their places. There were some new ones too, for Lovell
had supplied all that was lacking. The house was full of their old
friends and neighbours. Mrs. Stetson welcomed them home again.

"Oh, Tom," whispered Aunt Sally, tears of happiness streaming down her
old face, "oh, Tom, isn't God good?"

They had a right royal celebration, and a supper such as the Blair
housewives could produce. There were speeches and songs and tales.
Lovell kept himself in the background and helped Mrs. Stetson cut cake
in the pantry all the evening. But when the guests had gone, he went
to Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom, who were sitting by the fire.

"Here's a little golden wedding present for you," he said awkwardly,
putting a purse into Aunt Sally's hand. "I reckon there's enough there
to keep you from ever having to go to the poorhouse again and if not,
there'll be more where that comes from when it's done."

There were twenty-five bright twenty-dollar gold pieces in the purse.

"We can't take it, Lovell," protested Aunt Sally. "You can't afford
it."

"Don't you worry about that," laughed Lovell. "Out west men don't
think much of a little wad like that. I owe you far more than can be
paid in cash, Aunt Sally. You must take it--I want to know there's a
little home here for me and two kind hearts in it, no matter where I
roam."

"God bless you, Lovell," said Uncle Tom huskily. "You don't know what
you've done for Sally and me."

That night, when Lovell went to the little bedroom off the
parlour--for Aunt Sally, rejoicing in the fact that she was again
mistress of a spare room, would not hear of his going to the station
hotel--he gazed at his reflection in the gilt-framed mirror soberly.

"You've just got enough left to pay your passage back west, old
fellow," he said, "and then it's begin all over again just where you
begun before. But Aunt Sally's face was worth it all--yes, sir. And
you've got your two hands still and an old couple's prayers and
blessings. Not such a bad capital, Lovell, not such a bad capital."

A Redeeming Sacrifice

The dance at Byron Lyall's was in full swing. Toff Leclerc, the best
fiddler in three counties, was enthroned on the kitchen table and from
the glossy brown violin, which his grandfather brought from Grand Pre,
was conjuring music which made even stiff old Aunt Phemy want to show
her steps. Around the kitchen sat a row of young men and women, and
the open sitting-room doorway was crowded with