member,
Rebecca," she said, "when I tell you I've always thanked the Lord that
you never looked at Abijah Flagg and he never looked at you. If either
of you ever had, there never would have been a chance for me, and I've
always known it!"

II

The romance alluded to in the foregoing chapter had been going on, so
far as Abijah Flagg's part of it was concerned, for many years, his
affection dating back in his own mind to the first moment that he saw
Emma Jane Perkins at the age of nine.

Emma Jane had shown no sign of reciprocating his attachment until the
last three years, when the evolution of the chore-boy into the
budding scholar and man of affairs had inflamed even her somewhat dull
imagination.

Squire Bean's wife had taken Abijah away from the poorhouse, thinking
that she could make him of some little use in her home. Abbie Flagg, the
mother, was neither wise nor beautiful; it is to be feared that she
was not even good, and her lack of all these desirable qualities,
particularly the last one, had been impressed upon the child ever since
he could remember. People seemed to blame him for being in the world at
all; this world that had not expected him nor desired him, nor made any
provision for him. The great battle-axe of poorhouse opinion was forever
leveled at the mere little atom of innocent transgression, until he grew
sad and shy, clumsy, stiff, and self-conscious. He had an indomitable
craving for love in his heart and had never received a caress in his
life.

He was more contented when he came to Squire Bean's house. The first
year he could only pick up chips, carry pine wood into the kitchen, go
to the post-office, run errands, drive the cows, and feed the hens, but
every day he grew more and more useful.

His only friend was little Jim Watson, the storekeeper's son, and they
were inseparable companions whenever Abijah had time for play.

One never-to-be-forgotten July day a new family moved into the white
cottage between Squire Bean's house and the Sawyers'. Mr. Perkins had
sold his farm beyond North Riverboro and had established a blacksmith's
shop in the village, at the Edgewood end of the bridge. This fact was of
no special interest to the nine-year-old Abijah, but what really was of
importance, was the appearance of a pretty little girl of seven in the
front yard; a pretty little fat doll of a girl, with bright fuzzy hair,
pink cheeks, blue eyes, and a smile of almost bewildering continuity.
A