Mr. Winthrop had telegraphed Reynolds that morning that we were coming home, and when we came in sight of Oaklands, just in the dim twilight, we found the house brilliantly lighted. There was such a genial warmth and comfort when we entered the door that I exclaimed joyously:

"After all, there is no place like home."

"Is Oaklands better than New York, do you say?" Mr. Winthrop questioned.

"This is home. To every well regulated mind that is the sweetest spot on earth."

"Without any reservation?"

"We do not need to make any when it is such a home as Oaklands."

"Possibly you may think very differently when you get better acquainted with the fascinations of city life."

"One might enjoy both, don't you think, Mr. Winthrop? The contrast would make each more delightful."

"You must try the experiment before you will be able to give a correct decision."

"It seems to me to-night one must be hard to please to want a better home than this, especially with an occasional change to city life. I cannot understand why I have so much more to make life beautiful than others—so many others—have."

"Do you think, then, that your lot is a peculiarly fortunate one?"

"If I did not think so, I would be worse than those Jews who fell to murmuring on their way to Canaan. If they could have made the journey as comfortably as I am doing they would never have said a word, I believe."

"That is quite an original way of putting it. Theologians generally are very severe on the poor Jews."

"And you are usually pretty severe on the poor theologians," I said laughingly, as I started for my room. On the way I met Reynolds, who seemed so glad to have us back that I kissed her on the spot.

"Bless your dear heart," she exclaimed, "it's like a flash of sunlight to have you bursting in on us. You remind me so much of your papa. He had just such a strong, hearty way as you."

"Oh, Reynolds, is that so? Why did you never tell me before that I was like him?"

"It did not occur to me to tell you. Does it please you to know it?"

"Certainly it does. It takes away the feeling that I am a changeling, which often haunts me when you tell me I am odd and unconventional," I said, turning to Mrs. Flaxman.

"Darling, I would rather have you just as you are. If we went to make improvements, we would only spoil a bit of God's sweetest handiwork."

"Oh, Mrs. Flaxman, what a tremendous compliment! Mr. Winthrop would read you another lecture, if he heard you say that."

"Some day we may need to lecture him," she said with a smile, and then went into her own room, leaving me a trifle perplexed over her meaning.

When we joined Mr. Winthrop in the dining room we found the table laid with its usual precision and elegance for dinner. As I stood on the hearth-rug, looking around the pleasant room, the firelight glancing on the polished silver, and china, and lighting up the beautiful pictures on the walls, no wonder the cheerful home scene made me, for the time, forget the solitary mourner with his dead, out in the cold and darkness. Mrs. Flaxman presently joined me. Drawing her an easy-chair close to the cheerful blaze I knelt on the rug beside her, the easier to stroke Fleta, the pretty Angora cat, who with her rough tongue licked my hand with affectionate welcome. Presently Mr. Winthrop joined us. His presence at first unnoticed in our busy chat, I happened to turn my head and saw him calmly regarding us. "You would make a pleasant picture, kneeling there with the firelight playing in your hair," he said, coming to my side.

"The picture would be more perfect now that you have joined us."

"No, my presence would spoil it. A child playing with her kitten needs no other figures to complete the picture."

"Ah, that spoils your compliment."

"Mr. Winthrop very judiciously mixes his sweets and bitters," Mrs. Flaxman said with a smile.

"Yes; I should be too vain if he gave me a compliment really. I wonder if he ever will do that?" I looked up into his face and saw that its expression was kindly.

"You would not wish me to spoil you. If my praising you made you vain, as you just said it would, that would be the worst unkindness."

"I want you always to be honest with me. A very slight word of praise then will have its genuine meaning."

"Now that we have once more settled our relations to each other, we will take our dinners. One must descend from the highest summits to the trivialities of eating and drinking."

"I have never seen you very high up yet, Mr. Winthrop. I do not think there is a spark of sentiment in your composition."

"Alas, that I should be so misjudged. But wait until your friend Bovyer shows you my tears."

Mrs. Flaxman generally looked a trifle worried when Mr. Winthrop and I got into conversation. This night, when I wanted every one to be happy, I held my troublesome tongue in check, and made no further reply to my guardian's badinage.

When I went to my room for the night, I drew back my curtain and looked out into the darkness of a cloudy, moonless night. It chilled me, I wondered if the baby and its father, with the cold, still form of the once happy mother, had got into the light and warmth of home. I compared our bright evening together in the drawing-room, where Mr. Winthrop had sat with us reading, or rather translating as he read, some splendid passages from his favorite classical authors, a treat not often granted, but he was, I fancied, too tired to read or study in his library alone. I too had tried to add my share to the evening's entertainment; singing mostly some German home songs to an accompaniment on the piano. He had not criticised my performance, a fact very encouraging to me.

But now, as I stood looking out into the black night, I thought of their journey over the rough roads, already beginning to freeze, the baby cold and hungry, and so tired. I turned hurriedly from the window and knelt to say my prayers, a new element entering into my petitions. Forgetting the stereotyped phrases, I remembered with peculiar vividness the impetuous prayer uttered by Mr. Lathrop at Mrs. Blake's funeral, and I too tried to bring comfort to another by prayer. There was such help in the thought that God never forgets us. I so soon forgot amid the pleasures of home-coming the sorrows of another; but He watches ever. The splendors of His throne and crowns, and the adoration of the highest intelligences never so absorbing Him as to cause forgetfulness of the humblest parish pensioner, looking Heavenward for consolation. "Oh, to be more God-like, more unforgetting!" I murmured, still lingering in the attitude of prayer. I do not think in all my life, I had got so near to the Divine Heart.

The next morning an agreeable duty awaited me. First, I had the materials for Mr. Bowen's new suit, and along with these a good many lesser gifts for one and another. In the daily papers, I studied very industriously the notices of cheap sales of dry goods while in the city; and for such a novice in the art of shopping, I made some really good bargains. When I came to get my presents all unpacked I found that Thomas' services would be required if I took all at once.

I found him at last in the kitchen, superintending the preparation of some medicine for one of his horses. Making known my errand, he consented to drive me to the Mill Road; but first assured me that it would disarrange all his plans for the day. Thomas was an old bachelor, with ways very set and precise; and his hours were divided off as regularly as a college professor's.

On our way out he informed me that the widow Larkum was very ill, with the doctor in attendance.

I was surprised that his words should give me such a sinking at the heart.

"What will become of the blind father and orphaned children if she dies?"

"They will go to the poor farm. I pity them; for that Bill Day, that has charge, is a tough subject."

"She may not die. Doctors are very often mistaken. They do not know much more about the secrets of life and death than the rest of us."

"I allow that's true; for a couple of them give me up for death, a good many years ago; and a pretty fright they give me for nothing."

"Were you afraid to die?"

"You may be sure I was. Its very unsartin work, is dying."

"Mrs. Flaxman has lent me the lives of some very good people to read. They were not afraid to die, but looked forward to it, some of them, with delight."

"They was the pious sort, that don't make much reckonin' in this life, I allow."

"I have read the lives of both kinds of people—the good, and those who were not pious. The former seemed to be the happiest always."

"They say Mr. Winthrop is a great man—writes fine works and things—but he's not happy. I take more good out of Oaklands and the horses than he does. He seems to sense the flower-gardens a good deal. I often find him there early of a summer's morning when I go to work, with a bit of paper and a pencil writing away for dear life; and he don't seem to mind me any more'n if I was one of the vegetables."

I smiled at Thomas' comparison; for now that he mentioned it, he did seem something like an animated turnip.

"I dare say he has far higher pleasures than you or I ever experience. His thoughts are like a rich kingdom to him."

"He's had some pretty bitter thoughts, I guess. He got crossed in love once, and its sort of made him dislike wimmen folks. Maybe you've noticed it yourself?" Thomas gave me a searching look.

"I did not know he ever cared for a woman in his life. I thought he was above such things," I murmured, too astonished to think of a proper reply.

"There's very few men get up that high, I reckon; leastaways, I've never sot eyes on them."

I turned a quizzical look on Thomas, which he understood—his face reddened.

"I don't claim to be one of the high kind, but I allow Oaklands is better for me than a wife. I never sot great store by wimmen folks. They're sort of pernicketty cattle to manage; I'd sooner take to horses; and if one happens to die, you don't feel so cut up like as if it was a wife. Now there's Dan Blake. Marrying's been enough sight more worryment to him than comfort. I've figgured up the pros and cons close, and them that keeps single don't age near as fast as the married ones. There's the widow Larkum, if she'd kept single, she'd have been young and blooming now. Human folks is many of them very poor witted," Thomas concluded, with fine scorn, and then he was silent.

My thoughts went off in eager surprise over that strange episode in Mr. Winthrop's life, wondering what sort of a woman it was who had power so to mar his happiness, and why she had not responded to his love, and all the fascinating story that my sense of honor prevented me from finding out from Thomas, or Mrs. Blake, or even Mrs. Flaxman. Now that I had quiet to think it over, it seemed like desecration to have the stolid, phlegmatic Thomas talk about it.

He turned to me abruptly. "Have they never mentioned Mr. Winthrop's trouble to you?"

"No, Thomas, they have not."

"Well, that's curious; but quality has different ways from nateral folks. Well, you see, she was handsomer than any picture; looked as well as you'd think an angel could look, and better dressed than they generally seem to be; for any pictures I've seen of them they've only had a long cloth around them without cut or pattern, and their wings. I've often thought they weren't overhandy with the needle. And the day for the wedding was sot." I stopped him there.

"Would you tell me this if you knew I should repeat all you said to Mr. Winthrop?"

"I guess not; he'd turn me off without my dinner, if he knew."

"You may be sure I shall not tell him; but nevertheless it is not honest for us to be talking on such a subject."

"I see you are like the rest of them. You seemed to have such a fellow feeling for poor folks, we've concluded you were more like us than them."

"Perhaps I am, Thomas; but gentle or simple, we ought to be alike honorable. The Bible has only one code of morals for us all."

"Very few that I know pays much attention to Bible rules. But here we are at the Blakes'. I'll hitch the horse and carry in the bundles since you want them left here. Hang it, if there ain't that ugly critter of Dan's coming for us."

Thomas sprang back into the carriage, and looked a good deal alarmed as he saw me turn to meet Tiger and pat the animal's huge head.

He fawned delightedly around me, licking my gloved hand whenever he could get the chance.

"You need not be afraid, Thomas. I won't let him hurt you."

"I won't risk him. He's the crossest brute in Cavendish."

"Why, Tiger, what a character to get!"

To my surprise the dog looked up at Thomas, and uttered an angry growl.

"See, now; I believe the brute understands what I say."

"Come with me, Tiger." I started for the house. Tiger stood a moment uncertainly, and then trotted after me. Mrs. Blake's face was radiant when she opened the door in answer to my knock.

"You're a thousand times welcome back; and my! but you're needed."

"That is encouraging news. But, Mrs. Blake, won't you hide Tiger away somewhere? Thomas is afraid of him, and, I think, not without reason."

"I wish't Daniel 'd sell him; he frightens folks from the house," she said, with much discontent, driving Tiger unceremoniously into the back porch.

Thomas soon had the bundles laid on the kitchen table, and the carriage turned homewards, while I began unrolling the prints and flannels, frocks and pinafores, for the Mill Road pensioners. Mrs. Blake watched eagerly; but at last exclaimed:

"Dear me! it must a cost you a mint of money to get all these."

"About the price of one evening dress."

"I hope you got all the things, then, you needed for yourself."

"Yes, and more, I fear, than I really needed. But Mrs. Flaxman says we owe it to our position in society to dress becomingly; but the question to my mind is, how far it is necessary to go to pay that social debt? When I see a family like the Larkums, my conscience tells me I owe them a heavier debt than society."

"I can't understand why some people have no conscience, and other so much. It seems to me now you have just a little too much for one of your age."

"Please don't you discourage me, Mrs. Blake. I meet too much everywhere else. But for you I might never have given a thought to the poor and needy."

Mrs. Blake went to the window and stood looking out for some time in silence, while I sat with my hand on Tiger's head, whom I had liberated after Thomas went away. I looked down into the brown eyes that were gazing up at me with dumb affection.

"Do you really like me so very much, Tiger?" I said, stooping down to gratify him with a touch of my face.

"I do believe he thinks more of you than of anybody. I've not seen him look so good-natured since I come here as he does now." I fancied that I saw traces of tears on her face, and was surprised at it, for she was not the kind of woman constantly bubbling over, and rarely showed the tender side of her nature, save in kindly deeds. Again she began inspecting my goodly array of dry goods with keen interest, inquiring the prices, and passing shrewd comments on the bargains I had made.

"I'm afraid the Larkums won't need your gifts. If they go to the poor-house, it won't be worth while giving them anything; the town'll provide."

"I do not think they will go there. Mrs. Larkum will get better, after awhile."

"It might do her good to hear you say; so would you mind coming over this morning to see her? I go in every day to see to them."

I gathered up a large bundle of flannels and prints, for herself and children, along with the parcel containing Mr. Bowen's cloth, while Mrs. Blake was getting ready. She came to the table, where I stood arranging my parcels.

"Are these to go to the widow's now?" she asked.

"Yes, if we can carry all at once."

"I'll see to that. I've taken many a heavier load a good deal farther."

"But I will share the burden with you."

"No, it looks better for me to have my arms full than you; and, anyway, I want to do something to help them, and you too."

I humored her fancy, only insisting on relieving her of my present for Mr. Bowen. It was the most precious package in the lot; and I feared she might drop it. When we reached the door of the Larkum cottage she halted.

"You won't like the look of things here to-day. There's only the neighbors to look after them; and the most of us has more'n enough to do home."

"If I am such a poor soldier as to be so easily frightened as that, you would be ashamed of me. When they endure it all the time, surely I may for a few minutes."

"But you're not used to it."

She entered without knocking, when a scene met my gaze that fully equaled Mrs. Blake's warning. The fire was quite out, and I could see no fuel at hand to kindle it, Mr. Bowen sat in the window trying to extract some warmth from the dull, November sunshine; the baby crying wearily in his arms, probably from cold and hunger combined; the other two children had curled themselves up in an old rug, their bright eyes watching us with eager longing, the house itself was the picture of desolation.

I shivered under my warm fur cloak, and with difficulty restrained myself from rushing from the place; but Mrs. Blake, laying down her bundle with a sigh of relief, bade Mr. Bowen good morning in her usual cheerful way; he responded with equal cheerfulness, still ignorant of my presence there. "You find us a little cold to-day," he said, as if it were the merest accident; "but wood has given out, and the morning seems rather cool."

I looked at him in amazement. How could he speak so calmly under the circumstances?

"How is Mrs. Larkum, to-day?"

"Pretty low, I am sorry to say. The doctor says she needs beef-tea and wine."

"It's easy for doctors to prescribe."

"He thinks she might come around if she had proper nourishment. But we are in the Lord's hands," he added patiently.

"Yes, and I guess the Lord has sent one of His ravens to look after you. Not that Miss Selwyn looks like a raven—she's more like a lily."

"Is Miss Selwyn here?" he asked, turning around eagerly.

"Yes, I reached home last evening. I am sorry to find you in such trouble."

"The Lord knows what is best for us. I want nothing but what He wills for me. If pain, and poverty come, they are His evangels, and should I dare to repine?"

"Perhaps He has seen that you are patient under severity, and He may send comfort now."

"My Father is rich and wise, therefore I am content; for I know His kindness is without limit."

I looked in his face. A grave, refined expression lent dignity to features already handsome, while there was a serenity one of the Old Masters might have coveted to reproduce on one of their immortal pictured faces.

"Your daughter shall have all the nourishment the doctor orders after this; and I believe she will soon be better. The Lord is more pitiful than we are," I said, gently.

"God will reward you, my dear friend. Pardon me for calling you such; but you have indeed been a friend in adversity."

"I am glad to be a friend of one who is the friend of God. I esteem it both an honor and privilege."

"I pray God you may very soon hold the dearer relation to Himself of child, if you are not that already." He turned his face to me with an eager, expectant expression.

"No, not in the way you speak of. I am no nearer to Him than I was in childhood. It is only of late I realized the need to be reconciled to Him."

"He answers prayer." There was such a ring of joyful faith in his voice I felt convinced there was one praying for me who had a firm hold on God.

I turned to Mrs. Blake, who was busying herself in trying to make a fire.

"Where can we get some coals, or do they burn wood?" I asked.

"They sell the waste at the mill pretty cheap for kindlings, but the coal is far cheapest."

"Can we get some directly?"

"Yes, with the money," she said, grimly.

I took out my purse—alas, now far from full—when would I learn economy?

I gave her two dollars. "Will that buy enough for the present?" I asked anxiously; for I was exceedingly ignorant of household furnishings.

"Deary me, yes; it'll last for a month or more." I was greatly relieved. By that time a little private venture of my own might be bringing me in some money. I told Mrs. Blake to present the dry goods as soon as I was out of the house. I fancied they would have an indirect medicinal effect on the sick woman.

"I shall go home immediately and get Mrs. Reynolds to make some beef tea. She will keep Mrs. Larkum supplied, I am sure, as long as there is need, and I will either bring or send a bottle of wine directly," I said encouragingly to Mr. Bowen, whose face under all circumstances seemed to wear the same expression of perfect peace.

"I have not language to express my gratitude, but you do not ask for thanks." The assertion was something in the form of a question.

"I have a feeling that you will make me the debtor before long," I murmured softly, and then took my leave. Reynolds entered very heartily into my scheme for relieving Mrs. Larkum, and Mrs. Flaxman, always eager to help others when once her attention was aroused, packed a generous hamper of wine and preserves, fresh eggs and prints of delicious Alderney butter, and fresh fruits, with more solid provisions, and sent them around by the uncomplaining Thomas, at an hour that suited his convenience. Cook also gave me a good basket full of cooked provisions; so I set out with Thomas very well provided for at least a week's siege. I found Mrs. Blake still at the Larkums. She had been in the mean time very busy getting them made comfortable; and while so doing had taken minute stock of their ways and means. "I had no idea they was so bad off," she assured me in whispered consultation. "There was the barrel of flour she got with the money you give her, and not another airthly thing in the house to eat but some salt and about a peck of potatoes."

"Did Mr. Bowen know this morning there was so little?"

"Sartinly; but I believe he'd starve afore he'd let on; he kinder looks to the Lord for his pervisions, and he thinks it's a poor sort of faith to ask human beings. I think he's most too good for such a forgetting world as this is."

"The Lord has provided abundantly to-day, Mrs. Blake."

"I won't allow but somebody has. Maybe the Lord put it in your heart, I can't say for sartin. It's a curious mixed up world, and we don't know where men leaves off and the Lord begins; but that blind man is a Christian, and if there is such a thing as religion he's got it and no mistake."

As I looked around at the changed appearance of everything about me I concluded Mrs. Blake did the work of the Christian, even if she made no profession. The house had been scrubbed, the stove nicely polished, and the children's faces shone with the combined effects of soap and water and the good cheer that was being provided.

Mr. Bowen was sitting back, as if afraid of absorbing too much of the heat, rocking the cradle and singing in a rich, low voice one of the most beautiful hymns I ever heard, the look of peace that came from some unseen source still lighting his face. With Mrs. Blake's assistance, and with occasional exclamations of delight, on her part I unpacked the hamper and then I took a little wine and a bunch of grapes in to Mrs. Larkum. I was shocked at the change a few weeks had made in her appearance. She saw the pained look in my face and her own countenance fell.

"Mrs. Blake told me you seemed sure I would get better. Do you think now there is no hope?" she asked pitifully.

"I shall not give you up until we try the effect of these," I said cheerfully, putting the cup that contained the wine to her lips and laying the grapes in her hand. She took a sip or two and then put the cup aside. "I have eaten so little for several days you would soon make me intoxicated with that rich wine. I never tasted any like it," she said, with a pitiful attempt at a smile. I got out a slice of cook's home-made bread, and toasting it before the fire, with Mrs. Blake's help, we soon had a dainty lunch prepared for her with jelly, and a cup of tea with real cream, an unknown delicacy in her cottage, floating on the top. I carried it and watched while she ate it all. "Perhaps it may kill me," she said, plaintively, "but I believe I am more hungry than sick. This cold cut me right down, and I had nothing to tempt my appetite."

"I believe Miss Selwyn is one of them wonderful people what has the gift of healing. I've heard tell of 'em, but I never seen one," Mrs. Blake said, regarding me at the same time very seriously.

"I shouldn't wonder," Mrs. Larkum responded calmly. "I made up my mind only this morning it was useless for me to expect to get round again; and I was nearly heartbroken thinking of poor father and the children going on the parish."

"A nice new frock, and good vittels ain't bad medsin for poor folks sometimes," Mrs. Blake said dryly.

"That is true; but I was feeling very low and weak," Mrs. Larkum said, apologetically.

"We all know that, and more'n yourself was afraid it might go hard with you."

"So we have decided that it was the food and clothes that have wrought the miracle, and not any unusual healing virtues in me," I said, quite relieved; for the change wrought was so sudden and great, I began to feel uneasy lest I might be possessed unconsciously of some mysterious power.

Mrs. Larkum smiled gently. "I am not sure of that. I find you always make me happier whenever I see you. I seem to get a fresh hold on hope, as if there might yet be something in store for us."

"I understand why you feel that way. I am glad it is no mere inexplicable experience." I went into the kitchen thinking to give Mr. Bowen and the children a few of the surplus dainties.

He had ceased singing, but was sitting with uplifted face, as if in deep communion with God; his lips moved, but no sound escaped.

The eldest boy seeing me hesitate came to my side and whispered softly. "Mother says we are not to speak when grandfather looks like that—cos he's praying." I stood holding the child's hand, an indescribable sensation stealing over me while I stood gazing into the rapt, sightless face.

Never before in great cathedral, or humble church, had I felt the awful presence of God as at that moment. A strange trembling seized me, and, involuntarily I turned my head away, as if I were gazing too boldly upon holy things. I was reminded of the ancient high priest of the Jewish religion who, once a year, took his life in his hand, and went into the Holy of Holies, to gaze on the Divine token.

The child, too, stood silently with bated breath, perhaps more deeply impressed than his wont at seeing my emotion. After awhile he pulled my hand gently and then motioned for me to stoop down to him. I did so.

"Grandad prays every day for you. I hear him myself." He looked up into my face with a curious expression of importance at having such a secret to tell, and surprise that I should need his grandfather's prayers.

A sharp knock at the door broke the spell that was holding us in such holy quiet.

Mrs. Blake hastened to open it, when a strangely familiar voice sounded on my ear.

There was a hearty ring of welcome in her voice as she bade him welcome.

"Come right in; you'll find things better'n you might expect."

I turned to see who was coming. A swift and kindly look of recognition in the deep, blue eyes took me back to my first experience of Cavendish; and an instant after I recollected, with a good deal of satisfaction, that it was the Rev. Mr. Lathrop, whom I first saw at Mrs. Daniel Blake's funeral. He extended his hand with such hearty cordiality that I gave him mine in return with a good bit of my heart along with it.

"I am glad to see you here." It was not so much in the words themselves as the way he spoke them, that such welcome meaning was conveyed.

"Indeed, you may be," Mrs. Blake responded.

I saw Mr. Bowen eagerly waiting to speak to his minister, and even the children were edging up to him with expectant faces. "He always brings us apples," my little lad explained to me in a whisper.

With entire change of voice he turned to Mr. Bowen and said:—"How fares it with you, brother, in the darkness?"

"Well, all is well."

In low, sympathetic tones he asked:—"He still provides songs in the night?"

"Yes, almost as sweet as if Heaven itself were stooping to hear."

"You have learned the secret God reveals to but few of us."

"Ah, brother, the fault is all in us, not in Him. Gracious as he is to me, all might share with me in this blessed inheritance."

Mr. Lathrop turned to me. "Our friend here certainly has meat to eat of which very few get the full taste."

"I did not know there could be such joy in religion. It is a revelation to me, sir."

"Yes, we go out of our way to help others, not expecting to be repaid, and sometimes one of God's angels meets us in human guise, and brings us a blessing compared with which our poor gift sinks into insignificance." He spoke to me in a low-tone. Mr. Bowen could not hear; indeed he seemed never to notice conversation not addressed to him personally. I fancied that his own thoughts were more agreeable than average conversation. I stood uncertainly, longing to remain to hear more of the conversation passing between these two men, but afraid I might thereby violate some unwritten social code. I knew very little of the relation between pastor and people at that time, especially in America.

Mrs. Blake possibly read my face. She came to me and said:—"Won't you stay to prayers? I guess most all the churches'll listen to each other reading the Scripters and praying. I know they'd take it as a favor." She tried to speak softly but Mrs. Blake's voice had not been trained to fine modulations, and I felt certain Mr. Lathrop overheard her remark.

"I would like to stay if I am not intruding."

"I guess the best of Christians never reckon folks in the way when they're praying together, though I shouldn't say much about them, not being one myself," she said, dryly.

I sat down quite near to Mr. Bowen. I wanted to study his face, and as I listened in silence, the conversation between the pastor and this member of his flock was a new and beautiful revelation to me. The one seemed to help the other, while no stain of worldliness marred the even flow of their words. After awhile Mrs. Blake handed the minister a well-worn Bible. He opened it and turned the leaves thoughtfully, pausing at last at the 103d Psalm. I looked at Mr. Bowen while Mr. Lathrop was reading. His lips were softly moving as if in responsive worship, the expression of his face like a thanksgiving Psalm.

A moment's pause in the reading while the leaves were turned, and then the lesson was chosen from the 17th of St. John's Gospel and selections from the ten last chapters of Revelation. I fancied that in the pause between his reading the minister was asking to be directed to the right passages. Every verse seemed to bring its own special consolation, and I was almost as much impressed with the look on Mr. Bowen's face at last, as by the words that fell on my ears. It reminded me of the faces the Old Masters have left us of the saints and martyrs of the early church. Perhaps they took their models from just such men as Mr. Bowen, whom God had left in the furnace until his own image was reflected in them. But my deepest emotions were stirred when, kneeling with the rest, I listened to Mr. Lathrop's prayer.

As I listened, I had no longer any doubt as to the future well-being of this family; but, when just at the close of his prayer, my name was mentioned, and the fulfillment asked for the promise given by Christ, that even a cup of cold water given in his name should be rewarded, a strange sense of awe came over me. Was it possible I had been giving direct to Christ—visiting His sick, and poor, and sorrowing, and making Him glad? My eyes filled with tears, and a deep longing took possession of my heart to know this mighty Friend who died for me, in the same real, blessed way that these men knew, and loved Him. There were few words spoken after the prayer was ended. The place seemed holy ground and, shortly after, Mr. Lathrop left, first going to the little lad who had given me his whispered confidence, and dropped a few silver coins in his chubby fist. He stood regarding the money complacently until the door had closed on the minister, and then, going to his grandfather, he showed, with great glee, his store of money.

"We will have everything now that we want, won't we, grandfather?" he questioned, placing the money in his grandfather's hands.

"We will always have what is best for us, Freddie; but you must never take the minister's money again. You should give to him, instead of taking from him."

"So I must," Freddie responded, rather sorrowfully; "but may I take his apples?"

"Well, yes; you may do that, and, some day, when you are a big boy, and earning money, you can buy him a whole barrel full."

"I might keep a few of them?" Freddie questioned, such extreme generosity overpowering his imagination.

"We will see when the time comes."

Mrs. Blake beckoned me to her side, at the further end of the room.

"I didn't give him these; I put 'em out of sight till you'd come."

"But I wanted him to get them while I was away."

"Yes, I know; but it'll be easier to thank you right off, when he's surprised. My! he'd soon have been able to fly; his clothes is that ragged."

"Yes, they are very poor; but, some way, one don't see much but his face. I forget that he is poor and ragged when I look at him."

"We're not all so blind as that. I'm going now to tell him."

"Mr. Bowen, you'll think it never rains but it pours. I've another surprise for you."

"What is it?" He turned his face in the direction of her voice.

"Miss Selwyn got you the finest piece of cloth I've sot eyes on this many a day, to make you a new suit of clothes. Just feel of that, now."

He stroked it softly for a moment, and then turned his flushed face to me. "You will bankrupt us with your generosity, Miss Selwyn. But God will pay you. He is rich and wise."

"You are paying me, too, Mr. Bowen. Prayers are better than gold."

He said nothing, but took up a fold of the cloth and stroked it, I thought, lovingly.

"I need no longer envy the swallows who build their nests in the eaves of the Lord's house. How my soul will rejoice to meet once more with His people! 'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits.'"

For a moment he seemed to forget our presence. Mrs. Blake, always practical, brought us all down to earth again by suggesting that we get the suit made as soon as possible.

"If the tailor will cut it for us, a few of us women folk will come in and make it right off, so's he can get to meeting. Dan'el'll be glad to come and take him there every Sunday."

"I could lead grandfather," little Fred stoutly asserted. "I've been past there lots of times."

"Are women as good tailors as men?" I asked, doubtfully.

"I reckon not; but they're enough sight cheaper, especially when they work for nothing. Tailors is awful dear."

"I want the clothes to look nicely. I will pay the tailor."

"We can make the vest and pants well enough if he cuts 'em and makes the coat. S'pose we call and see him on our way home?"

I complied with her request, and found the tailor's establishment a very humble affair on the Mill Road. Mrs. Blake negotiated with him entirely, but he always directed his remarks to me.

"If I hadn't a family of my own to support these hard times, I'd do it for nothing," he assured me, over and over; "but I'll do it for half price. My time, you know, is all the money I have, and one must look out first for their own."

I found he was a prosy, weak-minded creature, who, although time was so precious, would have stood talking to me of its great value by the hour, if I had patience to listen. I thanked him for his offer, but assured him I would pay his usual price for the work. Mrs. Blake, however, stipulated that she and her neighbors would relieve him of all but the coat, and I could see he was not pleased with her interference. This matter settled, I hastened home, very uncertain how Mr. Winthrop would regard so much of my time being spent on the Mill Road, if he should discover I had been there twice that day. When I got home Mrs. Flaxman told me he had asked for me each time that I was there, but he did not say anything to me.