you know I'm pretty good at them; and just you light
one of Rachel's candles--though it is hardly dark yet, it will make the
table look so cheerful-like."

Annie did as directed, and they soon sat down to the simple meal. Aunt
Patty's face was redolent with good-humor and cheerfulness, as she
dished out the largest, ripest berries, and nicest browned cakes for her
darling.

"Do you write your pretty stories and poetries for that city magazine
now, hinney?" she asked, as they discussed their meal.

"Yes, aunty, and I have brought several numbers for your perusal. I
still want to be famous, aunty, though I once thought I didn't care for
anything more in this world; but that was in a foolish time, and is past
by now. Mr. Grey says it is better to be good than great; but if one can
be both, why, better still, I fancy. And I know I feel happy when I'm
teaching those poor little children to read and love each other, and
grow up to be blessings to their parents. This is doing good, Mr. Grey
says; but this restless heart of mine is not filled, is not content. It
feels there are other faculties, lying dormant and unemployed. The
editors of this magazine have offered two prizes,--one for the best
tale, the other for the best poem,--and I'm going to strive to win them.
The money would make you very comfortable for life, aunty; and you have
done so much for me I want to repay some of your kindness if I can."

"Dear heart!" said the old woman, tearfully, "what have I ever done for
you that is not already ten-fold repaid by seeing your bright eyes, and
feeling that you love your old aunty?"

"But I'm not wholly disinterested, aunty; don't you see I covet the fame
that would follow should I succeed? That's for me; the money for you.
Now kiss me good-night, and I'll to my cot to dream a subject for my
labor."

"God bless and prosper you, my darling!" said the fond aunt.

CHAPTER XX.

"It was a face one loved to gaze upon,
For calm serenity of thought was there.
The eyes were soft and gentle in their glance,
And looked with trusting artlessness in yours.
Placid her mien, like that of lofty souls
That after storm sink down in tranquil rest."

Once more is winding on the spring-time of the year, and once more is
Annie Evalyn away from the old forest home. Her soft, bird-like tones
echo through the sumptuous drawing-room