ands how I am driven. But--especially if you would
tell her that the Street doesn't know--"

"I'll do all I can," K. promised, and followed the path to the barn.

Tillie received him with a certain dignity. The little harness-room
was very comfortable. A white iron bed in a corner, a flat table with
a mirror above it, a rocking-chair, and a sewing-machine furnished the
room.

"I wouldn't stand for it," she said simply; "so here I am. Come in, Mr.
Le Moyne."

There being but one chair, she sat on the bed. The room was littered
with small garments in the making. She made no attempt to conceal them;
rather, she pointed to them with pride.

"I am making them myself. I have a lot of time these days. He's got a
hired girl at the house. It was hard enough to sew at first, with me
making two right sleeves almost every time." Then, seeing his kindly eye
on her: "Well, it's happened, Mr. Le Moyne. What am I going to do? What
am I going to be?"

"You're going to be a very good mother, Tillie."

She was manifestly in need of cheering. K., who also needed cheering
that spring day, found his consolation in seeing her brighten under the
small gossip of the Street. The deaf-and-dumb book agent had taken on
life insurance as a side issue, and was doing well; the grocery store at
the corner was going to be torn down, and over the new store there
were to be apartments; Reginald had been miraculously returned, and was
building a new nest under his bureau; Harriet Kennedy had been to Paris,
and had brought home six French words and a new figure.

Outside the open door the big barn loomed cool and shadowy, full of
empty spaces where later the hay would be stored; anxious mother hens
led their broods about; underneath in the horse stable the restless
horses pawed in their stalls. From where he sat, Le Moyne could see only
the round breasts of the two hills, the fresh green of the orchard the
cows in a meadow beyond.

Tillie followed his eyes.

"I like it here," she confessed. "I've had more time to think since I
moved out than I ever had in my life before. Them hills help. When the
noise is worst down at the house, I look at the hills there and--"

There were great thoughts in her mind--that the hills meant God, and
that in His good time perhaps it would all come right. But she was
inarticulate. "The hills help a lot," she repeated.

K. rose. Tillie's work-basket lay near him. He picked up one of the
little garments. In his big