hnny Harris, perhaps he's thinkin' o' me, if he's alive."

It was dark now out of doors, and there were tiny clicks against the
window. It was beginning to snow, and the great elms creaked in the
rising wind overhead.

III.

A dead limb of one of the old trees had fallen that autumn, and, poor
firewood as it might be, it was Mrs. Robb's own, and she had burnt it
most thankfully. There was only a small armful left, but at least she
could have the luxury of a fire. She had a feeling that it was her
last night at home, and with strange recklessness began to fill the
stove as she used to do in better days.

"It 'll get me good an' warm," she said, still talking to herself, as
lonely people do, "an' I 'll go to bed early. It's comin' on to storm."

The snow clicked faster and faster against the window, and she sat
alone thinking in the dark.

"There 's lots of folks I love," she said once. "They 'd be sorry I
ain't got nobody to come, an' no supper the night afore Thanksgivin'.
I 'm dreadful glad they don't know." And she drew a little nearer to
the fire, and laid her head back drowsily in the old rocking-chair.

It seemed only a moment before there was a loud knocking, and somebody
lifted the latch of the door. The fire shone bright through the front
of the stove and made a little light in the room, but Mary Ann Robb
waked up frightened and bewildered.

"Who 's there?" she called, as she found her crutch and went to the
door. She was only conscious of her one great fear. "They 've come to
take me to the poor-house!" she said, and burst into tears.

There was a tall man, not John Mander, who seemed to fill the narrow
doorway.

"Come, let me in!" he said gayly. "It's a cold night. You did n't
expect me, did you, Mother Robb?"

"Dear me, what is it?" she faltered, stepping back as he came in, and
dropping her crutch. "Be I dreamin'? I was a-dreamin' about-- Oh,
there! What was I a-sayin'? 'T ain't true! No! I've made some kind
of a mistake."

Yes, and this was the man who kept the poorhouse, and she would go
without complaint; they might have given her notice, but she must not
fret.

"Sit down, sir," she said, turning toward him with touching patience.
"You 'll have to give me a little time. If I 'd been notified I would
n't have kept you waiting a minute this stormy night."

It was not the keeper of the poorhouse. The man by the door took one
step forward and put his arm round her and