on the fly-leaf. If you ever need a friend, dear, or are
in trouble of any kind, let me know and I will help you."

He had known her only a few hours, yet, when she kissed him good-by
and the train went whirling on again, he felt that he had left his
last friend behind him.

When one is a child a month is a long time. Grandfathers say, "That
happened over seventy years ago, but it seems just like yesterday."
Grandchildren say, "Why, it was only yesterday we did that, but so
much has happened since that it seems such a great while!"

One summer day can stretch out like a lifetime at life's beginning. It
is only at threescore and ten that we liken it to a weaver's shuttle.

It was in July when old John Dearborn drove to the station to meet the
children. Now the white August lilies were standing up sweet and tall
by the garden fence.

"Seems like we've been here 'most always," said Steven as they rustled
around in the hay hunting eggs. His face had lost its expression of
sadness, so pathetic in a child, as day after day Robin's little feet
pattered through the old homestead, and no one came to take him away.

Active outdoor life had put color in his face and energy into his
movements. Mr. Dearborn and his wife were not exacting in their
demands, although they found plenty for him to do. The work was all
new and pleasant, and Robin was with him everywhere. When he fed the
turkeys, when he picked up chips, when he drove the cows to pasture,
or gathered the vegetables for market, Robin followed him everywhere,
like a happy, dancing shadow.

[Illustration]

Then when the work was done there were the kittens in the barn and the
swing in the apple-tree. A pond in the pasture sailed their shingle
boats. A pile of sand, left from building the new ice-house,
furnished material for innumerable forts and castles. There was a
sunny field and a green, leafy orchard. How could they _help but be
happy?_ It was summer time and they were together.

Steven's was more than a brotherly devotion. It was with almost the
tenderness of mother-love that he watched the shining curls dancing
down the walk as Robin chased the toads through the garden or played
hide-and-seek with the butterflies.

"No, the little fellow's scarcely a mite of trouble," Mrs. Dearborn
would say to the neighbors sometimes when they inquired. "Steven is
real handy about dressing him and taking care of him, so I just leave
it mostly to him."

Mrs. Dearborn was