d, to make herself
perfectly sure that there was no one left at home. Out of breath and
tired as she was, she turned to look off at the view. Yes, there was
Tobias's place, prosperous and white-painted; she could just get a
glimpse of the upper roofs and gables. It was always a sorrow and
complaint that a low hill kept her from looking up at this farm from
any of the windows, but now that she was at the farm itself she found
herself regarding Tobias's home with a good deal of affection. She
looked sharply with an apprehension of fire, but there was no whiff of
alarming smoke against the dear sky.

"Now I must git me a drink o' that water first of anything," and she
hastened to the creaking well-sweep and lowered the bucket. There was
the same rusty, handleless tin dipper that she had left years before,
standing on the shelf inside the well-curb. She was proud to find that
the bucket was no heavier than ever, and was heartily thankful for the
clear water. There never was such a well as that, and it seemed as if
she had not been away a day. "What an old gal I be," said Mercy, with
plaintive merriment. "Well, they ain't made no great changes since I
was here last spring," and then she went over and held her face close
against one of the kitchen windows, and took a hungry look at the
familiar room. The bedroom door was open and a new sense of attachment
to the place filled her heart. "It seems as if I was locked out o' my
own home," she whispered as she looked in.

There were the same old spruce and pine boards that she had scrubbed
so many times and trodden thin as she hurried to and fro about her
work. It was very strange to see an unfamiliar chair or two, but the
furnishings of a farm kitchen were much the same, and there was no
great change. Even the cradle was like that cradle in which her own
children had been rocked. She gazed and gazed, poor old Mother Bascom,
and forgot the present as her early life came back in vivid memories.
At last she turned away from the window with a sigh.

The flowers that she had planted herself long ago had bloomed all
summer in the garden; there were still some ragged sailors and the
snowberries and phlox and her favorite white mallows, of which she
picked herself a posy. "I'm glad the old place is so well took care
of," she thought, gratefully. "An' they've new-silled the old barn I
do declare, and battened the cracks to keep the dumb creatures warm.
'T was a sham-built barn anyways,