om. Then she rose to her exquisite house,
and got breakfast ready, according to the unswerving programme of the
day. Fried chicken and mince pie: she had had them as a child, and now
they were scrupulously prepared. After breakfast, she sat down in the
sunshine, and watched the people go by to service in Tiverton Church.
Lucy Ann would have liked going, too; but there would be inconvenient
questioning, as there always must be when we meet our kind. She would
stay undisturbed in her seclusion, keeping her festival alone. The
morning was still young when she put her turkey in the oven, and made
the vegetables ready. Lucy Ann was not very fond of vegetables, but
there had to be just so many--onions, turnips, and squash baked with
molasses--for her mother was a Cape woman, preserving the traditions of
dear Cape dishes. All that forenoon, the little house throbbed with a
curious sense of expectancy. Lucy Ann was preparing so many things that
it seemed as if somebody must surely keep her company; but when
dinner-time struck, and she was still alone, there came no lull in her
anticipation. Peace abode with her, and wrought its own fair work. She
ate her dinner slowly, with meditation and a thankful heart. She did not
need to hear the minister's careful catalogue of mercies received. She
was at home; that was enough.

After dinner, when she had done up the work, and left the kitchen
without spot or stain, she went upstairs, and took out her mother's
beautiful silk poplin, the one saved for great occasions, and only left
behind because she had chosen to be buried in her wedding gown. Lucy Ann
put it on with careful hands, and then laid about her neck the wrought
collar she had selected the day before. She looked at herself in the
glass, and arranged a gray curl with anxious scrutiny. No girl adorning
for her bridal could have examined every fold and line with a more
tender care. She stood there a long, long moment, and approved herself.

"It's a wonder," she said reverently. "It's the greatest mercy anybody
ever had."

The afternoon waned, though not swiftly; for Time does not always gallop
when happiness pursues. Lucy Ann could almost hear the gliding of his
rhythmic feet. She did the things set aside for festivals, or the days
when we have company. She looked over the photograph album, and turned
the pages of the "Ladies' Wreath." When she opened the case containing
that old daguerreotype, she scanned it with a little distas