a year--almost of a day."

Our lives ran on like a strong full tide, and all our ships were borne
smoothly along for four full years. An addition had been made to Jane's
house, and her husband proved loyal and true, so good and kind and
earnest in his work that Aunt Hildy said:

"I have forgotten to remember his dark days, and I really don't believe
he'd ever have cut up so ef Silas had let him alone."

Good Mrs. Davis had sought rest and found it, and a widowed niece came
as house-keeper. John Jones was growing able to do the work he promised
the girls and boys down South, and lectured in the towns around us,
telling his own story with remarkable eloquence for one who had no early
advantages. He was naturally an orator, and only needed a habit of
speaking to make apparent his exceptional mental capacity. Aunt Hildy
was not as strong when 1860 dawned upon us, and she said on New Year's
evening, which with us was always devoted to a sort of recalling of the
past:

"Don't believe I'll be here when sixty-one comes marchin' in."

Clara looked at her with a strange light in her eyes, and said:

"Dear Aunt Hildy, wait for me, please; I'd like to go just when you do."

It was the nineteenth day of April this year, when an answer to a prayer
was heard, and a little wailing sound caused my heart to leap in
gratitude and love. A little dark-eyed daughter came to us, and Louis
and I were father and mother. She had full dark eyes like his, Clara's
mouth, and a little round head that I knew would be covered with sunny
curls, because this would make her the picture I had so longed to see.

"Darling baby-girl, why did you linger so long? We have waited till our
hope had well-nigh vanished," and the dark eyes turned on me for an
answer, which my heart read, "It is well."

Louis named her "Emily Minot Desmonde." It was his wish, and while, as I
thought, it ill suited the little fairy, I only said:

"May she never be called 'Emily did it.'"

"May that be ever her name," said Louis, "for have you not yourself done
that of which she will be always proud, and when we are gone will they
who are left not say of you, 'Emily did it'?

"Ah! my darling, you have lost and won your title, and it comes back
shaped and gilded anew, for scores of childish lips have echoed it, and
'Emily did it' is written in the indelible ink of the great charity
which has given them shelter."

"Louis, too," I said, and he answered:

"Had I not found m