sister?"

Joyce turned away from the window and lifted the lid from the kettle in
which the stew was bubbling. "I don't know," she said, gazing dreamily
into the depths of the savoury stew. "If I had that old witch with a
wand that you are always talking about, I'd not stop simply with
something to eat. I would wish myself back in Tours, with Madame
sweeping down to dinner in her red velvet gown, and the candle-light
shining on the cut glass and silver. I'd wish for dinner to be served
elegantly in courses as Henri did it there every night, and I'd hear old
Monsieur making his little jokes over the walnuts and wine. And
afterward there wouldn't be any dishes for me to wash, as there are
here, and at bedtime Marie would come with my candle and untie my
slippers and brush my hair. Oh, it's so nice to be waited on! You don't
know how I miss it sometimes. It is horrid to be poor."

Mary and Holland listened in flattering silence. They had great respect
for their thirteen-year old sister, who had been across seas and visited
old chateaux where kings and queens once lived. She was the only child
in Plainsville who could boast the distinction of having been abroad,
and there was a glamour about it that enchanted them. They were never
tired of hearing of her adventures.

"It's horrid to be poor," she said again, clapping the lid on the
kettle. "I hate to live in a little crowded-up house, and spoil my hands
with dust and dish-water, and do the same things year in and year out."

Joyce stopped suddenly, wishing that she could unsay that last speech,
for the little mother had come into the kitchen in time to hear it.
There was a pained expression on her face.

"I am afraid my bird of passage will never be satisfied with the little
home nest again," she said, sadly.

"Oh, mother, I didn't mean it as bad as it sounds; truly, I didn't,"
cried Joyce. "You know that usually I am as contented as a cricket; but
I don't know what is the matter with me to-day. It must be the weather."

Just then there was a stamping on the porch outside, and the violent
flapping of an umbrella to rid it of the raindrops clinging to it.

"Jack!" shouted Mary, rushing to the door, with Holland and the baby
tagging at her heels. "A letter for Joyce!" they called in chorus the
next instant, all straggling back after the oldest brother as he bore it
triumphantly into the kitchen.

"From Lloydsboro Valley," announced Joyce, and Mrs. Ware's face lighted