ur old classmates."

Mr. Hamilton would have gone almost anywhere for the sake of hearing
from his classmates, many of whom he greatly esteemed; and as in this
case the "anywhere" was only at Widow Carter's, the idea was not
altogether distasteful to him, and when he bade her good night he was
under a promise to call again soon. All hopes, however, of procuring
her for his housekeeper were given up, for if she resented his offer
of payment for what she had already done, she surely would be doubly
indignant at his last proposed plan. After becoming convinced of this
fact, it is a little strange how suddenly he found that he did not
need a housekeeper--that Margaret, who before could not do at all,
could now do very well--as well as anybody. And Margaret did do well,
both as housekeeper and mother of little Willie, who seemed to have
transferred to her the affection he had borne for his mother.

At intervals during the autumn Mrs. Carter called, always giving a
world of good advice, patting Carrie's pale cheek, kissing Willie, and
then going away. But as none of her calls were ever returned they
gradually became less frequent, and as the winter advanced ceased
altogether; while Margaret, hearing nothing, and seeing nothing, began
to forget her fears, and to laugh at them as having been groundless.

CHAPTER V.

KATE KIRBY.

The little brooklet, which danced so merrily by the homestead
burial-place, and then flowed on in many graceful turns and
evolutions, finally lost itself in a glossy mill-pond, whose waters,
when the forest trees were stripped of their foliage, gleamed and
twinkled in the smoky autumn light, or lay cold and still beneath the
breath of winter. During this season of the year, from the upper
windows of the homestead the mill-pond was discernible, together with
a small red building which stood upon its banks.

For many years this house had been occupied by Mr. Kirby, who had been
a schoolboy with Ernest Hamilton, and who, though naturally
intelligent, had never aspired to any higher employment than that of
being miller on the farm of his old friend. Three years before our
story opens Mr. Kirby had died, and a stranger had been employed to
take his place. Mrs. Kirby, however, was so much attached to her
woodland home and its forest scenery that she still continued to
occupy the low red house together with her daughter Kate, who sighed
for no better or more elegant home, although rumor whispere