back, slowly, stiffly,
falteringly, now that the stimulus of frantic fear was spent; but still
she walked. The doctor nodded his satisfaction.

"Keep that up every day. Walk as much as you can without tiring
yourself, and you'll soon be as spry as ever. No more need of crutches
for you, but there's no miracle in the case."

Judith Marsh turned to him. She had not spoken a word since her question
concerning Salome's crutch. Now she said passionately:

"It WAS a miracle. God has worked it to prove His existence for me, and
I accept the proof."

The old doctor shrugged his shoulders again. Being a wise man, he knew
when to hold his tongue.

"Well, put Salome to bed, and let her sleep the rest of the day. She's
worn out. And for pity's sake let some one take that poor child and put
some dry clothes on him before he catches his death of cold."

That evening, as Salome Marsh lay in her bed in a glory of sunset light,
her heart filled with unutterable gratitude and happiness, Judith came
into the room. She wore her best hat and dress, and she held Lionel
Hezekiah by the hand. Lionel Hezekiah's beaming face was scrubbed clean,
and his curls fell in beautiful sleekness over the lace collar of his
velvet suit.

"How do you feel now, Salome?" asked Judith gently.

"Better. I've had a lovely sleep. But where are you going, Judith?"

"I am going to church," said Judith firmly, "and I am going to take
Lionel Hezekiah with me."

XII. The End of a Quarrel

Nancy Rogerson sat down on Louisa Shaw's front doorstep and looked about
her, drawing a long breath of delight that seemed tinged with pain.
Everything was very much the same; the square garden was as charming
bodge-podge of fruit and flowers, and goose-berry bushes and tiger
lilies, a gnarled old apple tree sticking up here and there, and a thick
cherry copse at the foot. Behind was a row of pointed firs, coming out
darkly against the swimming pink sunset sky, not looking a day older
than they had looked twenty years ago, when Nancy had been a young girl
walking and dreaming in their shadows. The old willow to the left was as
big and sweeping and, Nancy thought with a little shudder, probably as
caterpillary, as ever. Nancy had learned many things in her twenty years
of exile from Avonlea, but she had never learned to conquer her dread of
caterpillars.

"Nothing is much changed, Louisa," she said, propping her chin on her
plump white hands, and sniffing at