lad
she had not lived to see him brought to this pass. He was glad he had
been able to surround her with comforts up to the very end, though to do
so he had been obliged to sell timber-land, horses, cows, everything he
owned, one after another.

But Martha never knew; patient, suffering Martha, confined to her room
by illness for many years before God had sent her release from pain.
Thank God, Martha never knew; she had trouble enough without worrying
over their poverty. Her room was always bright, always cheerful; her
favorite flowers blossomed in the window, a fire of logs burned cosily
upon the hearth. The neighbors were kind in helping him to care for her,
in bringing her little delicacies to tempt an invalid's appetite; fresh
eggs, chickens, new lettuce, which Martha supposed had come from their
own farm.

It would never do to let her know that all their land was gone, all save
that upon which the house stood and Martha's flower garden which
stretched from her windows to the road. How he had worked in that
garden, cultivating the flowers she loved to see growing there.
Sometimes he would lift her from the bed and place her in the large
chair by the window, where she could watch him at his work; where she
could watch, too, the road that led from the village. Often, he would
glance up from his spading to meet her brave, cheery smile that
sweetened all his labor; oftener still, it would be to find her eyes
fixed upon that long, dusty line that wound over hill and valley, in and
out through orchards and corn fields, the road that led to the village
and thence to the city beyond. He knew her mind had gone out into the
wide, busy world, of which an occasional echo would reach them, gone out
in a vain effort to guess at the whereabouts of the girl who had passed
down that country road so many years ago never to return. To the very
end, Martha had never ceased hoping, never ceased praying for the return
of the wanderer, or at least for some word of assurance that all was
well with her.

By the time Tony reached the dismantled farmhouse the snow was falling
thickly, silently, on all around.

"Twill be a bad storm," thought Tony. "God pity any who are abroad this
night."

Pushing open the kitchen door he entered quickly, divesting himself of
cap, muffler, and ragged overcoat, and hanging them near the stove to
dry. He lighted the lamp and threw some wood upon the fire which had
burned low. Then, turning, he spied for