rty years before, and an
India shawl which had pointed a moral to the pious of Elmerton for more
than that length of time. Mrs. Weight's curiosity knew no bounds when
she saw them turn into the old Jaquith place. She would have been more
astounded if she could have heard Mrs. Tree begin at once with:

"Well, Mary Jaquith, here you sit!"

"Mrs. Tree! Is this you?" asked Mrs. Jaquith; "my dear soul, what brings
you out so early in the morning? Come in! come in! who is with you?"

"I didn't say any one was with me! Don't you go to setting double-action
ears like mine, Mary, because you are not old enough to. How are you?
Obstinate as ever?"

"Take this chair, it's the one you always like. How am I obstinate, dear
Mrs. Tree?"

"If I've asked you once to come and live with me, I've asked you fifty
times," grumbled the old lady, sitting down with a good deal of flutter
and rustle. "There I must stay, left alone at my age, with nobody but
that old goose of a Direxia Hawkes to look after me. And all because you
like to be independent. Set you up! Well, I shan't ask you again, and so
I've come to tell you, Mary Jaquith."

"Dear old friend, you forgive me, I know. You never can have thought for
a moment, seriously, that I could be a burden on your kind hands. There
surely is some one with you, Mrs. Tree! Is it Direxia? Please be seated,
whoever it is."

There was a slight sound, as of a sob checked in the outbreak. Mrs. Tree
shook her head fiercely. The blind woman rose from her seat, very pale.

"Who is it? Be kind, please, and tell me."

"I'm going to tell you," said Mrs. Tree, "if you will have patience for
two minutes, and not drive every idea out of my head with your talk. I
had a visitor last night, Mary--some one came to see me--an old
acquaintance--some one who had seen Willie lately. Now Mary Jaquith, if
you don't sit down,--well, of all the unreasonable women I ever saw!"

The blind woman had stretched out her arms with a heavenly gesture of
appeal,--of welcome, of love unutterable,--and in a moment more her
son's arms were about her and he was crying over and over again,
"Mother, mother, mother!" as if he could not have enough of that word.

FOOTNOTE:

[79] An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen.

THE PORTRAIT

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught
Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.
I sat by the dying fire, and thought
Of the dea