laining over the hardship of
the day just passed and of all those that were to come. She heard it as
in a dream for still "the holy spirit of the spring" possessed her, and
it seemed strange and unbelievable that people could be troubled over
such trifles as sweeping and cleaning and cooking, when there were the
woods and the great, deep peace of the woods in which all such cares
might be forgotten.

After she had set the table for breakfast, she went out on the porch.
Her mother and the boys had gone up-stairs to bed, and her father was
knocking the ashes from his pipe and yawning loudly. She sat down on the
bench beside him and laid her hand on his knee. Such a thing as a caress
had not passed between father and daughter since the latter had outgrown
her childhood, and the man turned in surprise and peered through the
gloom at the face of the girl, as if seeking an explanation of that
familiar touch.

"Your mother says you been roamin' around in the woods all day,
Mirandy," he said awkwardly. "That ain't safe for a girl. Don't you know
that?"

"I wasn't afraid," she answered; "and, Father, I want to ask a favor of
you." Her voice had the eager pleading of a child's. "I want you to go
walkin' with me in the woods next Sunday, just like we used to do when I
was a little girl." Something in her voice and the words "when I was a
little girl" touched a chord of memory that had not vibrated for many a
year. Perhaps the tired, hard-worked man had a glimpse of the meagerness
of his child's life, for he laid his rough hand over hers and spoke with
the voice she remembered he had used when she was "a little girl."

"Why, that's a curious notion, Mirandy," he said. "What'll the preacher
say, if he hears we've gone walkin' in the woods on Sunday instead of
goin' to church? But I'll go just to please you, provided the weather's
suitable. Now, le's shut up the house and go to bed. It's time everybody
was asleep."

They went in together, and while her father closed the doors and put
down the windows in anticipation of the coming rain, Miranda lighted her
lamp in the kitchen and went softly up-stairs. She still felt the
delicious sleepiness that comes from breathing outdoor air all day, and
her nap in the woods seemed only to have given her a longing for more
sleep.

At the head of the stairs were the soap and water still waiting to be
used, but she could look at them now without any of the irritation she
had felt that mornin