since the twenty-eighth of September, but I 've thought of you a great deal, and looked forward to comin'more'n usual, " she ended, with an affectionate glance at the pleasedold face by the window. 

"I 've been wantin' to see you, dear, and wonderin' how you was gettin'on, " said Aunt Cynthy kindly. "And I take it as a great attention tohave you come to-day, Mis' Hand, " she added, turning again towards themore distinguished guest. "We have to put one thing against another. I should hate dreadfully to live anywhere except on a high hill farm, 'cordin' as I was born an' raised. But there ain't the chance toneighbor that townfolks has, an' I do seem to have more lonely hoursthan I used to when I was younger. I don't know but I shall soon begittin' too old to live alone. " And she turned to her niece with anexpectant, lovely look, and Abby smiled back. 

"I often wish I could run in an' see you every day, aunt, " sheanswered. "I have been sayin' so to Mrs. Hand. "

"There, how anybody does relish company when they don't have but alittle of it!" exclaimed Aunt Cynthia. "I am all alone to-day; thereis going to be a shootin'-match somewhere the other side o' themountain, an' Johnny Foss, that does my chores, begged off to go whenhe brought the milk unusual early this mornin'. Gener'lly he 's abouthere all the fore part of the day; but he don't go off with the boysvery often, and I like to have him have a little sport; 't was NewYear's Day, anyway; he 's a good, stiddy boy for my wants. "

"Why, I wish you Happy New Year, aunt!" said Abby, springing up withunusual spirit. "Why, that's just what we come to say, and we like tohave forgot all about it!" She kissed her aunt, and stood a minuteholding her hand with a soft, affectionate touch. Mrs. Hand rose andkissed Mrs. Dallett too, and it was a moment of ceremony and deepfeeling. 

"I always like to keep the day, " said the old hostess, as they seatedthemselves and drew their splint-bottomed chairs a little nearertogether than before. "You see, I was brought up to it, and fathermade a good deal of it; he said he liked to make it pleasant and givethe year a fair start. I can see him now, how he used to be standingthere by the fireplace when we came out o' the two bedrooms early inthe morning, an' he always made out, poor's he was, to give us somelittle present, and he 'd heap 'em up on the corner o' the mantelpiece, an' we 'd stand front of him in a row, and mother be bustling aboutgettin' breakfast. One year he give me a beautiful copy o' the 'Lifeo' General Lafayette, ' in a green cover, --I 've got it now, but wechild'n 'bout read it to pieces, --an' one year a nice piece o' blueribbon, an' Abby--that was your mother, Abby--had a pink one. Fatherwas real kind to his child'n. I thought o' them early days when Ifirst waked up this mornin', and I could n't help lookin' up then tothe corner o' the shelf just as I used to look. "

"There's nothin' so beautiful as to have a bright childhood to lookback to, " said Mrs. Hand. "Sometimes I think child'n has too hard atime now, --all the responsibility is put on to 'em, since they take thelead o' what to do an' what they want, and get to be so toppin' an'knowin'. 'Twas happier in the old days, when the fathers an' mothersdone the rulin'. "

"They say things have changed, " said Aunt Cynthy; "but staying righthere, I don't know much of any world but my own world. "

Abby Pendexter did not join in this conversation, but sat in herstraight backed chair with folded hands and the air of a good child. The little old dog had followed her in, and now lay sound asleep againat her feet. The front breadth of her black dress looked rusty and oldin the sunshine that slanted across it, and the aunt's sharp eyes sawthis and saw the careful darns. Abby was as neat as wax, but shelooked as if the frost had struck her. "I declare, she's gittin' alongin years, " thought Aunt Cynthia compassionately. "She begins to looksort o' set and dried up, Abby does. She ought n't to live all alone;she's one that needs company. "

At this moment Abby looked up with new interest. "Now, aunt, " shesaid, in her pleasant voice, "I don't want you to forget to tell me ifthere ain't some sewin' or mendin' I can do whilst I 'm here. I knowyour hands trouble you some, an' I may's well tell you we 're bent onstayin' all day an' makin' a good visit, Mis' Hand an' me. "

"Thank ye kindly, " said the old woman; "I do want a little sewin' donebefore long, but 't ain't no use to spile a good holiday. " Her facetook a resolved expression. "I 'm goin' to make other arrangements, "she said. "No, you need n't come up here to pass New Year's Day an' beput right down to sewin'. I make out to do what mendin' I need, an' tosew on my hooks an' eyes. I get Johnny Ross to thread me up a good loto' needles every little while, an' that helps me a good deal. Abby, why can't you step into the best room an' bring out the rockin'-chair?I seem to want Mis' Hand to have it. "

"I opened the window to let the sun in awhile, " said the niece, as shereturned. "It felt cool in there an' shut up. "

"I thought of doin' it not long before you come, " said Mrs. Dallett, looking gratified. Once the taking of such a liberty would have beenvery provoking to her. "Why, it does seem good to have somebody thinko' things an' take right hold like that!"

"I 'm sure you would, if you were down at my house, " said Abby, blushing. "Aunt Cynthy, I don't suppose you could feel as if 't wouldbe best to come down an' pass the winter with me, --just durin' the coldweather, I mean. You 'd see more folks to amuse you, an'--I do thinkof you so anxious these long winter nights. "

There was a terrible silence in the room, and Miss Pendexter felt herheart begin to beat very fast. She did not dare to look at her aunt atfirst. 

Presently the silence was broken. Aunt Cynthia had been gazing out ofthe window, and she turned towards them a little paler and older thanbefore, and smiling sadly. 

"Well, dear, I 'll do just as you say, " she answered. "I 'm beat byage at last, but I 've had my own way for eighty-five years, come themonth o' March, an' last winter I did use to lay awake an' worry in thelong storms. I 'm kind o' humble now about livin' alone to what I wasonce. " At this moment a new light shone in her face. "I don't expectyou 'd be willin' to come up here an' stay till spring, --not if I hadFoss's folks stop for you to ride to meetin' every pleasant Sunday, an'take you down to the Corners plenty o' other times besides?" she saidbeseechingly. "No, Abby, I 'm too old to move now; I should behomesick down to the village. If you 'll come an' stay with me, all Ihave shall be yours. Mis' Hand hears me say it. "

"Oh, don't you think o' that; you 're all I 've got near to me in theworld, an' I 'll come an' welcome, " said Abby, though the thought ofher own little home gave a hard tug at her heart. "Yes, Aunt Cynthy, I'll come, an' we 'll be real comfortable together. I 've been lonesomesometimes"--

"'Twill be best for both, " said Mrs. Hand judicially. And so the greatquestion was settled, and suddenly, without too much excitement, itbecame a thing of the past. 

"We must be thinkin' o' dinner, " said Aunt Cynthia gayly. "I wish Iwas better prepared; but there 's nice eggs an' pork an' potatoes, an'you girls can take hold an' help. " At this moment the roast chickenand the best mince pies were offered and kindly accepted, and beforeanother hour had gone they were sitting at their New Year feast, whichMrs. Dallett decided to be quite proper for the Queen. 

Before the guests departed, when the sun was getting low, Aunt Cynthiacalled her niece to her side and took hold of her hand. 

"Don't you make it too long now, Abby, " said she. "I shall be wantin'ye every day till you come; but you must n't forgit what a set oldthing I be. "

Abby had the kindest of hearts, and was always longing for somebody tolove and care for; her aunt's very age and helplessness seemed to begfor pity. 

"This is Saturday; you may expect me the early part of the week; andthank you, too, aunt, " said Abby. 

Mrs. Hand stood by with deep sympathy. "It's the proper thing, " sheannounced calmly. "You 'd both of you be a sight happier; and truthis, Abby's wild an' reckless, an' needs somebody to stand right overher, Mis' Dallett. I guess she 'll try an' behave, but there--there 'sno knowin'!" And they all laughed. Then the New Year guests saidfarewell and started off down the mountain road. They looked back morethan once to see Aunt Cynthia's face at the window as she watched themout of sight. Miss Abby Pendexter was full of excitement; she lookedas happy as a child. 

"I feel as if we 'd gained the battle of Waterloo, " said Mrs. Hand. "I've really had a most beautiful time. You an' your aunt must n'tforgit to invite me up some time again to spend another day. "

THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 

I. 

There was a sad heart in the low-storied, dark little house that stoodhumbly by the roadside under some tall elms. Small as her house was, old Mrs. Robb found it too large for herself alone; she only needed thekitchen and a tiny bedroom that led out of it, and there still remainedthe best room and a bedroom, with the low garret overhead. 

There had been a time, after she was left alone, when Mrs. Robb couldhelp those who were poorer than herself. She was strong enough notonly to do a woman's work inside her house, but almost a man's workoutside in her piece of garden ground. At last sickness and age hadcome hand in hand, those two relentless enemies of the poor, andtogether they had wasted her strength and substance. She had alwaysbeen looked up to by her neighbors as being independent, but now shewas left, lame-footed and lame-handed, with a debt to carry and herbare land, and the house ill-provisioned to stand the siege of time. 

For a while she managed to get on, but at last it began to be whisperedabout that there was no use for any one so proud; it was easier for thewhole town to care for her than for a few neighbors, and Mrs. Robb hadbetter go to the poorhouse before winter, and be done with it. At thisterrible suggestion her brave heart seemed to stand still. The peoplewhom she cared for most happened to be poor, and she could no longer gointo their households to make herself of use. The very elms overheadseemed to say, "Oh, no!" as they groaned in the late autumn winds, andthere was something appealing even to the strange passer-by in the lookof the little gray house, with Mrs. Robb's pale, worried face at thewindow. 

II. 

Some one has said that anniversaries are days to make other peoplehappy in, but sometimes when they come they seem to be full of shadows, and the power of giving joy to others, that inalienable right whichought to lighten the saddest heart, the most indifferent sympathy, sometimes even this seems to be withdrawn. 

So poor old Mary Ann Robb sat at her window on the afternoon beforeThanksgiving and felt herself poor and sorrowful indeed. Across thefrozen road she looked eastward over a great stretch of cold meadowland, brown and wind-swept and crossed by icy ditches. It seemed toher as if before this, in all the troubles that she had known andcarried, there had always been some hope to hold: as if she had neverlooked poverty full in the face and seen its cold and pitiless lookbefore. She looked anxiously down the road, with a horrible shrinkingand dread at the thought of being asked, out of pity, to join in someThanksgiving feast, but there was nobody coming with gifts in hand. Once she had been full of love for such days, whether at home orabroad, but something chilled her very heart now. 

Her nearest neighbor had been foremost of those who wished her to go tothe town farm, and he had said more than once that it was the onlysensible thing. But John Mander was waiting impatiently to get hertiny farm into his own hands; he had advanced some money upon it in herextremity, and pretended that there was still a debt, after he clearedher wood lot to pay himself back. He would plough over the graves inthe field corner and fell the great elms, and waited now like a spiderfor his poor prey. He often reproached her for being too generous toworthless people in the past and coming to be a charge to others now. Oh, if she could only die in her own house and not suffer the pain ofhomelessness and dependence!

It was just at sunset, and as she looked out hopelessly across the grayfields, there was a sudden gleam of light far away on the low hillsbeyond; the clouds opened in the west and let the sunshine through. One lovely gleam shot swift as an arrow and brightened a far coldhillside where it fell, and at the same moment a sudden gleam of hopebrightened the winter landscape of her heart. 

"There was Johnny Harris, " said Mary Ann Robb softly. "He was asoldier's son, left an orphan and distressed. Old John Mander scolded, but I could n't see the poor boy in want. I kept him that year afterhe got hurt, spite o' what anybody said, an' he helped me what littlehe could. He said I was the only mother he 'd ever had. 'I 'm goin'out West, Mother Robb, ' says he. 'I sha'n't come back till I getrich, ' an' then he 'd look at me an' laugh, so pleasant and boyish. Hewa'n't one that liked to write. I don't think he was doin' very wellwhen I heard, --there, it's most four years ago now. I always thoughtif he got sick or anything, I should have a good home for him to cometo. There 's poor Ezra Blake, the deaf one, too, --he won't have anyplace to welcome him. "

The light faded out of doors, and again Mrs. Robb's troubles stoodbefore her. Yet it was not so dark as it had been in her sad heart. She still sat by the window, hoping now, in spite of herself, insteadof fearing; and a curious feeling of nearness and expectancy made herfeel not so much light-hearted as light-headed. 

"I feel just as if somethin' was goin' to happen, " she said. "PoorJohnny Harris, perhaps he's thinkin' o' me, if he's alive. "

It was dark now out of doors, and there were tiny clicks against thewindow. It was beginning to snow, and the great elms creaked in therising wind overhead. 

III. 

A dead limb of one of the old trees had fallen that autumn, and, poorfirewood as it might be, it was Mrs. Robb's own, and she had burnt itmost thankfully. There was only a small armful left, but at least shecould have the luxury of a fire. She had a feeling that it was herlast night at home, and with strange recklessness began to fill thestove as she used to do in better days. 

"It 'll get me good an' warm, " she said, still talking to herself, aslonely people do, "an' I 'll go to bed early. It's comin' on to storm. "

The snow clicked faster and faster against the window, and she satalone thinking in the dark. 

"There 's lots of folks I love, " she said once. "They 'd be sorry Iain't got nobody to come, an' no supper the night afore Thanksgivin'. I 'm dreadful glad they don't know. " And she drew a little nearer tothe fire, and laid her head back drowsily in the old rocking-chair. 

It seemed only a moment before there was a loud knocking, and somebodylifted the latch of the door. The fire shone bright through the frontof the stove and made a little light in the room, but Mary Ann Robbwaked up frightened and bewildered. 

"Who 's there?" she called, as she found her crutch and went to thedoor. She was only conscious of her one great fear. "They 've come totake me to the poor-house!" she said, and burst into tears. 

There was a tall man, not John Mander, who seemed to fill the narrowdoorway. 

"Come, let me in!" he said gayly. "It's a cold night. You did n'texpect me, did you, Mother Robb?"

"Dear me, what is it?" she faltered, stepping back as he came in, anddropping her crutch. "Be I dreamin'? I was a-dreamin' about-- Oh, there! What was I a-sayin'? 'T ain't true! No! I've made some kindof a mistake. "

Yes, and this was the man who kept the poorhouse, and she would gowithout complaint; they might have given her notice, but she must notfret. 

"Sit down, sir, " she said, turning toward him with touching patience. "You 'll have to give me a little time. If I 'd been notified I wouldn't have kept you waiting a minute this stormy night. "

It was not the keeper of the poorhouse. The man by the door took onestep forward and put his arm round her and kissed her. 

"What are you talking about?" said John Harris. "You ain't goin' tomake me feel like a stranger? I 've come all the way from Dakota tospend Thanksgivin'. There's all sorts o' things out here in the wagon, an' a man to help get 'em in. Why, don't cry so, Mother Robb. Ithought you 'd have a great laugh, if I come and surprised you. Don'tyou remember I always said I should come?"

It was John Harris, indeed. The poor soul could say nothing. She feltnow as if her heart was going to break with joy. He left her in therocking-chair and came and went in his old boyish way, bringing in thestore of gifts and provisions. It was better than any dream. Helaughed and talked, and went out to send away the man to bring awagonful of wood from John Mander's, and came in himself laden withpieces of the nearest fence to keep the fire going in the mean time. They must cook the beef-steak for supper right away; they must find thepound of tea among all the other bundles; they must get good firesstarted in both the cold bedrooms. Why, Mother Robb did n't seem to beready for company from out West! The great, cheerful fellow hurriedabout the tiny house, and the little old woman limped after him, forgetting everything but hospitality. Had not she a house for John tocome to? Were not her old chairs and tables in their places still?And he remembered everything, and kissed her as they stood before thefire, as if she were a girl. 

He had found plenty of hard times, but luck had come at last. He hadstruck luck, and this was the end of a great year. 

"No, I could n't seem to write letters; no use to complain o' theworst, an' I wanted to tell you the best when I came;" and he told itwhile she cooked the supper. "No, I wa'n't goin' to write no foolishletters, " John repeated. He was afraid he should cry himself when hefound out how bad things had been; and they sat down to suppertogether, just as they used to do when he was a homeless orphan boy, whom nobody else wanted in winter weather while he was crippled andcould not work. She could not be kinder now than she was then, but shelooked so poor and old! He saw her taste her cup of tea and set itdown again with a trembling hand and a look at him. "No, I wanted tocome myself, " he blustered, wiping his eyes and trying to laugh. "Andyou 're going to have everything you need to make you comfortablelong's you live, Mother Robb!"

She looked at him again and nodded, but she did not even try to speak. There was a good hot supper ready, and a happy guest had come; it wasthe night before Thanksgiving. 

Books by Sarah Orne Jewett. 

 DEEPHAVEN. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. COUNTRY BY-WAYS. THE MATE OF THE DAYLIGHT, AND FRIENDS ASHORE. A COUNTRY DOCTOR. A MARSH ISLAND. A WHITE HERON, AND OTHER STORIES. THE KING OF FOLLY ISLAND, AND OTHER PEOPLE. TALES OF NEW ENGLAND. STRANGERS AND WAYFARERS. A NATIVE OF WINBY, AND OTHER TALES. THE LIFE OF NANCY. THE COUNTRY OF THE POINTED FIRS. THE QUEEN'S TWIN AND OTHER STORIES. PLAY-DAYS. BETTY LEICESTER. BETTY LEICESTER'S CHRISTMAS.