er's death,
for which she then could see no reason, though she knew well that one
existed, was the entrance to that work. She must live and she must
listen while Mr. Liston talked to her that night on business, arranging
about the letter, which was forwarded immediately to Kentucky, and
advising her what to do until an answer was received, when he would come
up again and do whatever was necessary.

CHAPTER IX

MATTERS IN KENTUCKY

Backward now with our reader we turn, and take up the broken thread of
our story at the point where we left Adah Hastings.

It was a bitter morning in which to face the fierce north wind, and plow
one's way to the Derby cornfield, where, in a small, dilapidated
building, Aunt Eunice Reynolds, widowed sister of John Stanley, had
lived for many years, first as a pensioner upon her brother's bounty,
and next as Hugh's incumbent. At the time of her brother's death Aunt
Eunice had intended removing to Spring Bank, but when Hugh's mother
wrote, asking for a home, she at once abandoned the plan, and for two
seasons more lived alone, watching from her lonely door the tasseled
corn ripening in the August sun. Of all places in the world Hugh liked
the cottage best, particularly in summer. Few would object to it then
with its garden of gayly colored flowers, its barricades of tasseled
corn and the bubbling music of the brook, gushing from the willow spring
a few rods from the door. But in the winter people from the highway, as
they caught from across the field the gleam of Aunt Eunice's light,
pitied the lonely woman sitting there so solitary beside her wintry
fire. But Aunt Eunice asked no pity. If Hugh came once a week to spend
the night, and once a day to see her, it was all that she desired, for
Hugh was her darling, her idol, the object which kept her old heart warm
and young with human love. For him she would endure any want or
encounter any difficulty, and so it is not strange that in his dilemma
regarding Adah Hastings, he intuitively turned to her, as the one of all
others who would lend a helping hand. He had not been to see her in two
whole days, and when the gray December morning broke, and he looked out
upon the deep, untrodden snow, and then glanced across the fields to
where a wreath of smoke, even at that early hour, was rising slowly from
her chimney, he frowned impatiently, as he thought how bad the path
must be between Spring Bank and the cornfield, whither he intended
goi