Clematis did help Mr. Alder, and tried hard, in her way, to make herself useful.

She helped Mrs. Alder too, for she went on errands to the village every time she was asked.

Every day she went to the Post Office. She took home the letters and carried home bundles from the stores.

Clematis loved this walk, because the road ran down by Knapp’s saw mill, and by the river.

Near the stocking mill, the river came right up to the road, and she could even see the little fish, in the clear water.

Sometimes she stopped longer than she thought, and was late getting back, but Mrs. Alder did not scold her.

“The less we expect of her, the less we shall be disappointed,” she would say.

On Sunday, they all went down to church to hear Mr. Sampson preach.

He smiled at her in his kindly way, when she went out.

“Let me see, I don’t know your name, do I?” he asked, taking her hand.

“It’s Clematis.”

“Well, Clematis, I’m glad to see you. I hope you will come again.”

“That little girl looks just like another little girl I used to know,” he said to Mr. Alder.

“She is here for a week or two. Doctor Wyatt sent her up.” Mr. Alder whispered to him a minute, before they went away.

“How would you like to take a long walk this afternoon, Clematis?” said Mr. Alder, while she was eating her ice cream and cake.

“Oh, yes, let’s.” Clematis was glad enough. She never liked Sundays very well.

“Good, we can walk up Bean Hill, if you think you can go that far.”

“Oh, I can walk farther than that.”

So they started out, while Mrs. Alder lay down for a nap.

They didn’t go by the road, but crossed the river in a boat that Mr. Alder kept tied to the bank.

Then they walked through the trees and meadows by the path.

Clematis was full of joy. New birds sang here. New trees, and new flowers met her at each turn.

After they had walked about a mile, they came to a little cabin, set among maple trees.

“Who lives here?” asked Clematis. It looked like the cabins she had seen in her picture books.

“No one lives here now. This is where they boil down their sap in the spring. They make maple syrup, and maple sugar.”

There were the big pans, turned upside down, and the pails that caught the sap.

Her mouth watered as she thought of all the maple sugar they had made in that little cabin. She wanted to stay longer, but Mr. Alder started on.

“We must get along, I want to see Mr. Brooks before we go home.”

“Who is Mr. Brooks?”

“Mr. Brooks is a good man who lives over here on the side of Bean Hill. He lives all alone by himself.”

“Oh,” replied Clematis, “is he the man who owns the white house with the vines, and has had so much sadness?”

“Yes. How did you know about him?”

“Mr. Ladd stopped near his house. He told me.”

The walk was a long one, and Clematis was glad when she saw the little cottage on the hillside.

“Here we are. There is Mr. Brooks now, working over his flowers.” Mr. Alder went over to the little garden, where a man with white hair was pulling out weeds.

“Good day, Mr. Alder. Glad enough to see you. Come up and sit on the piazza.”

Mr. Brooks smiled, as he wiped his hands.

“And here is a lady, too,” he added. “I believe I have never met her.”

He held out his hand to Clematis with a kindly smile, and led them to the piazza.

Mr. Alder told him who she was, while Clematis was looking at the neat little cottage.

A vine was growing about the door, with little white flowers, peeping out from its green leaves.

Mr. Brooks saw her looking at it.

“Do you like the flowers?” he asked.

“Yes,—it is just the same.”

“What do you mean? What is just the same?”

“Why, just the same vine as the one on the white house.”

“She saw the old home place when she drove over with Mr. Ladd,” said Mr. Alder. “She remembered the vine.”

“I am glad you like it. You ought to like it, Clematis, because it has your own name,” added Mr. Alder.

“Well, well, is her name Clematis?” Mr. Brooks took her on his knee and looked into her face.

“I wish I had a little girl like you,” he said.

She sat there on his knee, while he talked with Mr. Alder.

“I hope you will come again, Clematis. You will, if you get a chance, won’t you?” Mr. Brooks said, as they started to go.

He brought out a big, sweet pear, and put it into her hand.

“You can eat that on the way home,” he said.

All the way home Clematis kept thinking of Mr. Brooks, and the vine, and how he had looked into her face while she sat on his knee.

She had never known any father or mother, and people didn’t have time to hold her that way at the Home.

“Could we go again?” she asked, as they crossed the river.

“Well, perhaps. We’ll see.”

When they got home, Mrs. Alder was sitting on the back steps.

Beside her, in the grass, lay three dead chickens.

“How on earth did those chickens get killed?” asked Mr. Alder, as he took one in his hand.

“Why on earth did that child ever bring her old cat up here? That’s what I’d like to know.” Mrs. Alder was cross.

“Did Deborah do that? Dear me! We’ll have to shut her up in the loft.”

“That’s where she is, and that’s where she’ll stay,” said Mrs. Alder. “Remember now, Clematis. Don’t you let her get out again.”

“Yes’m,” said Clematis.

She didn’t know what else to say, so she went sadly to the loft. There she found Deborah, sleeping sweetly, as if she had never done a thing wrong in the world.

She sat down by the open window, and looked across the river valley, and across the lake, to the mountains.

“Oh dear!” she sighed.

She heard Mrs. Alder speaking.

“I don’t care, I think the Doctor was asking a good deal of us, to keep a strange child like that.”

“Well, Mary, never mind. It is only for a few days longer. I guess we can stand it. Think of the pleasure it gives Clematis.”

Mr. Alder spoke kindly, but as Clematis heard the words, she turned pale.

“Only a few days more. Only a few days more.” The words went through her mind again and again.

She had never thought about going back. Two weeks seems a long, long time to little girls. Only a few days more before she must leave Tilton.

Clematis put her elbows on the window sill, and rested her chin in her hands.

The sun was setting behind the maple tree. The golden rays gleamed in the white mist that had risen from the river, for it was a cold evening.

In the distance the Belmont mountains were a deep, misty blue, and the clouds above them all white and gold.

Now all the valley was filling with a golden mist. The birds were singing in the trees along the banks of the river. They filled the evening air with joyous songs.

“Only a few days more. Only a few days more.”

Soon she must go back to the brick walls, and the yard with the high fence around it.

When Mr. Alder came to call Clematis for supper, her eyes were red, and her cheeks pale.

“Never mind, dear little girl,” he said. “We’ll keep Deborah shut up. I guess we can spare the chickens. We have plenty more.”

She said nothing, but went silently in for the evening meal. She had forgotten all about the chickens. All through supper the words ran in her head, and the last thing in her mind as she fell asleep was this thought:

“Only a few days more.”