ith the fresh maple branches and arbutus decorating the space over
the mantel, and the great dish of violets on the table, and the odorous
plum branches everywhere, that dining-room was certainly an attractive
apartment.

The old-fashioned blue-and-white china and the few pieces of heavy
silverware "dressed" the table very nicely. The linen was yellow with
age, but every glass and spoon shone.

The sun streamed warmly in at the windows, the view from which was lovely.
Lyddy heard the appreciative remarks of the young man as 'Phemie ushered
him in.

But she ran out to greet the old gentleman. The elder Colesworth was sixty
or more--a frail, scholarly-looking man, with a winning smile. He, like
Mr. Bray, leaned on a cane; but Mr. Bray was at least fifteen years Mr.
Colesworth's junior.

"So _you_ are 'L. Bray'; are you?" asked the old gentleman, shaking hands
with her. "You are the elder daughter and head of the household, your
father tells me."

"I am older than 'Phemie--yes," admitted Lyddy, blushing. "But we have
no 'head' here. I do my part of the work, and she does hers."

"And, please God," said Mr. Bray, earnestly, "I shall soon be able to do
mine."

"Work is the word, then!" cried the old gentleman. "I tell Harris that's
all that is the matter with me. I knocked off work too early. 'Retired,'
they call it. But it doesn't pay--it doesn't pay."

"There will be plenty for you to do up here, Mr. Colesworth," suggested
Lyddy, laughing. "We'll let you chop your own wood, if you like. But
perhaps picking flowers for the table will be more to your taste--at
first."

"I don't know--I don't know," returned the old gentleman. "I was brought
up on a farm. I used to know how to swing an axe. And I can remember yet
how I hated a buck-saw."

They went into the house; but Lyddy slipped back to the kitchen and
allowed her father to follow Harris Colesworth and 'Phemie, with the old
gentleman, into the dining-room.

'Phemie soon came out to help, leaving their father to entertain the
visitors while dinner was being served. Lyddy had prepared a simple meal,
of which the staple was the New England standby--baked beans.

She had been up before light, had built a huge fire in the brick oven,
had heated it to a high temperature, and had then baked her pies, a huge
pan of gingerbread, her white bread, and potatoes for dinner. She had
steamed her "brown loaf" in a kettle hanging from the crane, and the
sealed beanpot had b