“Here I come for Thanksgiving,” she said, in a rich, clear tone, “and here,” she added, drawing a roll of bills from her bosom, and putting it into the deacon’s hand, “here’s the interest money for this year.  I got it all myself, because I wanted to show you I could be good for something.”

“Thank you, dear daughter,” said Mrs. Pitkin.  “I felt sure some way would be found and now I see what.”  She added, kissing Diana and patting her rosy cheek, “a very pleasant, pretty way it is, too.”

“I was afraid that Uncle Silas would worry and put himself back again about the interest money,” said Diana.

“Well, daughter,” said the Deacon, “it’s a pity we should go through all we do in this world and not learn anything by it.  I hope the Lord has taught me not to worry, but just do my best and leave myself and everything else in his hands.  We can’t help ourselves—­we can’t make one hair white or black.  Why should we wear our lives out fretting?  If I’d a known that years ago it would a been better for us all.”

“Never mind, father, you know it now,” said his wife, with a face serene as a star.  In this last gift of quietude of soul to her husband she recognized the answer to her prayers of years.

“Well now,” said Diana, running to the window, “I should like to know what Biah Carter is coming here about.”

“Oh, Biah’s been very kind to us in this sickness,” said Mrs. Pitkin, as Biah’s feet resounded on the scraper.

“Good evenin’, Deacon,” said Biah, entering, “Good evenin’, Mrs. Pitkin.  Sarvant, ma’am,” to Diana—­“how ye all gettin’ on?”

“Nicely, Biah—­well as can be,” said Mrs. Pitkin.

“Wal, you see I was up to the store with some o’ Squire Jones’s bell flowers.  Sim Coan he said he wanted some to sell, and so I took up a couple o’ barrels, and I see the darndest big letter there for the Deacon.  Miss Briskett she was in, lookin’ at it, and so was Deacon Simson’s wife; she come in arter some cinnamon sticks.  Wal, and they all looked at it and talked it over, and couldn’t none o’ ’em for their lives think what it’s all about, it was sich an almighty thick letter,” said Biah, drawing out a long, legal-looking envelope and putting it in the Deacon’s hands.

“I hope there isn’t bad news in it,” said Silas Pitkin, the color flushing apprehensively in his pale cheeks as he felt for his spectacles.

There was an agitated, silent pause while he broke the seals and took out two documents.  One was the mortgage on his farm and the other a receipt in full for the money owed on it!  The Deacon turned the papers to and fro, gazed on them with a dazed, uncertain air and then said: 

“Why, mother, do look! Is this so?  Do I read it right?”

“Certainly, you do,” said Diana, reading over his shoulder.  “Somebody’s paid that debt, uncle!”

“Thank God!” said Mrs. Pitkin, softly; “He has done it.”