he swamp, where the corduroy had been broken up
by the spring floods.

Thomas hurried through unhitching, and without waiting to unharness
he stood the horses in their stalls, saying, "We may need them this
afternoon again," and took Hughie off to the house straight-way.

The usual beautiful order pervaded the house and its surroundings.
The back yard, through which the boys came from the barn, was free
of litter; the chips were raked into neat little piles close to the
wood-pile, for summer use. On a bench beside the "stoop" door was a row
of milk-pans, lapping each other like scales on a fish, glittering
in the sun. The large summer kitchen, with its spotless floor and
white-washed walls, stood with both its doors open to the sweet air that
came in from the fields above, and was as pleasant a room to look
in upon as one could desire. On the sill of the open window stood
a sweet-scented geranium and a tall fuschia with white and crimson
blossoms hanging in clusters. Bunches of wild flowers stood on the
table, on the dresser, and up beside the clock, and the whole room
breathed of sweet scents of fields and flowers, and "the name of the
chamber was peace."

Beside the open window sat the little mother in an arm-chair, the
embodiment of all the peaceful beauty and sweet fragrance of the room.

"Well, mother," said Thomas, crossing the floor to her and laying his
hand upon her shoulder, "have I been long away? I have brought Hughie
back with me, you see."

"Not so very long, Thomas," said the mother, her dark face lighting with
a look of love as she glanced up at her big son. "And I am glad to see
Hughie. He will excuse me from rising," she added, with fine courtesy.

Hughie hurried toward her.

"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Finch. Don't think of rising." But he could get no
further. Boy as he was, and at the age when boys are most heartless and
regardless, he found it hard to keep his lip and his voice steady and to
swallow the lump in his throat, and in spite of all he could do his eyes
were filling up with tears as he looked into the little woman's face, so
worn and weary, so pathetically bright.

It was months since he had seen her, and during these months a great
change had come to her and to the Finch household. After suffering long
in secret, the mother had been forced to confess to a severe pain in
her breast and under her arm. Upon examination the doctor pronounced the
case to be malignant cancer, and there was not