t, Luclarion, I don't understand! All alone? And you couldn't use
a whole house, you know. Your neighbors would be _inmates_. Why, it
seems to me perfectly crazy!"

"Now, ma'am, did you ever know me to go off on a tangent, without
some sort of a string to hold on to? I ain't goin' to swarm all
alone! I never heard of such a thing. Though if I couldn't _swarm_,
and the thing was to be done, I say I'd try it. But Savira Golding
is going to be married to Sam Gallilee, next month; and he's a
stevedore, and his work is down round the wharves; he's class-leader
in our church, and a first-rate, right-minded man, or else Savira
wouldn't have him; for if Savira ain't a clear Christian, and a
doing woman, there ain't one this side of Paradise. Now, you see,
Sam Gallilee makes money; he runs a gang of three hundred men. He
can afford a good house, and a whole one, if he wants; but he's
going in for a big one, and neighbors. They mean to live nice,--he
and Savira; and she has pretty, tasty ways; there'll be white
curtains, and plants blooming in her windows, you may make sure;
she's always had 'em in that little up-stairs dress-making room of
hers; and boxes of mignonette and petunias on the ledges; and birds
singing in a great summer cage swung out against the wall. She's one
of the kind that reaches out, and can't be kept in; and she knows
her gifts, and is willing to go and let her light shine where it
will help others, and so glorify; and Sam, he's willing too, and
sees the beauty of it. And so,--well, that's the swarm."

"And the 'little round Godamighty in the middle of it,'" said Mrs.
Ripwinkley, her face all bright and her eyes full of tears.

"_Ma'am_!"

Then Mrs. Ripwinkley told her Miss Craydocke's story.

"Well," said Luclarion, "there's something dear and
right-to-the-spot about it; but it does sound singular; and it
certainly ain't a thing to say careless."

* * * * *

Desire Ledwith grew bright and excited as the summer came on, and
the time drew near for going to Z----. She could not help being
glad; she did not stop to ask why; summer-time was reason enough,
and after the weariness of the winter, the thought of Z---- and the
woods and the river, and sweet evenings and mornings, and gardens
and orchards, and road-side grass, was lovely to her.

"It is so pleasant up there!" she would keep saying to Dorris; and
somehow she said it to Dorris oftener than to anybody else.

The