“If they ain’t, I’ll know the reason why,” said she grimly.  “Good evening.”

Lucy’s sleep that night was calm and refreshing, and when Dr. Gair came again in the morning he expressed himself pleased with her condition.  Miss Goldthwaite brought up a breakfast tray with a cup of weak tea and a piece of toast, of which Lucy was able to eat a little bit.  She had fifty questions to ask; but remembering Dr. Gair’s peremptory orders, Carrie placed a finger on her lips and shook her head.  There would be plenty of time to talk by-and-by, for convalescence would be a tedious business; in the meantime there was absolute need of perfect rest.  Miss Goldthwaite brought her sewing, and sat down in the window seat, humming a scrap of song, the outcome of the gladness of her heart.  Lucy lay still in a state of dreamy happiness, listening to the twittering of the birds mingling with Carrie’s song, and watching the gay April sunbeams dancing among her golden curls.  By-and-by Aunt Hepsy came up, and Lucy looked at her curiously.  She seemed to dimly remember that during the days of the past week a face like Aunt Hepsy’s had bent over her in love and tenderness, and a voice like hers, only infinitely softer and gentler, had spoken broken words of grief and prayer at her bedside.  Aunt Hepsy, just yet, did not meet Lucy’s wondering eyes, nor speak any words to her at all.  She moved softly about the room, putting things to rights deftly and silently; but Lucy was sure there was something different about her.

Immediately after the early dinner, seeing Lucy so much better, Miss Goldthwaite bethought herself of her neglected household at Pendlepoint, and said she would go home, promising to come again to-morrow.  Her eyes were full of tears as she bent over to bid Lucy good-bye, and she whispered tenderly,—­

“My darling, what a load I shall lift from anxious hearts at Pendlepoint to-night.  You don’t know how dear you are to us all.”

Lucy smiled a little in a happy way; to her heart evidences of love were very precious.  She was left alone for nearly a couple of hours, while Aunt Hepsy washed up dishes and set things right downstairs she fell into a light doze, and when she awoke, it was to find Aunt Hepsy sitting by her side with her knitting.

“Have I been sleeping, Aunt Hepsy?” she said.  “You don’t know how well I feel.  I could almost get up, I think.”

Aunt Hepsy laughed a little tremulous laugh.

“In about a month or so, I guess, you’ll begin to think about getting up,” she said; and again something in Aunt Hepsy’s face set Lucy wondering what was different about her.  There was a short silence, then Aunt Hepsy laid down her knitting, and took both Lucy’s thin hands in her firm clasp.  “Lucy, do you think ye can ever forgive yer old aunt?” she said suddenly and quickly.  “I’ve been a cross, hardhearted old fool, an’ the Lord’s been better to me than I dared to hope for.  He’s heard my prayers, Lucy, an’ he knows how hard I mean to try and make up for the past.  If ye’ll say ye forgive me, and try to care a little for me, ye’ll maybe find Thankful Rest a pleasanter place than ye think it now.”