he seeds.

"Well, I dunno what for," said he, after consideration. "Father seems to
be pretty rugged."

Hattie was one of those who find no quicker remedy than that of
plentiful speech; and later in the evening, she sped over to the little
house, across the dewy orchard. Mr. Oldfield had come home only that
afternoon, and now he had drawn up at his kitchen table, which was
covered by a hand-woven cloth, beautifully ironed, and set with
old-fashioned dishes. He had hot biscuits and apple-pie, and the odor of
them rose soothingly to Hattie's nostrils, dissipating, for a moment,
her consciousness of tragedy and wrong. A man could not be quite forlorn
who cooked such "victuals," and sat before them so serenely.

"See here, father," said she, with the desperation of speaking her mind
for the first time to one from whom she had hitherto kept awesomely
remote; "when we moved into the new house, I dunno's there was any talk
about your comin', too. I guess it never entered into our heads you'd do
anything but to stick to the old place. An' now, after it's all past an'
gone, the neighbors say"--

Nicholas Oldfield had been smiling his slight, dry smile. At this point,
he took up a knife, and cut a careful triangle of pie. He did all these
things as if each one were very important.

"Here, Hattie," said he, "you taste o' this dried apple. I put a mite o'
lemon in."

Hattie, somehow abashed by the mental impact of the little man, ate her
pie meekly, and thenceforth waived the larger issue. All the same, she
knew the neighbors "pitied father," and that they would continue to pity
him so long as he lived alone in the little peaceful house, doing his
own washing and making his own pie.

To-night was a duplication of many another when Nicholas Oldfield had
turned the corner and come in sight of his own home; but often as it had
been repeated, the experience was never the same. Some would have named
his springing emotion delight; but it neither quickened his pace nor
made him draw his breath the faster. Perhaps he even walked a little
more slowly, to enjoy the taste, for he was a saving man. There was the
little house, white as paint could make it, and snug in bowering
foliage. He noted, with an approving eye, that the dahlias in the front
yard, set in stiff nodding rows, were holding their own bravely against
the dry fall weather, and that the asters were blooming profusely,
purple and pink. A rare softness came over his featur