he top of
one of the posts, she gazed at the place whose surrender meant happiness
for her child. It was just a plain little cottage somewhat in need of a
coat of paint, but the look in Margaret Williams' eyes was the look of a
worshipper who stands before some long-sought shrine. She looked upward
at the swaying branches of the elms and drew a quick breath as she
thought of a day in early March--how long ago?--when _his_ strong arms
had wielded the pick and spade, and she, a girl like Anna Belle, stood
by, holding the young trees and smiling at the thought of sitting under
their shade when he and she were old. Youth was a reality then, and age
a dream, but now it was the other way. Her eyes wandered over the little
yard set thick with flowering shrubs and vines. Every one of them had
its roots in her heart and in her memory, and a mist dimmed her eyes as
she looked again at the house she had first entered when life and love
were new.

"He built it for me," she murmured, and then gave a guilty start as a
clear young voice called out: "Why don't you come in, Mother?"

She passed her hand over her eyes and came smiling into the little hall
where Anna Belle sat, turning down the hems of some coarse kitchen
towels.

"Put up those towels," she said with motherly severity; "that's no work
for a young girl. Where's that nightgown you're embroiderin'? If you
must work, work on that."

The girl glanced up, and in her eyes was the look that for weeks had
been like a dagger-thrust in Margaret Williams' heart.

"There's no hurry about getting that nightgown done," she said quietly.

"No hurry about the towels either," rejoined her mother. "However, it's
so near mealtime there's no use beginnin' anything now. You can set the
table, and I'll get a pick-up dinner for us. I stayed so long at Mrs.
Martin's I can't cook much."

At the mention of Henry's mother Anna Belle colored again. A question
trembled on her lips, but she said nothing, and went about setting the
table in a listless, absent-minded way.

Her mother was watching her furtively, and a pang went through her heart
as she noticed how thin the girl's hands were, and how she trifled with
the food on her plate.

"Pinin' away right before my eyes," she thought. "I'm glad I went to see
Mrs. Martin. I've done all I could, anyway."

After the meal was over, Anna Belle, at her mother's second bidding, got
out the embroidered gown and bent over the tracery of leaves and