y was done, and the traveller had taken up her abode where
there is

"The rest begun,
That Christ hath for his people won."

She had gone triumphantly. "Through God we shall do valiantly"--being
her last--uttered words. Her children took them as a legacy, and felt
rich. But they looked at her empty chair, and counted themselves poorer
than ever before. Mrs. Barclay saw that the mourning was deep. Yet,
with the reserved strength of New England natures, it made no noise,
and scarce any show.

Mrs. Barclay lived much alone those first days. She would gladly have
talked to somebody; she wanted to know about the affairs of the little
family, but saw no one to talk to. Until, two or three days after the
funeral, coming home one afternoon from a walk in the cold, she found
her fire had died out; and she went into the next room to warm herself.
There she saw none of the usual inmates. Mrs. Armadale's chair stood on
one side the fire, unoccupied, and on the other side stood uncle Tim
Hotchkiss.

"How do you do, Mr. Hotchkiss? May I come and warm myself? I have been
out, and I am half-frozen."

"I guess you're welcome to most anything in this house, ma'am,--and
fire we wouldn't grudge to anybody. Sit down, ma'am;" and he set a
chair for her. "It's pretty tight weather."

"We had nothing like this last winter," said Mrs. Barclay, shivering.

"We expect to hev one or two snaps in the course of the winter," said
Mr. Hotchkiss. "Shampuashuh ain't what you call a cold place; but we
expect to see them two snaps. It comes seasonable this time. I'd
rayther hev it now than in March. My sister--that's gone,--she could
always tell you how the weather was goin' to be. I've never seen no one
like her for that."

"Nor for some other things," said Mrs. Barclay. "It is a sad change to
feel her place empty."

"Ay," said uncle Tim, with a glance at the unused chair,--"it's the
difference between full and empty. 'I went out full, and the Lord has
brought me back empty', Ruth's mother-in-law said."

"Who is Ruth?" Mrs. Barclay asked, a little bewildered, and willing to
change the subject; for she noticed a suppressed quiver in the hard
features. "Do I know her?"

"I mean Ruth the Moabitess. Of course you know her. She was a poor
heathen thing, but she got all right at last. It was her mother-in-law
that was bitter. Well--troubles hadn't ought to make us bitter. I guess
there's allays somethin' wrong when they do."

"Ha