“Good-morning, madam,” he went on, making a low bow.  She noted that the tip of his red feather brushed the ground.  “What can I do for you, more than I’m doing now?”

“It is about that,” stammered Evelina, “that I came.  You must not work in my garden.”

“Surely,” said the Piper, “you don’t mean that!  Would you have it all weeds?  And ’t is hard work for such as you.”

“I—­I—­” answered Miss Evelina, almost in a whisper; “I have no money.”

The Piper laughed heartily and put on his hat again.  “Neither have I,” he said, between bursts of seemingly uncalled-for merriment, “and probably I’m the only man in these parts who’s not looking for it.  Did you think I’d ask for pay for working in the garden?”

His tone made her feel that she had misjudged him and she did not know what to say in reply.

“Laddie and I have no garden of our own,” he explained, “and so we’re digging in yours.  The place wants cleaning, for ’t is a long time since any one cared enough for it to dig.  I was passing, and I saw a place I thought I could make more pleasant.  Have I your leave to try?”

“Why—­why, yes,” returned Miss Evelina, slowly.  “If you’d like to, I don’t mind.”

He dismissed her airily, with a wave of his hand, and she went back into the house, never once turning her head.

“She’s our work, Laddie,” said the Piper, “and I’m thinking we’ve begun in the right way.  All the old sadness is piled up in the garden, and I’m thinking there’s weeds in her life, too, that it’s our business to take out.  At any rate, we’ll begin here and do this first.  One step at a time, Laddie—­one step at a time.  That’s all we have to take, fortunately.  When we can’t see ahead, it’s because we can’t look around a corner.”

All that day from behind her cobwebbed windows, Miss Evelina watched the Piper and his dog.  Weeds and thistles fell like magic before his strong, sure strokes.  He carried out armful after armful of rubbish and made a small-sized mountain in the road, confining it with stray boards and broken branches, as it was too wet to be burned.

Wherever she went, in the empty house, she heard that cheery, persistent whistle.  As usual, Miss Hitty left a tray on her doorstep, laden with warm, wholesome food.  Since that first day, she had made no attempt to see Miss Evelina.  She brought her tray, rapped, and went away quietly, exchanging it for another when it was time for the next meal.

Meanwhile, Miss Evelina’s starved body was responding, slowly but surely, to the simple, well-cooked food.  Hitherto, she had not cared to eat and scarcely knew what she was eating.  Now she had learned to discriminate between hot rolls and baking-powder biscuit, between thick soups and thin broths, custards and jellies.

Miss Evelina had wound one of the clocks, setting it by the midnight train, and loosening the machinery by a few drops of oil which she had found in an old bottle, securely corked.  At eight, at one, and at six, Miss Hitty’s tray was left at her back door—­there had not been the variation of a minute since the first day.  Preoccupied though she was, Evelina was not insensible of the kindness, nor of the fact that she was stronger, physically, than she had been for years.