e fragrance that came from the fresh shades of the
wood, and the freedom of the broad fields of pure ether, made it rich
with some of nature's homely wealth; which is not by any means the
worst there is. Diana knew the place very well; her eyes were looking
now for the mistress of it. And not long. In the out-of-the-way lying
garden she discerned her white cap; and at the gate met her bringing a
head of lettuce in her hands.

"I knew you liked it, dear," she said, "and I had forgot all about it;
and then it flashed on me, and I thought, Diana will like to have it
for her dinner; and I guess it'll have time to cool. Just put it in a
tin pail, dear, and hang it down in the well; and it'll be fresh."

This was done, and Diana came in and took a seat by her old friend.

"You needn't do that for me, Mother Bartlett. I don't care what I have
to eat."

"Most folks like what is good," said the old lady; "suppos'n they know
it."

"Yes, and so do I, but"--

"I made a pot-pie for ye," the old lady went on contentedly.

"And I suppose you have left nothing at all for me to do, as usual. It
is too bad, Mother Bartlett."

"You shall do all the rest," said her friend; "and now you may talk to
me."

She was a trim little old woman, not near so tall as her visitor; very
wrinkled, but fresh-skinned, and with a quick grey eye. Her dress was a
common working dress of some dark stuff; coarse, but tidy and
nice-looking; her cap white and plain; she sat in her arm-chair,
setting her little feet to the fire, and her fingers merrily clicking
her needles together; a very comfortable vision. The kitchen and its
furniture were as neat as a pin.

"I don't see how you manage, Mother Bartlett," Diana went on, glancing
around. "You ought to have some one to live with you and help you. It
looks as if you had half a dozen."

"Not much," said the old lady, laughing. "A half dozen would soon make
a muss, of one sort or another. There's nothin' like having nobody."

"But you might be sick."

"I might be;--but I ain't," said Mrs. Bartlett, running one end of a
knitting-needle under her cap and looking placidly at Diana.

"But you might want somebody."

"When I do I send for 'em. I sent for you to-day, child; and here you
are."

"But you are quite well to-day?" said Diana a little anxiously.

"I am always well. Never better."

"How old are you, Mother Bartlett?"

"Seventy-three years, child."

"Well, I do think you oughtn't to be h