The doctor lent them money enough to hire a pleasant, sunny room in the village street, where her mother could sit and watch the passers by when she was tired of knitting and reading, for she was alone now almost all the day, and Violet was mistress of the village school.

One morning, as Mary sat in her comfortable chair, and was wishing old Reuben could see what a beautiful home she had, a carriage drove to the door below, and then came a knock at her own door, and Dr. Story entered.

"I have come to give you a ride this pleasant day," he said. "We will call for Violet. Wouldn't you like to see how I have improved the old blackberry field?"

Mary was delighted. She had never ridden in a carriage in her life; and to go in that splendid one of the doctor's, with velvet cushions, and footmen behind! She sat very straight, you may be sure, and kept tucking in her gown; for though it was new, she was afraid it might harm the seats, and her wrinkled face was shining all over with smiles.

They met Violet on her way home from school, and she was almost as much pleased as the old lady with her ride.

But what was their surprise to find, instead of the little footpath, a broad avenue through the pasture, with young trees on each side, and the hill where the blackberry vines had been, covered with waving oats, and in front of Violet's own beloved wood a beautiful great house large as a palace!

"But now look on the other side," said Dr. Story.

Where the old hut had stood was the prettiest little cottage you ever saw, with the very clematis, and honeysuckle, and wild roses Violet had planted trained over it; and there was Reuben's garden all in order, just as they had left it; and under the great elm tree there was his grave, with a new white stone at the head, and the old man's name and age cut in it.

They alighted at the cottage door, and Violet noticed how the air was perfumed with her own favorite flowers. While Alfred stooped to gather some of these for Violet, his father said,—

"Do you remember, Mary, whose birthday this is?"

"Sure enough, it's Violet's!" exclaimed the old woman.

"And this," said the doctor, "is Violet's birthday present—this house and garden, and these beds of flowers."

But before they could thank him, he added,—

"In return, you are to give up your school, and teach my own children. Will you do it, Violet? They are so young it will be easy at first, and meantime you shall have teachers yourself."

Pleased as Violet and Mary were, I don't think they were half as glad as Alfred, who threw his book down into the grass so suddenly at his father's speech, I should not be surprised if it broke fairy Ambition's head.