On half-holidays Cleena had always the best dinner of the week. To its enjoyment were usually brought the best appetites of the week as well; for there was leisure and talk and laughter, and that interchange of experiences which kept their family life so united.

Archibald Wingate joined the party at this present half-holiday dinner; yet even with such cheerfulness about him could not but shiver now and then, as he recalled his narrow escape of the afternoon. To have taken his meal alone, on that day, would have been to suffer greatly.

But Amy had brought him in and placed him in the seat of honor, and amid the general rejoicing over Hallam's wonderful recovery and surprise, they had made him feel that he was a sharer. They had just drawn back from the table, and were going into the sitting room, when there came a tap at the door that Cleena answered. It was a small tap, very low down on the panel, but it was given due importance; for wasn't the visitor Master "Willyum Gladstone Jones," and wasn't Cleena just making fine progress in teaching him his "manners"?

So they all paused to wait the child's important entrance, and to smile over Goodsoul's greeting:—

"The top o' the evenin' to you, Mister Jones. An' what may be givin' us the pleasure of a visit from your lordship the now? A what? Speak up; a box is it? Miss Amy's box. Never a doubt I doubt you've made messes of its insides, by the way. No? Then your improvin', to that extent I must even be givin' ye a bite o' this fine apple pie. Hmm; exactly. Well, give the young lady her bit property, again' I slips on a plate an' teaches ye how to eat decent, as ye should."

So the little fellow, who had just been promoted to his first trousers and felt as all boys do in such a case, walked proudly across the room and offered Amy a japanned casket.

"Why, Sir William, how came you by that? I haven't seen it for ever so long. I used to keep my few letters in it. I wonder if they're here now."

"Ev'y one. My mamma seen 'em all. She said the top one—I don't know. Somefin."

"Arrah musha! but I remember one day, long syne, he was aye botherin' an' I set him to orderin' the box neat an' nice. He must ha' took it away with him an' me not payin' no attention. Well, a box o' such truck's neither here no more there, I forecast."

Amy had stopped to admire the new garment, fashioned from an old one of Hallam's, and having thus satisfied the little one's innocent pride, now opened her recovered keepsake. She lifted the letters idly, dropped them, and again catching one that had, indeed, lain upon the top, sprang up and waved it overhead.

"The letter! the letter! The lost one of Adam!"

"No; is it really? To come in such a way—"

"On such a day—oh, Hal!"

She caught her brother's hands and wrung them in delight, then ran to her father and placed the letter before him.

He looked at it critically.

"Yes; that is Adam Burn's handwriting. His own familiar seal. These people who have had it in keeping—"

"I hided it. Zen I dugged it out. Same like Fayetty," explained Sir William, between mouthfuls.

"The blessed baby! that explains."

"Let us go into the parlor and read it. It is yours, daughter; you must yourself break the seal."

"Oh, I'll break it fast enough."

"Hmm. Young lady, I thought you were the girl who didn't want to be an heiress," commented Uncle Fred, teasingly.

Amy's face sobered.

"You are right. I didn't so wish then, when the shock and sorrow were fresh; but now I do. Just think of all the comfort for all you folks in that lovely home."

"Then I must lose my tenants, eh?" asked Mr. Wingate, smiling.

"Thee'll lose nothing! Wait. If thee has plans to tell, so have I."

The letter was a simple one, plain, and leaving no room for any sort of legal difficulty. Amy could enter upon her heritage that day, if she wished. The place where the will was stored was designated, and they knew it would there be found. But after the reading a little silence fell upon them all.

The old mill owner was the first to break this. He did it almost reverently.

"Speaking of wills, and after the events of the day, I've been thinking of mine. By the way, Amy, I suppose thee'll cease to work for me now."

"I don't see why I should, unless my father needs me at home. We will see about that afterward. Tell us thy plans, please. I'd like to hear them."

"And I'd like to have thee make them for me."

"Make them? I?"

"Yes; in truth and deed. If thee were me and had as much money as I have, and were just such a lonely, childless, forlorn old man, what would thee do, that would accomplish the most good? according to thy judgment, which I have found a fairly sound one."

The elder Kayes listened in astonishment. They had been prepared by various matters for a great change in their kinsman, though not for one so radical. But the father began to perceive how this change had been wrought, and his heart gave thanks for the devoted, sunshiny daughter who seemed to shed an influence for happiness and goodness on all whom she knew. It was due to her, he believed, that this new Archibald had replaced the old.

"Does thee mean it, truly?"

"Yes; I mean it. Let me hear. If it is possible, I will carry out the wishes thee expresses, knowing they will be all for the benefit of somebody deserving."

"Well, then, I'd help the unpractical Kaye family to get settled at Burnside Farm, on the condition that for my services I was given a big, delightful room in the old farmhouse, to live in and with them, forever and ever and ever, so long as the dear Lord permitted—that's if I were thee, Cousin Archibald."

"But would that ne'er-do-well Kaye family take in an old curmudgeon, does thee think?"

"Never. A curmudgeon is a thing they detest. They'd take in a nice, fat, old fellow, whose heart was so big it made his body grow to hold it, and who meant to do all the good with his money that his money would do, and not leave it for anybody to squabble over after he died."

"Excellent, Miss Wisdom; proceed."

"After I'd got a niche at Burnside, I'd take 'Charity House' and remodel it into a Modern Industrial School. I'd have 'designing' taught, in regular classes, by a well-known artist, named Cuthbert Kaye. I'd have agriculture under the instruction of another expert, Frederic Kaye. I'd have a school of scientific cookery—not by you, my Cleena, but by somebody who hates pies and adores oatmeal and et cetera. No, really, I do think the mill folks should understand more about foods and their uses. They'd save so much money and—dyspepsia."

"Hurry up. Where do I come in?"

"At the mercantile college end of the establishment, learned brother. There should be a splendid library, a gymnasium, a swimming pool—"

"A swimming pool on the top of Bareacre knoll!"

"Please don't interrupt, Hal. It's impolite. I'd have it—somewhere. I'd have a paddock full of burros—"

"They're already ordered," cried Archibald, forgetting everything in his enjoyment of her happy face.

"Am I to continue? May I let my fancy riot?"

"Yes, indeed; give thyself full freedom for once."

"Then I'd take beautiful Fairacres, that has been a happy home for generations, and I'd make it a Happy Home, with capital letters. I'd call to it all the tired and ailing mill folks in the country. I'd make its disused studio and book rooms into a hospital, and where father painted his picture of pain, that he destroyed, let all pain be soothed; and all the other big chambers into havens of rest for other girls who, unlike me, have no fathers, nor Uncle Freds, nor Hallams, nor Cousin Archibalds, nor anybody. I'd have Mary Reese trained to be its Little Mother; and Archibald Wingate should be full manager of all, beloved and venerated, reaping the happiness he has himself bestowed; and oh, cousin, if it might be true! and if I were not out of breath! There! have I 'rioted' enough?"

Mr. Wingate turned his head sidewise and looked admiringly upon the unselfish girl who had planned so much for others, and had not, apparently, remembered to plan anything for herself.

"Yes; thee has rioted enough. But, little one, if thee pleases, if my other kinsfolk here so please; if the dead past is indeed the dead past, and the future may be our happy own, there is no reason under the blue heaven why thee has not prophesied aright. What say, my friends? Shall Amy's word be that which the Spirit has moved her to say? Shall we make it real and tangible, this beautiful, helpful dream of hers? You are all interested alike. You are my next of kin. After me you will inherit—or these others whom she has named. Was Amy's word the true Word, Cuthbert? The word Salome would have spoken?"

"It was the true Word, Archibald. Let it be as Salome's child has spoken," said Cuthbert Kaye, grasping his kinsman's hand.

And all Ardsley now knows that as it was then agreed, so it is, and will remain.