pleasant, and pointing the way to the front door."

The parson knocked and was admitted by the excited Clara Belle,
who ushered him tremblingly into the sickroom, and then betook

herself to the kitchen with the children, as he gently requested
her.

Abner Simpson, left alone in the shed, fumbled in his vest pocket
and took out an envelope which held a sheet of paper and a tiny

packet wrapped in tissue paper. The letter had been read once
before and ran as follows:

Dear Mr. Simpson:
This is a secret letter. I heard that the Acreville people

weren't nice to Mrs. Simpson because she didn't have any wedding
ring like all the others.

I know you've always been poor, dear Mr. Simpson, and troubled
with a large family like ours at the farm; but you really ought

to have given Mrs. Simpson a ring when you were married to her,
right at the very first; for then it would have been over and

done with, as they are solid gold and last forever. And probably
she wouldn't feel like asking you for one, because ladies are

just like girls, only grown up, and I know I'd be ashamed to beg
for jewelry when just board and clothes cost so much. So I send

you a nice, new wedding ring to save your buying, thinking you
might get Mrs. Simpson a bracelet or eardrops for Christmas. It

did not cost me anything, as it was a secret present from a
friend.

I hear Mrs. Simpson is sick, and it would be a great comfort to
her while she is in bed and has so much time to look at it. When

I had the measles Emma Jane Perkins lent me her mother's garnet
ring, and it helped me very much to put my wasted hand outside

the bedclothes and see the ring sparkling.
Please don't be angry with me, dear Mr. Simpson, because I like

you so much and am so glad you are happy with the horses and
colts; and I believe now perhaps you DID think the flag was a

bundle of washing when you took it that day; so no more from your
Trusted friend, Rebecca Rowena Randall.

Simpson tore the letter slowly and quietly into fragments and
scattered the bits on the woodpile, took off his hat, and

smoothed his hair; pulled his mustaches thoughtfully,
straightened his shoulders, and then, holding the tiny packet in

the palm of his hand, he went round to the front door, and having
entered the house stood outside the sickroom for an instant,

turned the knob and walked softly in.
Then at last the angels might have enjoyed a moment of unmixed

joy, for in that brief walk from shed to house Abner Simpson;'s
conscience waked to life and attained sufficient strength to

prick and sting, to provokeremorse, to incite penitence, to do
all sorts of divine and beautiful things it was meant for, but

had never been allowed to do.
Clara Belle went about the kitchen quietly, making preparations

for the children's supper. She had left Riverboro in haste, as
the change for the worse in Mrs. Simpson had been very sudden,

but since she had come she had thought more than once of the
wedding ring. She had wondered whether Mr. Ladd had bought it for

Rebecca, and whether Rebecca would find means to send it to
Acreville; but her cares had been so many and varied that the

subject had now finally retired to the background of her mind.
The hands of the clock crept on and she kept hushing the strident

tones of Elijah and Elisha, opening and shutting the oven door to
look at the corn bread, advising Susan as to her dishes, and

marveling that the minister stayed so long.
At last she heard a door open and close and saw the old parson

come out, wiping his spectacles, and step into the buggy for his
drive to the village.

Then there was another period of suspense, during which the house
was as silent as the grave, and presently her father came into

the kitchen, greeted the twins and Susan, and said to Clara
Belle: "Don't go in there yet!" jerking his thumb towards Mrs.

Simpson's room; "she's all beat out and she's just droppin' off
to sleep. I'll send some groceries up from the store as I go

along. Is the doctor makin' a second call tonight?"
"Yes; he'll be here pretty soon, now," Clara Belle answered,

looking at the clock.
"All right. I'll be here again tomorrow, soon as it's light, and

if she ain't picked up any I'll send word back to Daly, and stop
here with you for a spell till she's better."

It was true; Mrs. Simpson was "all beat out." It had been a time
of excitement and stress, and the poor, fluttered creature was

dropping off into the strangest sleep--a sleep made up of waking
dreams. The pain, that had encompassed her heart like a band of

steel, lessened its cruel pressure, and finally left her so
completely that she seemed to see it floating above her head;

only that it looked no longer like a band of steel, but a golden
circle.

The frail bark in which she had sailed her life voyage had been
rocking on a rough and tossing ocean, and now it floated, floated

slowly into smoother waters.
As long as she could remember, her boat had been flung about in

storm and tempest, lashed by angry winds, borne against rocks,
beaten, torn, buffeted. Now the waves had subsided; the sky was

clear; the sea was warm and tranquil; the sunshine dried the
tattered sails; the air was soft and balmy.

And now, for sleep plays strange tricks, the bark disappeared
from the dream, and it was she, herself, who was floating,

floating farther and farther away; whither she neither knew nor
cared; it was enough to be at rest, lulled by the lapping of the

cool waves.
Then there appeared a green isle rising from the sea; an isle so

radiant and fairy-like that her famished eyes could hardly
believe its reality; but it was real, for she sailed nearer and

nearer to its shores, and at last her feet skimmed the shining
sands and she floated through the air as disembodied spirits

float, till she sank softly at the foot of a spreading tree.
Then she saw the green isle was a flowering isle. Every shrub and

bush was blooming; the trees were hung with rosy garlands, and
even the earth was carpeted with tiny flowers. The rare

fragrances, the bird songs, soft and musical, the ravishment of
color, all bore down upon her swimming senses at once, taking

them captive so completely that she remembered no past, was
conscious of no present, looked forward to no future. She seemed

to leave the body and the sad, heavy things of the body. The
humming in her ears ceased, the light faded, the birds songs grew

fainter and more distant, the golden circle of pain receded
farther and farther until it was lost to view; even the flowering

island gently drifted away, and all was peace and silence.
It was time for the doctor now, and Clara Belle, too anxious to

wait longer, softly turned the knob of her mother's door and
entered the room. The glow of the open fire illumined the darkest

side of the poor chamber. There were no trees near the house, and
a full November moon streamed in at the unblinded, uncurtained

windows, lighting up the bare interior--the unpainted floor, the
gray plastered walls, and the white counterpane.

Her mother lay quite still, her head turned and drooping a little
on the pillow. Her left hand was folded softly up against her

breast, the fingers of the right partly covering it, as if
protecting something precious.

Was it the moonlight that made the patient brow so white, and
where were the lines of anxiety and pain? The face of the mother