quirrels ran playfully upon the old rail fence
at his right. Quails were calling to their young broods in the wheat
stubble. The low sun sent a torrent of pale gold up the ravine that
opened to the west. Early September!--it was within a few days only of
the anniversary of Aglaia's disappearance.

The old overshot-wheel, half covered with mountain ivy, caught patches
of the warm sunlight filtering through the trees. The cottage across
the road was still standing, but it would doubtless go down before the
next winter's mountain blasts. It was overrun with morning glory and
wild gourd vines, and the door hung by one hinge.

Father Abram pushed open the mill door, and entered softly. And then
he stood still, wondering. He heard the sound of some one within,
weeping inconsolably. He looked, and saw Miss Chester sitting in a dim
pew, with her head bowed upon an open letter that her hands held.

Father Abram went to her, and laid one of his strong hands firmly upon
hers. She looked up, breathed his name, and tried to speak further.

"Not yet, Miss Rose," said the miller, kindly. "Don't try to talk yet.
There's nothing as good for you as a nice, quiet little cry when you
are feeling blue."

It seemed that the old miller, who had known so much sorrow himself,
was a magician in driving it away from others. Miss Chester's sobs
grew easier. Presently she took her little plain-bordered handkerchief
and wiped away a drop or two that had fallen from her eyes upon Father
Abram's big hand. Then she looked up and smiled through her tears.
Miss Chester could always smile before her tears had dried, just as
Father Abram could smile through his own grief. In that way the two
were very much alike.

The miller asked her no questions; but by and by Miss Chester began to
tell him.

It was the old story that always seems so big and important to the
young, and that brings reminiscent smiles to their elders. Love was
the theme, as may be supposed. There was a young man in Atlanta, full
of all goodness and the graces, who had discovered that Miss Chester
also possessed these qualities above all other people in Atlanta or
anywhere else from Greenland to Patagonia. She showed Father Abram the
letter over which she had been weeping. It was a manly, tender letter,
a little superlative and urgent, after the style of love letters
written by young men full of goodness and the graces. He proposed for
Miss Chester's hand in marriage at once. Life,