she who had insisted
that Tony must go to the office every day, and during those long years,
every evening, rain or shine, the same little scene was enacted in the
village post-office. Every evening he had the same story of failure to
report.

"No letter to-night, mother."

"Never mind, father; it'll sure come to-morrow," and Martha would sigh
and clasp her hands in her lap.

Presently, by the movement of her lips he would know she was praying for
the absent one. He would lay aside his pipe, fetch his beads, and
together they would say the Rosary, begging the blessed Mother of God to
keep special watch over their child. She was the only one they had left,
four little white stones marking the resting-place of the four little
angels who had been permitted to remain with them for only such a very
short space of time.

Martha was sleeping now beside her babies and he was alone in the world;
for who could tell what had become of Sallie? She, too, might be at rest
in God's Acre. Sometimes he felt that she must be, or surely, surely,
some word would have come from her. She must have known how anxiously
they would watch for news of her, and certainly she would not be so
heartless as to keep silence all this long time.

Perhaps she had written and the letter failed to reach them. Well,
whatever the trouble was, Tony had long since given up all hope of
hearing from her, but, because of his promise to Martha, he still made
his nightly visit to the post-office in the village. Had it not been for
that promise he would certainly not take that long walk day after day,
in summer heat and winter storms, for hope had long since died in Tony's
heart. At least, so he told himself, but somehow the walk home always
seemed twice as long as the walk down, after hearing those depressing
words "No letter to-night, Tony."

Of late, the daily visit to the village had been almost more than the
old man's failing strength had been able to support. How often he wished
he had not been obliged to sell Lassie. She was the last of his horses
to go; the last, in fact, of all his possessions. There was nothing left
to him now but the old house, and that was in such a state of
dilapidation as to be really unfit for habitation. In the old days, his
dogs and his horses were better housed than he was now; in the old days,
when his farm was one of the most prosperous in that section of the
country. It was lonely indeed since Martha went away, but he was g