e he could see it,--the one I had addressed
in a silly, flowing screed.

His pinched little face lighted up from within--cheerily, exquisitely,
and his chin went up the tiniest fraction in glad pride. "_I_ ...
knew ..." He just barely breathed it, Michael, and then he sort of
relaxed all over and gave a long, comfortable sigh, like a tired
puppy, and--and went to sleep.

His mother screamed and fell down beside the bed, and the Deacon
said, "Loose him an' let him go, Angerleek!"--but he lifted her up
and kept his arms around her.

I went away and left them there with Dan'l and S.A.B.B. I had
forgotten all about mail time, but I found myself presently at the
graveyard corner. It was one of those gentle, warmed-over summer
days and the air was mild and filled with little whispers. I was
so happy, Michael Daragh, that in my heart I heard the "harpers
harping with their harps," but by and by I was aware of a nearer,
more intimate sound--not "_klip-klup_" as on other days, but
_klipety-klipety-KLIPETY_--a panic of frantic speed.

Down the road they came, Old Lizzie's hoofs scattering dust and
pebbles, Uncle Robert leaning far forward, laying on the lash. When
he saw me he cried out:--"Oh, it ain't too late? Oh, my dear Lord'n
Saviour, it _ain't_ too late?"

Then he handed me a plump registered letter, addressed in a foolish,
flowing screed which looked as if it had been done up in curl papers
over night, and I began to cry for the first time.

"No," I said, "oh, no, it's not too late!" And I ran up to Dan'l's
still little room and gave it to the Deacon and he took it with a
great wonder in his ice-blue eyes and slipped it under the cold
little claw, beside our merciful lie.

Then I went into my own room, and I noticed for the first time that
Uncle Robert had given me two other letters and I stopped crying and
stared at them.

One was a very small envelope and the name printed in the corner was
that of the brown-gowned magazine on the stern and rock-bound. The
other was yours.

J. V.

P.S. Guess which one I opened first, Michael Daragh, Do-er of
Miracles?

CHAPTER XI

Jane stayed on at Three Meadows until after the bleak and austere little
funeral, and long enough to help Angelique soften the harshly new grave
with flowers and