ast. He had taken off his cap for the performance, and
his white hair fluttered in the breeze as he watched his late companion
making her way up to the cottage alone. All was right, he was sure, and
down he ran as fast as his feet could carry him. The precious silver was
stored in the depths of his pocket, and with it he bought in imagination
all sorts of treasures before he reached home to tell the success of his
errand.

The traveller moved slowly as the path grew more steep, and finally
walked doubtfully on as she approached the cottage. There were three or
four low steps leading to the door, and there some kind of an animal
seemed making a vain attempt to go up. As the stranger drew nearer she
saw that a small woman with a short, dark skirt was bowed over,
evidently washing the steps, with her back towards the path and her
unexpected guest. A noise near her made the figure stand upright and
turn its face towards the new-comer. One sight of the visitor prompted a
series of bobbing courtesies, a wondering look in the old sun-browned
face, and a folding back into a triangular form of the wet sackcloth
apron, which was truly not in a presentable condition. The old woman was
the first to speak. "Good-day, miss--good-day!" and then there was a
look of astonished inquiry.

"The pastor's wife sent you this," said the girl, holding out the
beautiful rosebud she had taken from the boy.

"So like her!" said the old woman, lovingly. "She's just like that
herself! God bless her! Thank her for me, please--thank her for me!" and
the thin, work-distorted, wrinkled hand was hastily wiped on the apron,
and then stretched out to take that of the stranger for the usual
expression of gratitude. "Thank _you_, miss, for bringing it," continued
the old woman, with another questioning look at her guest. "Do you know
her--do you know the curate's wife? It's likely you don't live
hereabouts." The cut of the stranger's clothes was not in vogue at
Kulleby.

"Don't you know me?" said the young woman, in a low voice.

"No, miss!" was the answer, with another courtesy.

"Don't you know me, mother?" was the question that followed, while the
fair face flushed with the effort those words had cost the speaker.

"It can't be my Karin!" was the exclamation. There was another period of
courtesying, and a long look of almost unbelieving surprise. There was
no move to take this changed daughter by the hand, nor was there any
such action on the part