ent to the window, turned down the lamp,
and drew the blind, saying, 'He's answered mi prayers.'

At the going out of that light there went out in Amanda's heart
the false fires of lust and pride and defiance, and in their place
was kindled the light of repentance--of forgiveness and of love.
For five years that faithfully-trimmed lamp told the whole
countryside that Widow Stott was not forgetful of her own; and
when once or twice rebuked by some of the Rehoboth deacons at the
premium which she seemed to put on sin by thus inviting a
wanderer's return, she always replied:

'Blame Him as mak's a woman so as hoo cornd forget her child.'

Now that the lamp was out a flutter of excitement was passing
through the village, Milly Lord being the first to discover it.
She, poor girl! was sitting at her little window listening to the
beat of the rain, and the swish of the grasses that grew in her
garden below--sitting and wondering how it was there were no
'angel een' looking down at the earth, and keeping her eye fixed
on the gable light of Mrs. Stott's lone homestead. Suddenly this
light disappeared. If the sun had gone out at noonday Milly would
not have been more startled. Night after night she had watched
that light, and night after night she had heard her mother tell
the oft-repeated story of Amanda's fall. Once, indeed, Milly
startled her mother in its repetition by saying:

'Happen, if I hadn't lost mi leg, mother, I should ha' sinned as
Amanda did.'

And then Milly's mother drew the girl close to her heart, and
thanked God for a lamb safe in the fold. No wonder when Milly saw
the light go out that she cried:

'Mother! mother! Amanda Stott's come wom'!'

'Whatever will hoo say next?' gasped Mrs. Lord.

'I tell yo' Amanda's come wom'. Th' leet's aat--thaa con see for
thisel!' and the girl was beside herself with excitement.

'So it is,' said Mrs. Lord. 'Bud it's noan Amanda; it's happen her
mother as is takken bad. Awl put o' mi things, and run up and
see.'

Hurrying up the Pinner Brow, it was not long before Mrs. Lord
reached the home of Amanda, and raising the latch, with the
permission which rural friendship grants, she saw the daughter and
mother together on the so long lonely hearth. Taken aback, and
scarcely knowing how to remove the restraint which the sudden
interruption was imposing, she fell upon the instinct of her
heart, and said:

'Well, I never! if our Milly isn't reet! Hoo said as how hoo
kn