ve a start as the click of the front gate was heard, and
almost impatiently wondered who could be coming.

A tall young woman walked rapidly along the rake-marked walk, and dotted
it at regular intervals with the distinct portrait of the soles of her
strong and well-made boots.

She went up the steps decidedly, and entered the house without knocking,
as any ordinary visitor might have done. In a moment more she appeared
in the garden, with the curate's wife at her side. He stood up and bowed
awkwardly, and then looked inquiringly at the new-comer. He recognized
at once in her the stranger who had sat near the chancel the day before,
though her dress was somewhat different from her Sunday attire. She wore
a black sailor hat, from which she had that morning removed the uplifted
wings that threatened to take the whole head-gear upward, and had left
only the broad, bright band that wound round it. She wore a short, dark
travelling dress that well displayed her new boots. The visitor did not
wait for the curate to speak, but said quickly, "I will only detain you
a moment. Can you tell me where widow Marget Erikson lives, the old
woman who sat in front, on the side benches, in the church yesterday?"

"Marget Erikson? Her I know very well, but it is not so easy to tell
where she lives," answered the curate, with at the same time an
inquiring glance at the stranger. A look of intelligence came into his
face, and he said: "It is not--it cannot be! no," and he turned to the
group of small boys, now all standing, some of them weeds in hand,
wonderingly regarding the stranger. "Here, Kael," said the father,
singling out a fair-haired, intelligent-looking little fellow, "you can
show the young lady the way to widow Marget Erikson's." Again there was
a scrutinizing, questioning look on the part of the pastor.

A slight flush tinged the cheek of the stranger. She was turning away
with her guide, when the boy said hastily, "Where's the basket, mamma?"

"There'll be no basket to-day," she answered, almost with a smile. "You
can take Marget this instead from me," and she picked from her favourite
bush a large, half-open rosebud, with a long stem and rich, shining
leaves.

The boy could hardly understand the love-prompted courtesy that would
not send to the widow what might to a stranger seem like alms, but which
really was but the sharing of what one poor Christian had with a poorer.

The guide trotted off with his bare feet across