“You’re to trim the cake,” began one of the young girls again, crowding up.  “She says nobody else can.  Nobody else ever can.  And”—­with a little more mystery—­“there’s the veil to fix.  She says you’re used to wedd’n’s and know about veils; and you was down to Lawrence at Lorany’s.  And she wants things in real style.  She’s dreadful pudjicky, Emma Jane is; she won’t have anything without it’s exactly right.”

The plain face was full of beaming sympathy and readiness.  The stiff-looking spinster woman, with the “grass in the eaves of her bonnet,”—­grass grown, also, over many an old hope in her own life, may be,—­was here in the midst of young joy and busy interest, making them all her own; had come on purpose, looked for and hailed as the one without whom nothing could ever be done,—­more tenderly yet, as one but for whom some brave life and brother love would have gone down.  In the midst of it all she had had ear and answer, to the very last, for the stranger she had comforted on her way.  What difference did it make whether she wore an old bonnet with green grass in it, or a round hat with a gay feather? whether she were fifteen or forty-five, but for the good she had had time to do? whether Lorany’s wedding down at Lawrence had been really a stylish festival or no?  There was a beauty here which verily shone out through all; and such a life should have no time to be tempted.

The engine panted, and the train sped on.  She never met her fellow-traveler again, but these things Leslie Goldthwaite had learned from her,—­these things she laid by silently in her heart.  And the woman in the gray bonnet never knew the half that she had done.

After taking one through wildernesses of beauty, after whirling one past nooks where one could gladly linger whole summers, it is strange at what commonplace and graceless termini these railroads contrive to land one.  Lovely Wells River, where the road makes its sharp angle, and runs back again until it strikes out eastward through the valley of the Ammonoosuc; where the waters leap to each other, and the hills bend round in majestic greeting; where our young party cried out, in an ignorance at once blessed and pathetic, “Oh, if Littleton should only be like this, or if we could stop here!”—­yet where one cannot stop, because here there is no regular stage connection, and nothing else to be found, very probably, that travelers might want, save the outdoor glory,—­Wells River and Woodsville were left behind, lying in the evening stillness of June,—­in the grand and beautiful disregard of things greater than the world is rushing by to seek,—­and for an hour more they threaded through fair valley sweeps and reaches, past solitary hillside clearings and detached farms and the most primitive of mountain hamlets, where the limit and sparseness of neighborhood drew forth from a gentleman sitting behind them—­come, doubtless, from some suburban home, where numberless household wants kept horse and wagon perpetually on the way for city or village—­the suggestive query, “I wonder what they do here when they’re out of saleratus?”