e door. Barbara and Miriam sat together, at the other end.

"Where were you to-day, Father?"

[Sidenote: At the top of the World]

"On the summit of the highest hill, almost at the top of the world.
I think I heard a robin, but I am not sure. I smelled Spring in the
maple branches and the cedar, and felt it in the salt mist that blew
up from the sea. The Winter has been so long!"

"Did you make a song?"

[Sidenote: Always Make a Song]

"Yes--two. I'll tell you about them afterward. Always make a song,
Barbara, no matter what comes."

So the two talked, while the other woman watched them furtively. Her
face was that of one who has lived much in a short space of time and her
dark, burning eyes betrayed tragic depths of feeling. Her black hair,
slightly tinged with grey, was brushed straight back from her wrinkled
forehead. Her shoulders were stooped and her hands rough from hard work.

She was the older sister of Ambrose North's dead wife--the woman he had
so devotedly loved. Ever since her sister's death, she had lived with
them, taking care of little lame Barbara, now grown into beautiful
womanhood, except for the crutches. After his blindness, Ambrose North
had lost his wife, and then, by slow degrees, his fortune. Mercifully, a
long illness had made him forget a great deal.

"Never mind, Barbara," said Miriam, in a low tone, as they rose from the
table. "It will make your hands too rough for the sewing."

"Shan't I wipe the dishes for you, Aunty? I'd just as soon."

"No--go with him."

The fire had gone down, but the room was warm, so Barbara turned up the
light and began again on her endless stitching. Her father's hands
sought hers.

"More sewing?" His voice was tender and appealing.

"Just a little bit, Father, please. I'm so anxious to get this done."

"But why, dear?"

"Because girls are so vain," she answered, with a laugh.

"Is my little girl vain?"

"Awfully. Hasn't she the dearest father in the world and the
prettiest"--she swallowed hard here--"the prettiest house and the
loveliest clothes? Who wouldn't be vain!"

"I am so glad," said the old man, contentedly, "that I have been able to
give you the things you want. I could not bear it if we were poor."

"You told me you had made two songs to-day, Father."

[Sidenote: Song of the River]

He drew closer to her and laid one hand upon the arm of her chair.
Quietly, she moved her crutches beyond his reach. "One is about the
river," he