atulated upon the good fortune of
having such a helper and friend as Martha. As time went on this tall,
gaunt woman, always thin, always slow, gained a dignity of behavior and
simple affectionateness of look which suited the charm and dignity of
the ancient house. She was unconsciously beautiful like a saint, like
the picturesqueness of a lonely tree which lives to shelter unnumbered
lives and to stand quietly in its place. There was such rustic
homeliness and constancy belonging to her, such beautiful powers of
apprehension, such reticence, such gentleness for those who were
troubled or sick; all these gifts and graces Martha hid in her heart.
She never joined the church because she thought she was not good
enough, but life was such a passion and happiness of service that it
was impossible not to be devout, and she was always in her humble place
on Sundays, in the back pew next the door. She had been educated by a
remembrance; Helena's young eyes forever looked at her reassuringly
from a gay girlish face, Helena's sweet patience in teaching her own
awkwardness could never be forgotten.

"I owe everything to Miss Helena," said Martha, half aloud, as she sat
alone by the window; she had said it to herself a thousand times. When
she looked in the little keepsake mirror she always hoped to see some
faint reflection of Helena Vernon, but there was only her own brown old
New England face to look back at her wonderingly.

Miss Pyne went less and less often to pay visits to her friends in
Boston; there were very few friends left to come to Ashford and make
long visits in the summer, and life grew more and more monotonous. Now
and then there came news from across the sea and messages of
remembrance, letters that were closely written on thin sheets of paper,
and that spoke of lords and ladies, of great journeys, of the death of
little children and the proud successes of boys at school, of the
wedding of Helena Dysart's only daughter; but even that had happened
years ago. These things seemed far away and vague, as if they belonged
to a story and not to life itself; the true links with the past were
quite different. There was the unvarying flock of ground-sparrows that
Helena had begun to feed; every morning Martha scattered crumbs for
them from the side door-steps while Miss Pyne watched from the
dining-room window, and they were counted and cherished year by year.

Miss Pyne herself had many fixed habits, but little id