own, she had some happiness, of a tremulous kind; but
it was all built up of her trust in a speedy escape. She knit mittens,
and sewed long seams; and every day her desire to fill the time was
irradiated by the certainty that twelve hours more were gone. A few more
patient intervals, and she should be at home. Sometimes, as the end of
her visit drew nearer, she woke early in the morning with a sensation of
irresponsible joy, and wondered, for an instant, what had happened to
her. Then it always came back, with an inward flooding she had scarcely
felt even in her placid youth. At home there would be so many things to
do, and, above all, such munificent leisure! For there she would feel no
need of feverish action to pass the time. The hours would take care of
themselves; they would fleet by, while she sat, her hands folded,
communing with old memories.

The day came, and the end of her probation. She trembled a good deal,
packing her trunk in secret, to escape Mary's remonstrances; but John
stood by her, and she was allowed to go.

"You'll get sick of it," called Mary after them. "I guess you'll be glad
enough to see the children again, an' they will you. Mind, you've got to
come back an' spend the winter."

Lucy Ann nodded happily. She could agree to anything sufficiently
remote; and the winter was not yet here.

The first day in the old house seemed to her like new birth in Paradise.
She wandered about, touching chairs and tables and curtains, the
manifest symbols of an undying past. There were loving duties to be
done, but she could not do them yet. She had to look her pleasure in the
face, and learn its lineaments.

Next morning came brother Ezra, and Lucy Ann hurried to meet him with an
exaggerated welcome. Life was never very friendly to Ezra, and those who
belonged to him had to be doubly kind. They could not change his luck,
but they might sweeten it. They said the world had not gone well with
him; though sometimes it was hinted that Ezra, being out of gear, could
not go with the world. All the rivers ran away from him, and went to
turn some other mill. He was ungrudging of John's prosperity, but still
he looked at it in some disparagement, and shook his head. His cheeks
were channeled long before youth was over; his feet were weary with
honest serving, and his hands grown hard with toil. Yet he had not
arrived, and John was at the goal before him.

"We heard you'd been stayin' with John's folks," said he to