urden of his years, while the voice of our
Fanny, who will be my sister through all time, cheers them in their
daily walk, as she holds in peace the place of little house-keeper. She
loves her home, and we love her. Louis and I have just been looking at
the pleasant picture in our middle room, where our Emily Minot, sitting
between gray hairs, holds in her lap a year-old brother (Louis), while
Fanny, sitting on the old sofa, sings the song of "Gentle Annie."

Matthias, Peg and John are coming over the hill; Jane and her husband
will be here soon, for I am to have a birthday supper. Ben will be with
us, but Hal and Mary, with little Hal, are across the sea. They sailed
last June to find "Love's Fawn," or rather strength for Mary. Aunt
Hildy, "done up in marble," went with them. They will come to us in
June, the month of roses; I love it best of all.

"Hope dey will; but 'pears like you's jes' gone an' done it."

It is morning again. No clouds skirt the horizon; broad, beautiful
daylight beams lovingly upon us. The wind, which yesterday blew such
fierce breaths, journeyed southward during the night, and returned laden
with good-tempered sweetness, whispering of warmer days. We had a
pleasant birthday supper, and by request I read aloud a few of the
foregoing chapters. Matthias rose in terror as he listened to the
recital of our united lives, and interrupted me, saying:

"De good lansake, 'fore de Lord ob Canaan! but you ain't gwine to put
_me_ down in rale printed readin', is ye?"

One would have supposed I had been reading his death warrant, or
something equally portentous, as he stood before me with dilated eyes
and upraised hands. I smiled at the picture and answered:

"Certainly."

"Wall," he said, in a despairing tone, "it'll jes' kill de sale ob dat
book. All de res' is good nuf, but dem tings I'se said don't have no
larnin' to 'em, Miss Em'ly. 'Spect de folks'll tink you's done gone
crazy puttin' me down by de side ob de white lamb. It's mighty quare an'
on-reasonablelike, 'tis sartin'."

"Oh, Matthias," I replied, "the people will like it!"

"Hope you's in de right ob it, but what kin you call it when it's all
done printed out fur ye?"

"That is the question. Louis says 'call it _The Harvest of Years_.'"

The look of quiet wonder which had succeeded the terrified expression
his face at first revealed merged gradually into one of happy certainty,
his large eyes filled with honest tears, and he said with