ss.

"I wish I could be here some Sunday evening," said I.

"William an' me'll be talkin' about you an' thinkin' o' this nice day,"
said Mrs. Blackett affectionately, and she glanced at William, and he
looked up bravely and nodded. I began to discover that he and his sister
could not speak their deeper feelings before each other.

"Now I want you an' mother to sing," said Mrs. Todd abruptly, with
an air of command, and I gave William much sympathy in his evident
distress.

"After I've had my cup o' tea, dear," answered the old hostess
cheerfully; and so we sat down and took our cups and made merry while
they lasted. It was impossible not to wish to stay on forever at Green
Island, and I could not help saying so.

"I'm very happy here, both winter an' summer," said old Mrs. Blackett.
"William an' I never wish for any other home, do we, William? I'm glad
you find it pleasant; I wish you'd come an' stay, dear, whenever you
feel inclined. But here's Almiry; I always think Providence was kind
to plot an' have her husband leave her a good house where she really
belonged. She'd been very restless if she'd had to continue here on
Green Island. You wanted more scope, didn't you, Almiry, an' to live in
a large place where more things grew? Sometimes folks wonders that
we don't live together; perhaps we shall some time," and a shadow of
sadness and apprehension flitted across her face. "The time o' sickness
an' failin' has got to come to all. But Almiry's got an herb that's good
for everything." She smiled as she spoke, and looked bright again.

"There's some herb that's good for everybody, except for them that
thinks they're sick when they ain't," announced Mrs. Todd, with a truly
professional air of finality. "Come, William, let's have Sweet Home, an'
then mother'll sing Cupid an' the Bee for us."

Then followed a most charming surprise. William mastered his timidity
and began to sing. His voice was a little faint and frail, like the
family daguerreotypes, but it was a tenor voice, and perfectly true
and sweet. I have never heard Home, Sweet Home sung as touchingly and
seriously as he sang it; he seemed to make it quite new; and when he
paused for a moment at the end of the first line and began the next,
the old mother joined him and they sang together, she missing only the
higher notes, where he seemed to lend his voice to hers for the moment
and carry on her very note and air. It was the silent man's real and
only mean