etwork of delicate, fine wrinkles;
but every wrinkle must have been as lovely in God's sight as it was in
poor unhappy Susanna Hathaway's. Some of them were graven by self-denial
and hard work; others perhaps meant the giving up of home, of parents
and brothers or sisters; perhaps some worldly love, the love that Father
Adam bequeathed to the human family, had been slain in Abby's youth,
and the scars still remained to show the body's suffering and the
spirit's triumph. At all events, whatever foes had menaced her purity or
her tranquillity had been conquered, and she exhaled serenity as the
rose sheds fragrance.

"Do you remember the little Nelson girl and her mother that stayed here
all night, years ago?" asked Susanna, putting out her hand timidly.

[Illustration: DO YOU REMEMBER THE LITTLE NELSON GIRL AND HER MOTHER?]

"Why, seems to me I do," assented Eldress Abby, genially. "So many comes
and goes it's hard to remember all. Didn't you come once in a
thunder-storm?"

"Yes, one of your barns was struck by lightning and we sat up all
night."

"Yee, yee.[1] I remember well! Your mother was a beautiful spirit. I
couldn't forget her."

"And we came once again, mother and I, and spent the afternoon with you,
and went strawberrying in the pasture."

"Yee, yee, so we did; I hope your mother continues in health."

"She died the very next year," Susanna answered in a trembling voice,
for the time of explanation was near at hand and her heart failed her.

"Won't you come into the sitting-room and rest awhile? You must be tired
walking from the deepot."

"No, thank you, not just yet. I'll step into the front entry a
minute.--Sue, run and sit in that rocking-chair on the porch and watch
the cows going into the big barn.--Do you remember, Eldress Abby, the
second time I came, how you sat me down in the kitchen with a bowl of
wild strawberries to hull for supper? They were very small and ripe; I
did my best, for I never meant to be careless, but the bowl slipped and
fell,--my legs were too short to reach the floor, and I couldn't make a
lap,--so in trying to pick up the berries I spilled juice on my dress,
and on the white apron you had tied on for me. Then my fingers were
stained and wet and the hulls kept falling in with the soft berries, and
when you came in and saw me you held up your hands and said, 'Dear,
dear! you _have_ made a mess of your work!' Oh, Eldress Abby, they've
come back to me all day, those words.