“I’ll go in now,” said Tom; and he went away round to the back door.  Keziah was making something at the stove, and nearly upset the saucepan in her amazement.  Tom nodded to her, and went off to the far parlour.  The door was ajar and he peeped in.  Was that the far parlour?  No, it could not be.  There were white curtains at the window, flowers everywhere.  A sparkling fire in the high brass grate; a low, restful rocking-chair at the hearth; and a couch he did not remember to have seen before, but it looked as if it had been made for ease and comfort.  And on the couch lay Lucy, the fire-light dancing on her face:  it was pale and thin, but happy-looking, he could see.

She heard a noise at the door, and said, without looking round, “Are you dressed already, Miss Carrie?  How fast you have been!”

There was no answer; then Lucy looked round and gave a great cry.  And Tom ran in and knelt down beside her, and gathered her shawl and all in his arms, and they held each other very close; and for a long time there was nothing said.

“How did you come?” asked Lucy at last, her face radiant with joy.

“By train.  Mr. Keane sent me.  Are you glad, Lucy?”

“Glad?” Lucy had no words wherewith to express her gladness, but it was evident enough.

Just then footsteps sounded on the stair, and Miss Hepsy came into the room followed by Miss Goldthwaite.

She looked scared a moment, but when Tom rose and came to her saying—­“I came to see Lucy, Aunt Hepsy, and to thank you for being so good to her,”—­she just sat down in the rocking-chair and sobbed like a child.  Here was a state of matters! and Tom did not know just then whether to laugh or to cry.  But Miss Carrie diverted him by asking questions about his journey, and by-and-by Miss Hepsy rose and said she’d get supper.

“An’ ye’ll jist bide, Miss Goldthwaite, an’ we’ll all have it here with Lucy.—­Dear, dear, this is a great night.  Who’d ’a thought to see you, Tom, all the way from Philadelphia?”

“You look pretty comfortable, Lucy,” said Tom jokingly.  “I wouldn’t mind being sick myself, to be codled up like this.”

Lucy smiled, but her eyes grew dim.

“I can’t speak about it, Tom,” she said.  “Aunt Hepsy is too good to me; she reminds me of mamma sometimes.—­Isn’t she kind, Miss Carrie?”

Miss Carrie nodded, her sweet face full of satisfaction.  Evidently the new state of affairs was after her own heart.

By-and-by the table was set, and they all gathered round it, and Tom had a real Thankful Rest supper.

There was not much said; but Tom saw how Aunt Hepsy watched and tended Lucy; and how Uncle Josh, too, had grown gentle even in his roughness; and, above all, he saw how beautiful was Lucy’s face in its perfect happiness and content.

“You don’t eat, Lucy, my pet,” said Aunt Hepsy anxiously.

“I can’t, auntie; I am so happy, it’s no use;” and Lucy covered her face with her hands and fairly sobbed.