ere's room enough in the world for a hill of potatoes and a
morning-glory made of silk and dew if it doesn't bloom but just one
morning. It's a smile, and there are others to follow, and it is a
thousand times better than frowns.'"

"And if there had been no money, and I had wanted a home, would you have
given me one?" she asked in a soft, tremulous tone.

"Yes, child. And I couldn't have worked you quite like poor little
Elizabeth was worked. I didn't think there _was_ so much money, or that
that lady in England would have left you a legacy or that Winthrop Adams
would come to believing that he couldn't live without you."

"Then you were kind to have a plan about it, and I am glad to know it."

She had been sitting on Aunt Priscilla's footstool, but she rose and
twined her arms about the shrunken neck, and kissed the wrinkled
forehead. She saw a homeless little girl going to sheltering care, with
a kindly remembrance at the last. Someone else might have thought of the
exactions.

"You make the thing look better than it was," Aunt Priscilla cried with
true humility. "But the Lord put you in the right place."

She saw the mean and selfish desire, the wish to get rid of a faithful
old woman who might prove a burden. It was a sin like the finery she had
longed for and bought and laid away. She had not worn the finery, she
had not sent away the poor black soul, she had not been a hard
taskmistress to the child, but early training had added the weight of
possible sins to the actual ones.

Christmas morning Doris was surprised by a lovely gift. In a small box
by her plate, with best wishes from Uncle Winthrop, lay a watch and
chain, a dainty thing with just "Doris" on the plain space in the center
that overlay another name that had once been there. It had undergone
some renovation at the jeweler's hands, after lying untouched more than
twenty years. Winthrop Adams had kept it for a possible granddaughter,
but he knew now no one could cherish it more tenderly than Doris.

January, 1815, came in. People counted the days. But it was not until
the middle of February that Boston town was one morning electrified by
the ringing of bells and the shouts of men and boys, who ran along the
streets crying "Peace! Peace! Peace!" Windows were raised; people ran
out, so eager were they. Of all glorious words ever uttered none fell
with such music on the air. Could it be true?

Uncle Winthrop put on his surtout with the great fur co