ked up at him as frankly as a child's
from the pillow.

"Mother's gone down into the field to pick some peas for dinner," she
said, looking and looking at Tom and smiling; but he saw at last that
tears were shining, too, and making her smile all the brighter. "You
see now why I couldn't write," she explained. "I kept thinking I
should. I didn't want anybody else to thank you for the books. Now sit
right down," she begged her guest. "Father told me all he could about
last night. You danced with Addie Porter."

"I did," acknowledged Tom Aldis, and they both laughed. "We talked
about old times between the figures, but it seemed to me that I
remembered them better than she did."

"Addie has been through with a good deal of experience since then,"
explained Nancy, with a twinkle in her eyes.

"I wish I could have danced again with you," said Tom bravely, "but I
saw some scholars that did you credit."

"I have to dance by proxy," said Nancy; and to this there was no
reply.

Tom Aldis sat in the tiny bedroom with an aching heart. Such activity
and definiteness of mind, such power of loving and hunger for life,
had been pent and prisoned there so many years. Nancy had made what
she could of her small world of books. There was something very
uncommon in her look and way of speaking; he felt like a boy beside
her, he to whom the world had given its best luxury and widest
opportunity. As he looked out of the small window, he saw only a ledgy
pasture where sheep were straying along the slopes among the bayberry
and juniper; beyond were some balsam firs and a glimpse of the sea. It
was a lovely bit of landscape, but it lacked figures, and Nancy was
born to be a teacher and a lover of her kind. She had only lacked
opportunity, but she was equal to meeting whatever should come. One
saw it in her face.

"You don't know how many times I have thought of that cold day in
Boston," said Nancy from her pillows. "Your aunt was beautiful. I
never could tell you about the rest of the day with her, could I? Why,
it just gave me a measure to live by. I saw right off how small some
things were that I thought were big. I told her about one or two
things down here in Rodney that troubled me, and she understood all
about it. 'If we mean to be happy and useful,' she said, 'the only way
is to be self-forgetful.' I never forgot that!"

"The seed fell upon good ground, didn't it?" said Mr. Aldis with a
smile. He had been happy enough himself,