sass," she supplemented, whereupon Abe chuckled,
and Angy went on with a thrill of genuine gladness over the fact that he
remembered the details of that long-ago honeymoon as well as she: "Yew
don't mind havin' no butter to-night, dew yer, Father?"

He recalled how he had said to her at that first simple home meal: "Yew
don't mind bein' poor with me, dew yer, Angy?" Now, with a silent shake
of his head, he stared at her, wondering how it would seem to eat at
table when her face no longer looked at him across the board, to sleep
at night when her faithful hand no longer lay within reach of his own.
She lifted her teacup, he lifted his, the two gazing at each other over
the brims, both half-distressed, half-comforted by the fact that Love
still remained their toast-master after the passing of all the years. Of
a sudden Angy exclaimed, "We fergot ter say grace." Shocked and
contrite, they covered their eyes with their trembling old hands and
murmured together, "Dear Lord, we thank Thee this day for our daily
bread."

Angy opened her eyes to find the red roses cheerfully facing her from
the back of the rocking-chair. A robin had hopped upon the window-sill
just outside the patched and rusty screen and was joyfully caroling to
her his views of life. Through the window vines in which the bird was
almost meshed the sunlight sifted softly into the stripped, bare, and
lonely room. Angy felt strangely encouraged and comforted. The roses
became symbolical to her of the "lilies of the field which toil not,
neither do they spin"; the robin was one of the "two sparrows sold for a
farthing, and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your
Father"; while the sunlight seemed to call out to the little old lady
who hoped and believed and loved much: "Fear ye not therefor. Ye are of
more value than many sparrows!"

II

"GOOD-BY"

When the last look of parting had been given to the old kitchen and the
couple passed out-of-doors, hushed and trembling, they presented an
incongruously brave, gala-day appearance. Both were dressed in their
best. To be sure, Abraham's Sunday suit had long since become his only,
every-day suit as well, but he wore his Sabbath-day hat, a beaver of
ancient design, with an air that cast its reflection over all his
apparel. Angeline had on a black silk gown as shiny as the freshly
polished stove she was leaving in her kitchen--a gown which testified
from its voluminous hem to the soft yellow ne