Sunday dawned cold and blustering—a sullen day that seemed hardly to know which way was best to make itself disagreeable, and so tried them all. The stock had been removed. There was no work outside for the two oldest boys, no watching indoors by the hungry little brothers for Pat and Mike to be through milking, and feeding, and pumping water into the trough, so that they might all have breakfast together. Yes, there had been a little work. The two horses which, with the wagon, had been kindly lent them for their next day's moving were in the barn. Mike had fed and watered them, Pat had combed them, and both had petted them.

Many a time that day would Mrs. O'Callaghan slip out to stroke their noses and pat their glossy necks and say in a choked voice, "Tim's horses! Tim's horses! and we can't kape 'em!" And many a time that day would she smooth the signs of grief from her face to go into the house again with what cheer she could to her seven sons, who were gathered listlessly about the kitchen stove. Many a time that day would she tell herself stoutly, "I'll not give in! I'll not give in! I've to be brave for eight, so I have. Brave for my b'ys, and brave for mesilf. And shall I fret more than is good for Tim's horses whin I know it's to a kind master they're goin', and he himsilf a helpin' us to-morrow with the movin'? The Lord's will be done! There's thim that thinks the Lord has no will for horses and such. And 'tis mesilf is thankful that I can't agree with 'em."

Occasionally, as the morning passed, one of the boys stepped to the window for a moment, for even to glance out at flying flakes and a wintry landscape was a relief from the depression that had settled down upon them all.

That was a neighborhood of churches. Seven or eight miles from any town, it was remarkable to see three churches within half a mile of each other. Small, plain buildings they were, but they represented the firm convictions of the United Brethren, the United Presbyterians, and the Methodists for many miles around. Now all these people, vary as they might in church creeds, were united in a hearty admiration for plucky little Mrs. O'Callaghan. They all knew, though the widow would not own it, that destitution was at her door. The women feared that in taking her boys to town she was taking them to their ruin, while the men thought her course the only one, since a destitute woman can hardly run a farm with only seven growing boys to help her. And for a day or two there had been busy riding to and fro among the neighbors.

The snow fell fitfully, and the wind howled in gusts, but every farmer hitched up and took his wife and children with him, and no family went empty-handed. For every road to every church lay straight by the widow's door. Short cuts there were to be used on general occasions, but that morning there was but the one road. And so it fell out that by ten o'clock there was a goodly procession of farm wagons, with here and there a buggy, and presently the widow's fence was lined with teams, and the men, women, and children were alighting and thronging up the narrow path to Mrs. O'Callaghan's door. There was no merriment, but there was a kindly look on every face that was beautiful to see. And there were those between whom bitterness had been growing that smiled upon each other to-day, as they jostled burdens on the path; for every one carried something, even the children, who stumbled by reason of their very importance.

The widow looked out and saw the full hands, and her heart sank. Was she to be provided for by charity? She looked with her keen eyes into the crowd of faces, and her heart went up into her throat. It was not charity, but neighborliness and good will she read there.

"I'd be wan of 'em, if somebody else was me, may the Lord bless 'em," she said as she opened wide the door.

In they trooped, and, for a moment, everybody seemed to be talking at once.

It sometimes needs a great deal of talk to make a kind deed seem like nothing at all. Sometimes even a great deal of talk fails to do so. It failed to-day.

Tears were running unheeded down the widow's face. Not even her boys knew how everything was gone, and she left with no money to buy more. And everybody tried not to see the tears and everybody talked faster than ever. Then the first church bell rang out, and old and young turned to go. There came a little lull as one after another gave the widow's hand a cordial clasp.

"My friends," said Mrs. O'Callaghan—she could be heard now—"my dear friends, I thank you all. You have made my heart strong the day."

"I call that a pretty good way to put in time on Sunday," said one man to another as they were untying their teams.

"Makes going to church seem worth while, for a fact," returned his neighbor.

Not till the last vehicle had passed from sight did the widow look round upon what her neighbors had left her, and then she saw sufficient pantry stores to last even seven growing boys for a month. And among the rest of her gifts she found coal for a week. She had not noticed her sons as she busily took account of her stock, but when she had finished she said, "B'ys, b'ys! 'tis your father sees the hearts of these good people this day and rej'ices. Ah, but Tim was a ginerous man himsilf! It's hopin' I am you'll all be loike him."

That night when the younger boys were in bed and only Pat and Mike sat keeping her company, the widow rose from her seat, went to a box already packed and took therefrom an account book and pencil.

"They're your father's," she said, "but it's a good use I'll be puttin' 'em to."

Writing was, for the hand otherwise capable, a laborious task; but no help would she have from either of her sons.

"May I ask you not to be spakin'?" she said politely to the two. "It's not used to writin' I am, and I must be thinkin' besides."

Two hours she sat there, her boys glancing curiously at her now and then at first, and later falling into a doze in their chairs. She wrote two words and stopped. Over and over she wrote two words and stopped. Over and over until she had written two words and stopped fifty times. And often she wiped away her tears. At last her task was done, and there in the book, the letters misshapen and some of the words misspelled, were the names of all who had come to her that morning. Just fifty there were of them. She read them over carefully to see that she had not forgotten any.

"Maybe I'll be havin' the chance to do 'em a good turn some day," she said. "I will, if I can. But whether I do or not, I've got it here in writin', that when all was gone, and I didn't have nothin', the Lord sint fifty friends to help me out. Let me be gettin' down in the heart and discouraged again, and I'll take this book and read the Lord's doin's for me. Come Pat and Moike! It's to bed you must be goin', for we're to move to-morrow, do you moind?"