The instant the door opened, the flower-lover at the fence started on a run after the cows, which finding themselves not urged from behind, had stopped and were contentedly cropping the grass beside the road.

In a few minutes she had them safely shut into their pasture, and turned back towards the village.

As she passed Miss Hester, that lady was tying up some straggling vines, and almost to her own surprise, moved by her unwonted feeling of pity for the child, she hastily picked half a dozen stems of the fragrant blossoms and held them out.

“Want some?” she said shortly, almost gruffly, to the half-frightened child.

The girl stopped. “Oh, Miss Hester!” she said doubtingly, half afraid of the strange-looking, little woman who lived by herself, and was never known to speak to anybody.

“If you don’t want ’em,” said Miss Hester savagely, “you needn’t have ’em,” and she flung the flowers far over the fence and turned away.

Maggie—for that was her name—with a cry of horror sprang eagerly after them, picked them up carefully, shook off the dust, and turned again to the little garden. But Miss Hester had gone in and shut the door, and slowly, but in a state of rapture, the child went on—hugging and caressing her flowers,—to what had been her home since her mother, a year before, had been carried from their poor room to the hospital, and never come back. She lived with a woman who added a bit to her scanty earnings by taking the village cows on their morning and evening journeys, and for this service she gave Maggie a shelter and a share of the scanty food on her table.

When she went with the cows that evening, Maggie looked eagerly into the little garden as she passed, but Miss Hester was not there. Maggie could not see her, but she sat behind her blind looking out eagerly. Could it be to see the child?

Maggie hesitated; she wanted to say “Thank you,” yet she was half afraid of the strange, silent woman. She waited a moment, hoping she would come out, but all was still, and slowly and lingeringly at last she went on.

In this odd way began a curious acquaintance between the lonely woman and the still more friendless girl. Sometimes, if Miss Hester happened to be in her garden when Maggie went by, she would half reluctantly toss a flower over the fence, which Maggie always received with delight, while still half afraid of the giver. But generally Hester, with a strange feeling of shyness, managed to be in the house, where strange to say, she hung around the window and seemed unable to settle to anything, till the pale little thing had passed.

So it went on, till winter settled down grim and cold on that New England village, and the cows went no more to the snow-covered pasture, and Maggie—fixed up a bit as to clothes by some kind ladies of the village—went every day to school.

As the weather grew colder, Miss Hester shut herself more and more into her house, and so months passed and the strange acquaintance progressed no farther.

One cold night, after everybody in the little village was snugly tucked into bed, and every light was out, a wind came down from the plains of the great Northwest, and brought with it millions and billions of beautiful dancing flakes of snow, and proceeded to have a grand frolic.

All night long the snow and the wind played around the houses and through the streets, and in the morning when people began to get up and look out, they hardly knew their own village. It seemed to be turned into a strange range of white hills, with here and there a roof or a chimney peeping out. There were no fences, there were no roads, but all was one mass of glittering white, and the wind was still at work tossing the billions of sharp little ice-needles into the face of any one who ventured to peep out, sending a shower of snow into an open door, and piling it up in great drifts in every sheltered spot. So nearly everybody who was comfortable at home, and had plenty to eat in the house, at once decided to stay there. There was no use trying to dig themselves out until the snow stopped falling, and the wind got tired of tossing it about.

The villagers were late in getting up, for the snow before the windows made it dark, and it was nearly nine o’clock when Mrs. Burns said to Maggie, “You must try to get to the well; I’m out of water.”

So Maggie put on her coat and mittens, tied her hood down over her ears, took the pail, and went out.

Fortunately, the kitchen door was in a sheltered place, and no snow was piled up before it, but she had a hard time getting through the drifts to the well. However, she did at last succeed in drawing the water and getting back to the door. As she set down the pail, a thought struck her,—“What will become of Miss Hester in this storm?”

She went out again, closing the door softly behind her, and looked toward the cottage, which was not far off, in plain sight. In the place where the little house should be was a great white hill. Maggie floundered through the drifts till she reached the gate, where she had a better view.

The storm held up for a moment, so that Maggie could see over the village. Every house in sight was sending up a thin column of smoke, showing there was life within. Miss Hester’s chimney alone was smokeless.

“Dear me!” thought the child, “I’m afraid she’s sick, and what’ll become of her and the cow—the shed is so far off, and she could never fight her way through the drifts,—she ain’t very strong—and so little.” Another pause while she strained her eyes to see signs of life about the cottage.

“Well, anyway,” she said at last, “she was awful good to me last summer, and I’ll see if I can’t get there to help her,” and she bravely started out.

It was a hopeless-looking task, for between Mrs. Burns’s and Hester Bartlett’s were drifts that seemed mountain high. Not a soul was in sight, and just then the storm began again, wilder than ever.

But Maggie was not to be daunted; that cold, smokeless chimney gave her a strange feeling of fear, and nerved her for great efforts.

I shall not go with her step by step over her terrible journey, for though the house was near, every step was a struggle and a battle. Many times she fell down and got up staggering and blinded by snow; many times she lost her direction and had to wait till a momentary lull in the storm showed her the forlorn chimney again.

Through unheard-of difficulties she reached the house, her clothes full of the dry, powdery snow, her eyes blinded, her hair a mass of white, and aching in every limb from her efforts and the cold.

The front door was completely buried in snow, and indeed, the whole front of the cottage seemed but a snow mountain. The drifts were lower on the side, so she staggered on towards the kitchen door. As she came near, she saw, to her dismay, that the snow had fallen away, and the door was open.

Now thoroughly alarmed, she struggled on, and reached the step. The snow had fallen inward, and the drift inside was as heavy as that outside.

At first she hesitated to enter the house she had always dreaded, but in an instant she reflected that Miss Hester would not leave her door open if she were able to shut it, and she staggered in. Two steps inside she stumbled over something, and dashing the snow out of her eyes, she saw to her horror, the well-known brown dress of Miss Hester, and sure enough there she lay on the floor, half covered with snow, silent—perhaps dead.

One little scream escaped Maggie’s lips, and then she fell on her knees before her. No, she was not dead, but she was unconscious and perfectly cold.

In a moment her own sufferings were forgotten. She did not know or did not care that she was exhausted from her struggles—that she was herself half frozen. She flew to work.

First she dragged Miss Hester away from the snow, with difficulty shut the door, then hurried into the bedroom, brought out a pillow and blanket, put the pillow under Miss Hester’s head, wrapped the blanket around her on the floor, and then hurried to the stove.

The fire was ready to light; evidently Miss Hester had opened the door to look out before starting her fire, and the great drift had fallen upon her and knocked her down.

Maggie did not stop to think of all this. She looked around for matches and lighted the fire, then turned her attention to the silent figure on the floor. She chafed her hands and warmed them in her own, which now from excitement were burning, and before long she had the happiness of seeing the closed eyes open and the blood rush back to the white face.

The sight of the child working over her brought Miss Hester to very quickly. She tried to spring up, but fell back too weak to do so. Then she began to talk.

“Where am I? Why are you here? Why can’t I get up?”

As quickly as she could, Maggie told her everything. How the village was snowed under, and seeing her chimney without smoke alarmed her, and she had found her on the floor with snow-drifts over her, and had lighted the fire and got the blanket and warmed her.

Long before she had ended her tale, Miss Hester could sit up and see for herself the snow and the condition of the room. Then she thought she could get up, and with the help of Maggie she did, and sat in her chair, strangely enough—as it seemed to her—too weak to stand.

When she was seated, Maggie had stopped—it was different making fires and taking liberties in this kitchen while it seemed necessary to her life, but now that Miss Hester could sit up and look at her, Maggie hesitated. Miss Hester leaned back and closed her eyes and then Maggie said:—

“Please, Miss Hester, may I get you something to eat, and sweep out the snow, and help you?”

“If you will, child,” said Miss Hester slowly. “I don’t seem to be able to do anything; I shall be very glad to have you.”

Then Maggie went to work again, and how she did fly! She put the teakettle on to the now warmed stove; she searched about in the pantry till she found the coffee and the coffee-pot. Then she drew up beside Miss Hester a little table, put on the dishes, and in a word, proceeded to set out as dainty a breakfast as she knew how to get out of what she could find.

All this time Miss Hester had apparently been half asleep, so that Maggie did not like to ask her anything; but she was far from asleep. She was watching eagerly, through half-closed eyelids, everything her neat handmaiden did.

As for Maggie, she had not been so happy since her mother had taught her all sorts of neat household ways. She hunted up the butter and the bread; she made a fragrant cup of coffee and toasted a slice of bread, and when all was ready, she spoke to Miss Hester.

“Please, Miss Hester,” she said timidly, “will you drink some coffee? I think you will feel better.”

Miss Hester opened her eyes as if just wakened. “Why, how nicely you have got breakfast!” she said; “but here’s only one cup and plate! Get another for yourself—you shall have it with me;” and as Maggie hastened, delighted, to do her bidding, she added, “Bring a jar of marmalade from the second shelf, and look for some crullers in a stone crock.”

Maggie did as she was bid, and in a few minutes the two strange friends were enjoying their breakfast together.

Miss Hester was confined to her bed several days, with the cold she had taken that fateful morning, and during that time, Maggie did everything for her, every minute she was out of school. When at last Miss Hester was able to be about, she had become so attached to Maggie, and found such comfort in her help, that she was not willing to let her go. Maggie being equally delighted to stay, the arrangement was soon made, and Maggie came to the cottage to live.

The strangest part of the story is yet to come.

When Christmas time drew near, Miss Hester one day, while Maggie was at school, opened some long-closed drawers in her desk to see if she could find something to give Maggie on that day, for she had not forgotten her own youthful days when Christmas was the event of the year.

Among the long-forgotten treasures of the past, she came upon a little locket given her when she was about Maggie’s age, by her only brother, who had gone to the war and been killed in battle, severing the last link that bound the solitary girl to the world. Since that, she had lived alone and shrank from all society.

“Poor Eddy!” she said, taking the trinket up in her hands, “how different would have been my life if you had lived! But it’s no use keeping these relics of the past; they would much better make some one happy in the present. I think Maggie will like this.”

With a sigh she turned over the contents of the drawer, every item of which was associated with her happier days, till she found a fine gold chain which had held the locket around her neck. This she laid aside with the locket, closed and locked the drawer.

When the great day arrived, Maggie, who had not dreamed of a present, was surprised and delighted to receive it. The locket was very pretty, of gold, with a letter B in black enamel on it. Miss Hester hung it around her neck, and was as pleased as Maggie herself to see how pretty it looked.

“I wonder if it will open,” said Maggie to herself a little later, when she had taken it off to examine more closely; “I’ll try it,” and she worked over it a long time but without success.

That was a very busy day in the cottage; that evening was to be a great school exhibition to which all the village was invited. Maggie, who was a bright scholar, had to speak a piece, and Miss Hester had made her a pretty white dress out of an old one of her own.

Maggie never felt so fine in her life as when, her hair smoothly braided by Miss Hester, and tied with a bright ribbon from her old stores, she had put on the white dress, and hung around her neck the cherished locket.

For the first time in her life, she was dressed like other girls, and it was with a very happy heart that she kissed Miss Hester and went to the schoolhouse, regretting only that Miss Hester could not be persuaded to go with her.

After the exercises of the evening were over, a social hour followed, in which ice cream and cake were served, and every one walked around the room to talk with their friends; and now came the surprise of the evening—the most wonderful event in Maggie’s life.

Among the familiar villagers, she had noticed a quiet, pleasant-faced man who seemed to be a stranger,—at least she had never seen him before. He had come with the family from the little hotel, and no doubt at their invitation.

This gentleman was walking about, looking with interest at the people, when he came face to face with Maggie. He stopped suddenly; his eyes opened wide, and he seemed strangely moved—almost shocked.

Maggie was frightened, and tried to leave her place, but he stopped her with a low, eager question.

“Little girl, where did you get that locket?”

Maggie supposed he thought she had stolen it, and a bright color rose to her face, as she answered indignantly, “It was given to me to-day.”

“By whom?” he cried; “tell me instantly!”

“By Miss Hester,” Maggie replied, trying again to get away, for his eager manner frightened her.

“Miss Hester!” he repeated, in a disappointed tone, then muttering to himself, “It can’t be! yet it is so like! let me see it!” with a sudden movement.

“No!” cried Maggie, now almost crying with fright, and clutching her treasure.

By this time some of the people around had noticed the scene, and the hotel-keeper came up.

“What is it, Mr. Bartlett?”

The gentleman tried to calm himself, seeing that they had become the centre of a curious crowd, and then replied:—

“Why, I find on this child the double of a locket I gave my sister years ago, a sister who has disappeared and whom I have been seeking for years; I wanted to examine it—but I seem to have frightened her; will you, if you know her, ask her to let me look at it? If it is the one I seek, it should open by a secret spring, and have a boy’s face inside. If it should help me to find my long-lost sister!” He paused, much moved.

Mr. Wild, the hotel-keeper, calmed Maggie, and asked her to let the gentleman examine it.

As he took it in his hand, he murmured, “The very same! here is a mark I well remember. Now if I can open it!” He held it a moment when suddenly it sprang open, to Maggie’s amazement, and there—sure enough—was a faded, old-fashioned daguerreotype of a boy’s face.

“It is the very one!” he exclaimed in excitement. “Now where is this Miss—What did you say her name was? Where could she have got it?”

“She told me,” said Maggie, trembling, “that her brother gave it to her.”

“So I did,” said the man eagerly; “but the name! can she have changed her name?”

“It is Miss Hester Bartlett,” said one of the bystanders, “and she is—a little—deformed, and lives alone in the edge of the village.”

The man turned so white he seemed about to faint as he said: “It is she! Friends”—turning to the much interested crowd, “I have sought her for years. I was in the army and reported killed in battle, and when I went home to take care of my unfortunate sister, she had disappeared, and I have never till now found a clue to her. Take me to her instantly!” turning to Maggie, who was now really crying for joy to think of Miss Hester’s happiness.

But the people urged that such a shock, when she supposed him dead, might be very dangerous, and at last he was persuaded to let some one who knew her break the joyful news to her.

Maggie went back to the cottage the happiest girl in the village, and the next morning the news was safely broken to Miss Hester, who in a short half hour found herself crying on her brother’s shoulder—the richest and the happiest woman in all the world, as she said through her tears.

From that day a new life began for Maggie, for neither brother nor sister would hear of parting from her, who had been the means of their finding each other. A larger house was built, and Miss Hester persuaded to mingle a little with her neighbors, while Maggie took her place among the young people on equal terms with all.

“That was splendid!” said Kristy, with shining eyes, as Mrs. Wilson ended her story. “Is it true? Did it really happen?”

“Yes, it is true; I know Maggie myself,—met her last summer, when I went to B——.”

“I should like to know her,” said Kristy. “Can’t you tell another, Mrs. Wilson?”

“Kristy,” said her mother, reprovingly, “it’s bad enough for you to tease me for stories without making victims of others.”

“Oh, I like to tell stories,” said Mrs. Wilson, laughing, “and I think I have time to tell Kristy about the naughtiest day of my life.”

“Oh, do!” cried Kristy eagerly.

“Did you ever notice in my sitting-room a little dog preserved in a glass case?”

“Yes, I have,” said Kristy, “and I have always wondered about it.”

“Well; I’ll tell you why I preserve it so carefully. That little dog saved my life, I believe, and if not my life, he certainly saved my reason.”

“Oh, how was that, Mrs. Wilson?” said Kristy earnestly.