tler thoughts
of the past few days in their noisy mirth and games.

Still, something of that gentle influence lingered. Gus tempted Rufie
with a penny, and coaxed her into brushing up the floor now and then,
while he took to hanging up his discarded garments, rather than dropping
them in a heap. It was a few evenings later, and he had begun using the
least burned hand to some purpose, when a strange man called, and asked
if he ever submitted plans in competition. Peters rather mournfully
confessed that he had, but with little success, except in one instance,
when he had taken a prize in an amateur competition. After a talk on
such matters the stranger mentioned, as if incidentally, that plans were
requested for a small church about to be built in Littleton; why did not
Peters compete? Instantly the young man's thought flew to his drawings,
now in Mother Keep's possession. If he had those he might venture. But
could he not reproduce them? Oh! if his hands were only well. If Mother
Keep would but remember what was of so little consequence to her, but so
much to him.

He lay awake long, that night, dreaming dreams of future success, but
awoke to a disheartening sense of pain and impotence. There were no
letter-carriers in the village, and Gus seldom had reason for
frequenting the post-office unless on a bright day, to meet the girls.
As he should not begin work to-day, however, he thought he would stroll
in that direction. The office, a mere box in one corner of a provision
store, was presided over by a woman in spectacles, the wife of the
store-keeper. As Gus stood leaning against the side of the door, one arm
still in bandages and a sling, a figure entered, passing him quickly by,
as if intent on business. He recognized Miss Lavillotte, who had been so
kind to him the day he was burned, and waited patiently till she should
turn from the little office window, and give him greeting.

Presently she did turn; then, after a quick, intent look, advanced
smilingly.

"You are much better?" She asked eagerly. "You look almost well."

"I am, thank you! I had fine care, you see."

"Did you? That was good!"

"I should say! The queer thing is, I don't know where she came from, nor
where she's gone to."

"Who?"

"Mother Keep--as I call her. She was fine! She'd cure anything, I
reckon."

Joyce laughed, her eyes shining.

"And she really saved you some suffering?"

"She made me almost enjoy it!" laughing blithely. "I wis