laying her gloved hands on her
shoulders, bent tender, beaming eyes on her face. "It makes me so
thankful, auntie, to think you miss me, and are glad when I come
back. I don't suppose there's a happier girl anywhere than I am."

"Nor a happier pair than ye make yer uncle an' me," said Aunt Hepsy
softly. "Off ye go, ye waste my time like anything; time was when I'd
make ye fly round considerable if ye'd ventured."

Lucy laughed, and went her way, turning aside as she went through the
paddock for a pleasant word with Uncle Josh ploughing in the low
meadow. He stopped his team to watch the pretty girlish figure out of
sight. Crossing the bridge she met Ebenezer going with a letter to
Thankful Rest. It was for her, and in Tom's handwriting. There was no
need for her to go down to the town, and she turned in the direction
of the Dovecot, which was the name of the pretty home occupied by
George Keane and his wife. It was midway between the Red House and
the parsonage, and fifteen minutes' leisurely walking brought her to
it. Miss Goldthwaite had been married four years past, and had one
little son, the joy and torment of her life. He was in bed, however,
when Lucy called, so there was a chance of a moment's quiet talk.

"I have had a letter from Tom to-night, Carrie," she said when the
first greetings were over. "His picture has sold for five hundred
dollars."

"O Lucy, I am so glad. Such a success for a young artist! How proud
Robert will be of his pupil."

Lucy's eyes beamed her pride, though she said very little.

"Frank is here," said Mrs. Keane after a moment. "He is out somewhere
with George; let us find them, and communicate the good news. What
will Aunt Hepsy say?"

They rose and went out into the sweet spring twilight and found Mr.
Goldthwaite and Mr. George Keane in the garden at the back. There
were warm congratulations from both, and an hour slipped away in
discussing the artist, his work and prospects, till Lucy remembered
her promise to Aunt Hepsy, and said that she must be going. Mr.
Goldthwaite would return too, he said, as it was growing late. His
sister fancied Lucy's company was an inducement to him to leave so
early, but she discreetly held her peace.

It was almost dark, though the lamp was not lit at Thankful Rest,
when Lucy reached home.

"You've kept your time," said Aunt Hepsy well pleased. "Did ye come
home alone?"

"No, Aunt Hepsy," answered Lucy very low, and the semi-darkness hid
he