after her husband's death," he said to himself one wet October
afternoon, when he sat listening dreamily to the patter of the rain
falling upon the windows, and looking occasionally across the fields to
the farmhouse, in the vain hope of spying in the distance the little
airy form, which, in its waterproof and cloud, had braved worse storms
than this at the time he was so ill.

But no such figure appeared. He hardly expected it would, but he watched
the pathway just the same, and the smoke wreaths rising so high above
the farmhouse. The deacon burned out his chimney that day, and Morris,
whose sight had greatly improved of late, knew it by the dense, black
volume of smoke, mingled with rings of fire, which rose above the roof,
remembering so well another rainy day, twenty years ago, when the
deacon's chimney was cleaned, and a little, toddling girl, in scarlet
gown and white pinafore, had amused herself with throwing into the
blazing fire upon the hearth a straw at a time, almost upsetting herself
with standing so far back and making such efforts to reach the flames. A
great deal had passed since then. The little girl in the pinafore had
been both wife and mother. She was a widow now, and Morris glanced
across his hearth toward the empty chair he had never seen in
imagination filled by any but herself.

Surely, she would some day be his own, and leaning his head upon the
cane he carried, he prayed earnestly for the good he coveted, keeping
his head down so long that, until it had left the strip of woods and
emerged into the open fields, he did not see the figure, wrapped in
waterproof and hood, with a huge umbrella over its head and a basket
upon its arm, which came picking its way daintily toward the house,
stopping occasionally, and lifting up the little, high-heeled Balmoral,
which the mud was ruining so completely. Katy was coming to Linwood. It
had been baking day at the farmhouse, and remembering how much Morris
used to love her custards, Aunt Betsy had prepared him some, which she
warranted to "melt in his mouth," and then asked Katy to take them over,
so he could have them for tea.

"The rain won't hurt you an atom," she said, as Katy began to demur and
glance at the lowering sky. "You can wear your waterproof boots and my
shaker, if you like, and I do so want Morris to have them to-night."

Thus importuned, Katy consented to go, but declined the loan of Aunt
Betsy's shaker, which being large of the kind, an