With a gesture full of energy, Laura tore her Minerva from top to bottom, while two great tears rolled down the cheeks grown wan with hope deferred.

“Tell him I believe all things, hope all things, and that I never can forget.”

Nan went to her and held her fast, leaving the prints of two loving, but grimy hands upon her shoulders; Di looked on approvingly, for, though rather stony-hearted regarding the cause, she fully appreciated the effect; and John, turning to the window, received the commendations of a robin swaying on an elm-bough with sunshine on its ruddy breast.

The clock struck five, and John declared that he must go; for, being an old-fashioned soul, he fancied that his mother had a better right to his last hour than any younger woman in the land,—­always remembering that “she was a widow, and he her only son.”

Nan ran away to wash her hands, and came back with the appearance of one who had washed her face also:  and so she had; but there was a difference in the water.

“Play I’m your father, girls, and remember it will be six months before ‘that John’ will trouble you again.”

With which preface the young man kissed his former playfellows as heartily as the boy had been wont to do, when stern parents banished him to distant schools, and three little maids bemoaned his fate.  But times were changed now; for Di grew alarmingly rigid during the ceremony; Laura received the salute like a grateful queen; and Nan returned it with heart and eyes and tender lips, making such an improvement on the childish fashion of the thing, that John was moved to support his paternal character by softly echoing her father’s words,—­“Take care of yourself, my little ‘Martha.’”

Then they all streamed after him along the garden-path, with the endless messages and warnings girls are so prone to give; and the young man, with a great softness at his heart, went away, as many another John has gone, feeling better for the companionship of innocent maidenhood, and stronger to wrestle with temptation, to wait and hope and work.

“Let’s throw a shoe after him for luck, as dear old ‘Mrs. Gummage’ did after ‘David’ and the ‘willin’ Barkis!’ Quick, Nan! you always have old shoes on; toss one, and shout, ‘Good luck!’” cried Di, with one of her eccentric inspirations.

Nan tore off her shoe, and threw it far along the dusty road, with a sudden longing to become that auspicious article of apparel, that the omen might not fail.

Looking backward from the hill-top, John answered the meek shout cheerily, and took in the group with a lingering glance:  Laura in the shadow of the elms, Di perched on the fence, and Nan leaning far over the gate with her hand above her eyes and the sunshine touching her brown hair with gold.  He waved his hat and turned away; but the music seemed to die out of the blackbird’s song, and in all the summer landscape his eye saw nothing but the little figure at the gate.