But it's
your folks I care about. It ain't you. I've found it all out, Jethro.
Things don't al'ays belong to us. Sometimes they belong to them that
have gone before; an' half the time we don't know it."

Jethro laid a gentle hand upon her arm. "You're all tired out," he said
soothingly. "Now you give up picking over things, and let me hire
somebody. I'll be glad to."

But Dilly withdrew a little from his touch. "You're real good, Jethro,"
she answered steadily. She had put aside her exaltation, and was her old
self, full of common-sense and kindly strength. "But I don't feel tired,
an' I ain't a mite crazed. All you can do is to ride over to town with
Eli--he's goin' after he feeds the pigs--an' take the cars from there.
It's all over, Jethro. It is, truly. I ain't so sorry as I might be; for
it's borne in on me you won't care this way long. An' you needn't, dear;
for nothin' between us is changed a mite. The only trouble is, it ain't
the kind of thing we thought."

She looked in his eyes with a long, bright farewell glance, and turned
away. She had left behind her something which was very fine and
beautiful; but she could not mourn. And all that morning, about the
house, she sang little snatches of song, and was content. The Joyces had
done their work, and she was doing hers.

THE WAY OF PEACE

It was two weeks after her mother's funeral when Lucy Ann Cummings sat
down and considered. The web of a lifelong service and devotion still
clung about her, but she was bereft of the creature for whom it had been
spun. Now she was quite alone, save for her two brothers and the cousins
who lived in other townships, and they all had homes of their own. Lucy
Ann sat still, and thought about her life. Brother Ezra and brother John
would be good to her. They always had been. Their solicitude redoubled
with her need, and they had even insisted on leaving Annabel, John's
daughter, to keep her company after the funeral. Lucy Ann thought
longingly of the healing which lay in the very loneliness of her little
house; but she yielded, with a patient sigh. John and Ezra were
men-folks, and doubtless they knew best.

A little more than a week had gone when school "took up," rather earlier
than had been intended, and Annabel went away in haste, to teach. Then
Lucy Ann drew her first long breath. She had resisted many a kindly
office from her niece, with the crafty innocence of the gentle who can
only parry and never thrust. Whe