ard Cleave's company. He sets a
heap o' store by Allan, an' wanted him for second lieutenant, but the
men elected Matthew Coffin--"

"Coffin's bright enough," said Tom, "but Allan's more dependable.--Well,
good-day, gentlemen, an' thank ye both!"

The wagon lumbered down the springtime road and the man on horseback
followed. The tollgate keeper hobbled back to his chair, and Sairy
returned to her dinner. Allan was going away, and she was making
gingerbread because he liked it. The spicy, warm fragrance permeated the
air, homely and pleasant as the curl of blue smoke above the chimney,
the little sunny porch, the buzzing of the bees in the lilacs. "Here's
Allan now," said Tom. "Hey, Allan! you must have gone a good bit o' the
way?"

"I went all the way," answered Allan, lifting the gourd of well-water to
his lips. "Poor little thing! she is breaking her heart over Billy's
going."

Sairy, cutting the gingerbread into squares, held the knife suspended.
"Have ye been talkin' about Billy all this time?"

"Yes," said Allan. "I saw that she was unhappy and I tried to cheer her
up. I'll look out for the boy in every way I can." He took the little
bag of chintz from the bench where he had laid it when he went with
Christianna, and turned to the rude stair that led to his room in the
half story. He was not kin to the tollgate keepers, but he had lived
long with them and was very fond of both. "I'll be down in a moment,
Aunt Sairy," he said. "I wonder when I'll smell or taste your
gingerbread again, and I don't see how I am going to tell you and Tom
good-bye!" He was gone, humming "Annie Laurie" as he went.

"'T would be just right an' fittin'," remarked Mrs. Cole, "if half the
men in the world went about with a piece of pasteboard round their necks
an' written on it, 'Pity the Blind!' Dinner's most ready, Tom,--an' I
don't see how I'm goin' to tell him good-bye myself."

An hour later, in his small bare room underneath the mossy roof, with
the small square window through which the breezes blew, Allan stood and
looked about him. Dinner was over. It had been something of a feast,
with unusual dainties, and a bunch of lilacs upon the table. Sairy had
on a Sunday apron. The three had not been silent either; they had talked
a good deal, but without much thought of what was said. Perhaps it was
because of this that the meal had seemed so vague, and that nothing had
left a taste in the mouth. It was over, and Allan was making re