Winter passed, spring came, and April was half over before the twin cousins met again. Then it was Milly’s turn to go to Laurel Grove to see Flaxie. She had written a postal-card slowly, and with great pains, to say “she should be there to-morrow if it was pleasant.”

But how it did rain! It had rained for two days as if the sky meant to pour itself away in tears; but on Wednesday the sun came rushing through the clouds, his face all aglow with smiles, and put an end to such dismal business. The rain ceased, the clouds scampered away and hid themselves, and the sky cleared up as bright as if nothing had ever been the matter.

Sweet little Milly looked out of the window, heard the birds sing, and whispered in her heart:

“Oh, how kind God is to give me a good day to go to Laurel Grove!”

She didn’t own a pretty valise of brown canvas with leather straps like Flaxie’s. All in the world she had was an old bandbox trunk that belonged to her mother, and she took no care of that, for Milly never “travelled alone.”

“Well, little sobersides,” said her father, putting the check in his pocket, the ticket in his hat, and opening a car-window before he sat down beside Milly. “Well, little sobersides, are you glad you’re going visiting?”

“Yes, sir,” said she, her eyes shining. She didn’t laugh and clap her hands quite as much as Flaxie did, but you always knew when she was happy by the glad look in her eyes.

“I hope you two little folks won’t get into too much mischief at Laurel Grove. Are you going to school?”

“Yes, sir; and oh, it’s such an elegant schoolhouse!”

“Well, don’t set it on fire.”

Milly blushed.

“But the teacher isn’t half so nice as Miss Pike.”

The dear little girl had not been at Laurel Grove for a long while, but all the people in town seemed to remember her,—Mr. Lane the minister, Mr. Snow the postmaster, and everybody they met in the street. Her father noticed how they smiled upon her, as if they loved her, and it made his heart glad.

Preston drove his uncle and cousin home from the depot, but he almost ran into a lumber-wagon, and Mr. Allen thought he was too young a boy to be trusted with such a fiery horse as Whiz. Flaxie sat with him on the front seat of the carriage, dancing up and down, and turning around to say to Milly:

“Oh, I’m so happy I can’t keep still.” She looked like a bluebird, in her blue dress and sash, with a white chip bonnet, blue ribbon and blue feather, and Milly thought there was not another such girl in the world.

It was a charming place at Dr. Gray’s, and the house was full of beautiful things, such as Milly did not see at her own home; but that never made her discontented or unhappy. If God gave Flaxie prettier things than He gave her, it was because He thought best to do so, and that was enough for Milly.

“O Aunt Emily, are you glad to see me?” said she, as Mrs. Gray kissed her over and over again.

“Yes, I’m just as glad as I can be, and I wish you were my own little girl,” said Mrs. Gray, who had five children already.

The “little bit-of-est” one was a year old now, and didn’t know Milly at all, but Phil know her and prattled away to her so fast that nobody else could be heard.

That afternoon she and Flaxie were in the stable, feeding Whiz with lumps of sugar, while the dog, Tantra Bogus, capered about them, giving their cheeks a “thou-sand” kisses with his long, loving tongue.

“Stop, Tantra Bogus; now we’ll have to go and wash our faces,” said Flaxie.

As they entered the kitchen by the outside door they met Mrs. Gray standing there talking to Preston.

“Here is a cup of jelly,” said she, “and I’d like to have you take it to Sammy Proudfit.”

This was Wednesday afternoon, and Preston was starting to go about half a mile up town to recite an extra lesson to his teacher, Mr. Garland.

“Oh, you’re coming too, are you?” said he, looking around at Flaxie and Milly, who were skipping along behind him, drawing a handsome doll’s carriage.

“Yes, we are going up on the bank to play with Blanche Jones and Fanny Townsend: mamma said we might,” replied Flaxie, dancing.

Preston was very glad of the company of two such happy little girls, only he forgot to say so.

“And we’ve built a house of birch bark under the trees. But it hasn’t any stove-pipe!” said Flaxie, who had never forgotten that unfortunate house that Jack built.

“And we’re going to have a doll’s party in it,” remarked Milly.

“Oh, no, not a party, it’s a reception,” corrected Flaxie; “that’s what Fanny Townsend says they call ’em in Washington. My biggest dolly, Christie Gretchen, is going to receive. Oh, you don’t know how beautifully she’s dressed! And all the other dollies are coming to call on her, with the cunningest little cards in their pockets.”

“Oh, do your dollies play cards?”

“No, indeed; it’s visiting cards,—don’t you know?—with their names printed on them, just like ladies. Ninny did that.”

As they chattered in this way they were drawing near the Proudfit house, which stood at the foot of the hill, and little Milly sang,

“There was an old woman lived under the hill;”Preston sang to the same tune:

“And she had a little boy who was not very ill,
And he went to bed, and he lies there still.”

“Why, Preston Gray, did you make that all up yourself?” cried Flaxie, amazed at his genius.

But there was no time for more poetry, even if Preston had been able to make it, for they were standing now at the door. It was an old, tumble-down house. The children called it black, and in fact it was a sort of slate-color, though it had never been painted at all, except by the sun, wind, and rain. In the road before it three dirty children were poking sand, and they looked so shabby that Milly whispered:

“I shouldn’t think they’d be called Proudfits: they don’t look very proud!”

“No,” replied Preston, trying to be witty, “the name doesn’t fit.”

Mrs. Proudfit was changing Sammy’s pillow-cases when she heard the children knock, and came to the door with a pillow between her teeth. She was “proper glad of the jelly,” as Preston thought she ought to be.

There was a smell of hot gingerbread in the air, which reminded Flaxie of the time ever so long ago, when she had taken supper in that house without leave; and there was Patty at the window this minute making faces. It is strange how things change to you as you grow older! Flaxie never cared to visit at that house now, for Patty wasn’t a nice little girl at all; she not only teased away your playthings, but told wrong stories.

“Our baby’s two months old, and he’s got two teeth!” cried she, as Flaxie turned away; but nobody believed her.

The twin cousins and their little friends had a gay time that afternoon on the bank, and Christie Gretchen “received” with great dignity; but I have no time to talk of that now, I want to tell you something about Preston.

When they reached Mr. Garland’s house, the little girls left him, and he walked up the gravel path to Mr. Garland’s front door and rang the bell with a sober face.

“I don’t believe I can say my lesson, and Mr. Garland will think I’m a dunce,” said he to himself, with a quivering lip.

Now Preston Gray was remarkably handsome, and one of the dearest boys that ever lived, but not a great scholar. He could whittle chairs and sofas and churns for Flaxie with a jackknife, and I don’t know how many ships and steam-engines he had made; but he did not learn his lessons very well.

To-day, after the recitation was over, Mr. Garland walked with him along the bank of the river.

“Preston, my fine little fellow,” said he, kindly, “I can’t bear to scold a boy I love so dearly; but I’ve been afraid for some time that you don’t study this term as hard as usual; what’s the matter?”

Tears sprang to Preston’s eyes, but he brushed them off and pretended to be looking the other way.

“Now, seriously, what do you suppose boys were made for?” went on Mr. Garland, without the least idea Preston was crying; “you don’t suppose they were made on purpose to play and have a good time?”

“I don’ know, sir,” replied Preston, clearing his throat, and trying to laugh; “perhaps they were made to play a good deal, you know, because they can’t play when they grow to be men.”

“Ah, Preston, Preston, I am not joking with you at all. If you were a small child like your sister Flaxie it would not matter so much whether you studied or not, but your father expects a great deal of his oldest son, and it grieves me to have to say to him—”

“Oh, don’t, don’t,” wailed poor little Preston, “I’ll do anything in the world if you won’t talk to my father; I’ll take my books home, I’ll—I’ll—”

“There, there, never mind it,” said soft-hearted Mr. Garland, moved by the boy’s distress, “if you really mean to do better—Why, look out, child, you’d have fallen over that stump if I hadn’t pulled you back. Where in the world were your eyes?”

“I was looking at that big woman across the street,” stammered Preston; “how funny she walks!”

“Woman? What woman? Why, that’s a boy with a wheelbarrow,” exclaimed Mr. Garland, in great surprise.

Preston blushed with all his might and dropped his chin.

“Please, don’t tell anybody I took a wheelbarrow for a woman! They’d laugh at me. Of course I knew better as soon as I came to think.”

Mr. Garland stopped suddenly and stared at Preston.

“Look up here into my face, my boy.”

Preston raised his beautiful brown eyes,—those good eyes, which won everybody’s love and trust; and his teacher gazed at them earnestly.

But Mr. Garland was not admiring their beauty or their gentle expression. He saw something else in Preston’s eyes which startled him and gave him a pang. Not tears, for those had been dashed away, but a sort of thin mist lay over them, like that which veils the sun in cloudy weather.

“Can it be possible? Why, Preston, why, Preston, my boy,” said Mr. Garland, taking the young face gently between his hands, “when did things begin to blur so and look dim to you?”

Preston did not answer.

“Tell me; don’t be afraid.”

“It’s been,” replied Preston, choking, “it’s been a long while. The sun isn’t so bright somehow as it was; and oh, Mr. Garland, the print in my books isn’t so black as it used to be! But I didn’t want to make a fuss about it, and have father know it.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, he’d give me medicine, I suppose.”

“My boy, my poor boy, you ought to have told him.”

“Do you think so? Well, I hoped I’d get better, you know.”

“Preston, is this the reason you don’t learn your lessons any better?”

“I don’t know. Yes, sir, I think so. I can’t read the words in my books very well.”

“You poor, blessed child! Growing blind,” thought Mr. Garland; but did not say the words aloud.

“And I have to sit in the sun to see.”

“I wish I had known this before, and I wouldn’t have complained when you had bad lessons. Why didn’t you tell me, you patient soul!”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir; you didn’t ask me.”

“Good night,” said Mr. Garland, in an unsteady voice. “And don’t you study to-morrow one word. You may sit and draw pictures all day long if you like.”

Preston smiled. He did not know what made his dear teacher say this, and place his hand on his shoulder so tenderly; but he was glad of it, very glad; for now it was certain that Mr. Garland would not blame him any more; and he ran home with a light heart.