overcome by the decision, and straightway sought out one
of the Commissioners, a friend of Cousin Jim's, whom she knew quite
intimately.

"Why did you do it?" she asked wrathfully.

"My dear Miss Piper," he replied, "perhaps you have not realized that
Nancy McVeigh has a heart as big as a bushel basket, and we can find no
instance where she has abused the power which she holds. If we take it
away from her, some other will step into her place, and he might be ten
times worse."

Sophia brought the interview to a close very abruptly, and went home
angry and unshaken in her resolve; but an unexpected event changed the
course of her meditation. Cousin Jim was planning a winter's stay in
California for her and his children. She needed the rest and change,
and so did the youngsters. Their preparations were completed in a few
days, and the big house was closed. Thus the questions which had
raised such an excitement were shelved for a more convenient season.

It was in the spring of the next year that Jennie, Nancy McVeigh's
adopted daughter, brought her the news from town of Tom Piper's illness.

"The poor fellow's goin' fast, wi' consumption, and he's at the
'ospital. It was Dan Conors who told me, an' he said, 'Tom hasn't a
dollar fer the luxuries he requires,'" Jennie explained. Nancy's face
relaxed somewhat from its habitually austere expression when Jennie had
finished.

"The idee o' that lad dyin', forsaken like that, an' his own sister
gallivantin' about California. It's past me understandin' entirely,"
she remarked, as she fastened on her widow's bonnet and threw her heavy
shawl over her shoulders.

"Tell Will Devitt to harness the mare, and I'll go and see what can be
done fer him."

Nancy arrived at the hospital late in the afternoon, and was admitted
to the sick man's bedside. She found him delirious and unable to
recognize her, but instead he called her "Sophia."

"It's so good of you to come, Sophia. I knew you would," he kept
repeating as he clasped her hand in his. All that night Nancy stayed
by him, attending to his wants with the skill of a mother, and soothing
him by her words.

In the morning he died.

"I guess it will be the potter's field," the hospital doctor told her,
when she inquired about the burial. "He came here almost penniless,
and has been in the ward six weeks."

Nancy gazed into space while she made some hasty mental computations.
"What balance is due ye?" she asked,