lost the
coin. Oh, how I hunted for it! But I never could find it.

"Now are you putting it all down? Be quick, or Dan might come in. It was
all for nothing--what I did--for my girl's baby died two years later.
Let me look what you've got there. I know school-writing. I went to
school once. Give me the pen. I'll put my name down to that. Hold my
hand, so it won't shake. That's my name. It don't look like much, I
guess. But that's it."

Tremblingly, the old woman took the pen and, guided by Henry Burns,
subscribed her name to what he had written. Then she spoke again:

"Go into that bed-room and look in the top drawer. There's a key there.
That's the key to the old house."

Henry Burns followed her instructions, and brought forth the key. She
bade him keep it, and go the next day and get the stuff in the attic:
the chain, minus its locket; the little dress, and a pair of shoes. She
mourned the loss of the coin, lest her strange story might not be
believed by Mrs. Ellison, without that evidence--not knowing that the
coin had even now come into Mrs. Ellison's own hands.

She sank into a doze not long after; and Henry Burns also slept, on a
couch in the office, with a buffalo robe over him. He woke early next
day, waded through the drifts to the old house, and got the things from
the drawer. Then he went down the road.

Below the old mill, near the road that ran up to the Ellison farm, a
horse and sledge came in sight, travelling slowly. Henry Burns's pulse
beat quicker as he recognized Colonel Witham and Bess coming up from
Benton, where they had passed the night. Colonel Witham scowled upon
him, but the girl smiled.

"Hello," she said. "Isn't everything pretty, all covered with snow?
Where'd you come from so early?"

Henry Burns could hardly answer her. He faced Colonel Witham.

"Granny Thornton's got an errand up at the Ellisons' for Bess," he said.
"I just came from the inn, I left the money for my lodging, too. Mrs.
Ellison wants to see Bess."

Colonel Witham grumbled. "I won't wait for her," he said. "She'll have
to foot it up through the snow."

"I don't care," exclaimed the girl, and sprang lightly out.

Henry Burns never did remember what was said on that walk up to the
farm. His mind was taken up with one subject. He had a vague
remembrance, after it was all over, of knocking at the door, and of
their being both admitted; of his almost ignoring the greeting of the
brothers; of his finding himself a