be any Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin! Oh, Mrs. Benjamin, why
couldn't you have been my mother?"

"I should have been proud to be, Isabelle," she answered simply. "Thou
art as dear to me as a daughter."

Isabelle bent and kissed the kind hands that held her own, but she shed
no tears.

"We all have bitter, disappointing things to meet. I shall expect my
daughter to meet them with a fine courage," she smiled.

"I'll try," said Isabelle; "but I'd rather die than leave here."

"Thee has met life very squarely, so far as I have known thee. This is a
test of thy quality, and I know thee will meet it like my true
daughter."

The girl's eyes brimmed at that, but she looked off over the hills and
merely nodded. Presently she rose and leaned her cheek for a second
against Mrs. Benjamin's hair.

"It's all right, mother Benjamin," she said, with the old ring in her
voice.

The subject was not mentioned again. Save for a somewhat closer
affection, a tenderer devotion on Isabelle's part, no one would have
known that they were facing a separation, which was an agony of dread to
the girl. As Mr. Benjamin had said, of his wisdom: "Sorrow strikes so
deep at that age."

She took her part in the duties and pleasures of the days. But the
Benjamins' loving eyes marked a change. She brought no yeoman's appetite
to the table, she had to be urged to eat. The morning often brought her
downstairs with dark circles about her eyes.

"Did thee sleep, dear child?"

"Oh, yes, thanks," was the invariable answer.

"She's getting all eyes again," grumbled Mr. Benjamin.

Not until the very last day were the two other girls told of her coming
departure. The last days were packed to the brim with duties, so that
she might have no leisure to be sad. She put up a plucky fight; not a
tear had she shed. But on the last day, when the clear bugle call
roused her, she sprang from her bed, and ran to the window. Nature was
at her painting again; splashes of red and yellow and russet brown
streaked the hills. A sort of delicate mist enfolded them. Was it only a
year ago that she had looked at these blessed hills for the first time?
Again father Benjamin's salute to the day rang out. She leaned her head
against the window, and her body shook with sobs, though no tears came.

When Mr. Benjamin drove up to the door in the wide surrey behind the
fat, dappled horses, she kissed the girls smilingly, she clung to Mrs.
Benjamin for a long second, then she took her