enture came to either of them in their gambols. At last she
moved close to the elder, and began to talk. The conversation was about
the children, and there was much to say, the gray-haired woman listening
kindly and interestedly. Finally she spoke.

"Take comfort with the children now, Louisa," she said, gently, "because
it will be best for you. It is a strange thing; it is something we
cannot comprehend, though doubtless it is all for the best, but I often
think that my happiest days were when my children were little, climbing
about my skirts, dependent upon me for everything, as birds in the nest
are dependent, and with all my anxiety over them, giving me the greatest
comfort that can come to a woman. But the years passed, and the children
went away. They are good men and women; I am proud of them, but they are
mine no longer. They love the old mother, too, I know that--when they
think of her. But, oh, Louisa! there is lead in my heart sometimes. I
want something closer. But I'll not complain. Why should I? It is the
law of nature." And she sighed and looked again across the blue water.
There were tears in the corners of her eyes.

The niece, hopeful in the pride of young motherhood, replied
consolingly: "Aunt, you should be proud of your children. Even Jack, the
oldest of them all, is as good as he can be. Think of his long letters
once in a while. He loves you dearly."

"Yes," the old lady replied; "I know he loves me--when he thinks of old
times and his boyhood. But, Louisa, I am very lonesome."

And again her eyes sought the water and the yellow wheat-fields of the
farther shore.

The road which follows the American bank of the St. Clair River is a
fine thing in its way. It is what is known as a "dirt" road, well kept
and level, of the sort beloved of horses and horsemen, and it lies
close to the stream, between it and the farm lands. At every turn a new
and wonderful panorama of green and yellow landscape and azure expanse
of water bursts upon the lucky traveler along this blessed highway.
Still, being a "dirt" road, when one drives along it at speed there
arises in midsummer a slight pillar of dust as the conveyance passes,
and one may from a distance note the approach of a possible visitor.

"There's a carriage coming, aunt," said the younger woman.

The carriage came along rapidly, and with a sudden check the horses were
brought to a standstill in front of the house upon the porch of which
the two women