ll look at it
when I feel my pesky temper gettin' up. I suppose ye'll be so took up
with your paintin' ye couldn't never think of coming back to Thankful
Rest. It wouldn't be good for you, if you're getting on any way with
Mr. Robert Keane. But you'll come right away in summer, an' see what
a different place Lucy has made of Thankful Rest, an' how precious
she is to your uncle an' me. I guess she's one of the Lord's
messengers, sent to do what all the preachin' in the world couldn't.
I reckon I'll finish up. It has took me an hour to write this, I'm so
slow with the pen. Give my respects to Mr. Robert Keane; and when he
comes to Thankful Rest in summer, maybe he'll get a better welcome
than he got before. So no more at present. From your affectionate
aunt,

"HEPSEY"

That letter reached Boston Avenue in the evening, when Tom was poring
over a book of instructions for young artists. He was in his own
sanctum, which Mr. Keane had given him when he came--a tiny apartment
next the artist's studio, and commanding from its window the finest
view in Philadelphia. Tom seized the letter from the servant's hand.
He had written twice to Lucy, and was anxiously wondering at her
delay in answering, for Lucy had always been a faithful and punctual
correspondent.

You would have laughed had you seen the varying expressions on Tom's
face as he read Aunt Hepsy's epistle;--concern at first to hear Lucy
was ill; relief to find her recovering; and, last of all, mute,
dumfoundered amazement at Aunt Hepsy.

Mr. Keane opened his studio by-and-by and looked out.

"Well, Tom, news from Lucy at last, my boy?" he asked.

"No, sir," said Tom soberly, yet with an odd twinkle in his eye; and
then he held out the open letter, saying simply, "Read that, Mr.
Keane."

Mr. Keane smiled too as he read. "Lucy has conquered, as I thought
she would," he said. "See, Tom, what an influence a meek, gentle,
loving spirit like Lucy's has in the world. You and I with our fiery
tempers sink into nothingness beside her."

"You, Mr. Keane!" echoed Tom in amazement. "I don't think you have a
temper at all."

"Haven't I?" The artist's smile grew sad. "There was a boy once who
was expelled from three schools for impertinence and insubordination,
and put his parents to the expense of keeping a tutor for him at
home. That tutor, Tom, was a man of splendid talents, which his
delicate health forbade h