anged with every page inscribed by the trembling
fingers of this all-thoughtful friend.

"I have been thinking what a muddle it would be to thee, Amy, and I
fixed this for thee. On one side is the debt and the other side the
credit. Thee will have to keep the reckonings for thy family, I foresee;
for thee is practical. Look. Is the light sufficient?"

Amy held the little volume so that the rays of the harvest moon fell
clearly over them, and the old, quaint script was as legible as
copperplate. She questioned, and he explained just how the book should
be kept, and she found his "system" exceeding plain and direct, as was
everything about him. But there were two legends inscribed upon the
covers which had little in common with the figuring to be done between
them,--or so Amy thought; and when she asked him what they meant, he
quietly explained:--

"They have been my rules of life, Amy, and I think it would be well for
thee if thee also adopted them. They are short and easy to remember, but
they cover all. 'Simplicity, Sincerity, Sympathy,' on the front page;
and on the last, when the first rule seems sometimes to fail and the
heart needs cheer, there is this other: 'Love is all powerful.'"

"Thank thee, dear Adam, so much. Not only for the book and the help it
will be, but for the 'Rules' and--for thyself. I will make them mine,
and thee shall tell me if I am succeeding. Now, I know thee is sitting
up beyond thy time. I'll help thee to the living room and then to thy
own."

Nor was Amy ever to forget that peaceful hour with this ripe old
Christian; and she never again sat in the rays of the harvest moon
without recalling the lessons she learned that night.

CHAPTER XI.

THE YOUNG OLD MAN AND THE OLD YOUNG GIRL.

It seemed to Amy that she had never remembered so lovely a First Day as
that one at Burnside Farm. Things happened just as she had foretold.
Mrs. Kaye and Adam went to meeting in the little phaeton into which it
was so easy for him to climb, and Hallam and she rode beside it; for
"Old Shingleside," as the meeting-house was called, was at some distance
from the Clove. It crowned a wooded hill-top, and behind it lay the
peaceful burying-ground, with its rows of modest tombstones and wider
rows of grass-covered, unmarked mounds.

The windows of the meeting-house were all open, and the mild air came in
and warmed them; for as yet the plain box stoves held no blazing logs
within, and the rows of old